[closed for alnair brood]

[sistershoggoth]

CHARACTERS: Alnair
WHERE: ...In your mind.
WHEN: Inevitably.
SUMMARY: It dreams.
WARNINGS: Death, gross, aliens, body horror, stuff. It's a nightmare.

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

Clear water, ghostly at the surface with an icy mist, colors purple and green diffused through the condensation. The atmosphere thick, amaranthine, turning the light of some unearthly star the color of scum, fractals of strange rainbows curling as mist stirs. Pale fingertips reach from below, a blossoming of pale hair beneath the surface, a frigid web of it beneath the leaden depths.

A hand reaching but sinking, grappling, dragging.

Deep down into the dark heart of a world pregnant with too many eyes, too many teeth. They roll maddeningly, in time with the frantic orbiting of their wild, uncouth globe. Snickering. Laughing, so vile and fetid, glutted only upon corpses dragged down into the suffocating wet. Strangled in the sleekness of their inescapable musculature. Eyes upon eyes rolling with laughter so vile. Teeth upon teeth flashing so fetid.

A madness that pours through your mouth, that pours through your mouth...

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

...that pours through your mouth, so bloody, so red, gums bleeding, eyes bleeding, skies bleeding, blood rushing to a poor upside down head. Feet bound, useless, and tied to the bleeding sky.

A pit of red corpses below, stewing bloody in their own wretched juices, every inch crushed, rent. Except for their faces. All their pretty faces, open bloody mouths and open bloody eyes.

Hang, hanged man, undying. Hang, hanged man, suspended. Hang, hanged man, impotent.

Disembodied laughter, so human, warped at the edges, so fetid, so vile. Laughter. Applause. Adulation arises, and from within It squirms. Caresses organs and their lack, twines to the staircase of a crooked, wretched spine. Crawling from stomach to throat, fleshy musculature unwinding from the mouth, a kind of tongue, sickening to taste.

Jaw stretched, it goes on and on and on, the infection reaching out to suckle on red. It pours from your mouth, it pours from your mouth....

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

You are the infection. You are the corpse. You are the laughter, battered and bouncing in every helpless direction in a vast empty space from which you will never escape. You are the screaming. The eyes. The eyes. The teeth. And sorrow pours into your mouth.

Burning.

God help you, it burns.


this dream's a vitality with filaments as fine as a spider's web, pour through your mouth, that pour through your mouth

Comments

[somnifacient]

His insides feel twisted, his mind feels stretched thin like a canvas, punctured with too many teeth, and Noctis cannot remain lucid enough to know that he is dreaming. His mouth opens to protest, but his throat is choked with blood, his lungs feel atrophied, even as he is dragged down into flesh lined on the inside with eyes.

What’s happening, his mind shrieks, even as he’s laughed at by voices that are everywhere and nowhere at once. His feet plummet to the floor (his boots — from ten years ago? Soles red, or were they scarlet only because they were slicked with blood?), squishing under wet corpses. Madness. This is what madness feels like, surely, it must be. This is what pain is, white hot panic, this is death itself writhing against him with every movement.

It’s a sorry kind of rebellion that rises within him, blue crystal rising from the ground, shattered light piercing flesh. He calls for his sword, opening the palm of his hand, feeling for the pressure of magic and the weight of its hilt in his grasp. Could hostility be met with hostility? Such is the simplest thought that courses through his mind.

[sistershoggoth]

A slow but thunderous heartbeat pulses in the darkness surrounding him, the slow rumble of a molten heart. The slow murmur of cold blooded circulation at its most restful. In, and then out: a gust of rotten wind, damp with decomposition. Is it a cavern in which all these laughing, screaming voices echo, or is it a mouth... Inhale. Exhale. Loathsome.

The blue light he casts refracts strangely in this foreign atmosphere, splitting into a weak and putrid grey.

Something slithering recoils.

Eyes blink from every direction, adjusting, sharpening in on him through the glow.

They chuckle, wet rasping voices without words exchanging macabre jokes at his expense, shifting just beyond sight, the sense of movement more prevalent than their form. A form that is massive, to be sure. Better not to see them. Better not to know.

The tip of one spindly tentacle enters his circle of light. Small as a snake, slimy green, suckers on its pale underside. It weaves across the sinking ground towards him, like an infection veining its way through flesh.

[somnifacient]

The cavernous pit of flesh writhes from every angle, and his light flickers and wanes, threatening to gutter out like the sickly, delicate thing it is. No sword materializes in his grasp, and the voices laugh at his failure, at his failures, echoing in his core. Magic -- it's all he can do to summon the light again, pretending that it represents some laughable bulwark against hot flesh and coagulating blood.

Nothing more than another pathetic attempt at retaliation; a tentacle comes into his peripheral, alien and disgusting. Some primal part of him reacts for his sake, and Noctis steps back, boots still squishing at the ground, the ring on his finger thrumming with life. (As opposed to its emptiness from before, something he would have, should have, noticed. But dreams are strange like that, and nightmares never allowed such lucidity for him.)

"Back off!" He mouths the words, but Noctis can't be sure his voice can even be heard over white noise of all the whispers.

[sistershoggoth]

The tip of the dripping appendage curls, delicate, deliberate, coquettish in its obvious mockery. It sways before him, pantomiming a cobra's dance, and then it lunges for him, wrapping around first his ankle but frightfully quickly it has twined up his leg, twisting, tightening. Clammy and wet, its ooze seeps into his clothes as it flexes. Its touch is horrifying, blood freezing in his veins, panic and adrenaline blinding.

And then the others join. Tentacles roping out of the darkness to entwine around arms, legs, torso, neck. Encasing him in their spoiled flesh.

"My, what a mess you've made... Noct."

He knows that voice.

[somnifacient]

His body doesn't react the way he wants it to; slow, sluggish, in a haze, in a dream. A living nightmare, as the grasp tightens first around his leg to the point where he can't hope to escape. His magic flickers away as panic lances through him, abandoning him with disturbing ease. He tries to pull away, but it's a futile effort. More tentacles reach out and restrain him, wet and disgusting, bruising his skin as they tighten around him.

The one reaching around his neck almost makes him cry out in frustration and dread, but whatever noise he was going to make catches in his throat as he hears a very familiar voice echo all around him.

"Y-you-!" he finally manages to sputter, through practically grit teeth. Logic escapes him, as it often does in nightmares. All he knows is that voice means danger, and here he is, prone and useless.

[sistershoggoth]

It is just a voice. Ardyn Izunia is not here, he has nothing to do with this festering pit. But oh does he resonate so well. Is that what the things in the back of Annie's thoughts are doing? Trying to illuminate horrors shared, misguided as that is?

Hardly. They lacked intent in all things: they simply were, they reached, they suffocated, they terrorized. Their way, their nature.

To mirror the dead bodies of all those Annie has disappointed in their red pit, the bodies that Noctis recognizes all too well drip from the ceiling, strung up. Red for those with any red left to spare. They swing jauntily, their soles played with by the curious, impudent, tips of many slimy tentacles.

"Shall I make them stop, my prince?"

There is a remedy, you know.

[somnifacient]

At the tentacle's forceful behest, Noctis has no choice but to crane his neck upwards. Eyes glancing above, seeing red, seeing corpses wearing familiar faces. Swinging lazily like fleshy wind chimes, and this time a sound of despairing anger does escape him.

Prompto, Ignis, Gladio, Luna. Even King Regis, the center of them all, hanging upside down and directly above him. Eyes empty and soulless.

"Stop it! Stop!" Had Ardyn always been so cruel? Yes, yes he had, but never had he painted everyone he cared about crimson just to dangle before him. "You're dead!"

He killed the man's body, his spirit had been next -- but he didn't get to finish the job, did he? Guilt rings in his mind.

"What the hell do you want?!"

[sistershoggoth]

"Me?" the voice sounds surprised, because Noctis knows as well as it does: "Nothing, I'm dead."

Laughter. Echoing, painful, wet and hacking laughter. The corpses laugh with it. The girls below. Noctis's friends and family above. All laughing, cartoonish, grotesque.

None of this is real. It's just a dream, and suddenly everything is breaking apart into fractals of flesh and bone, deteriorating around him until there is only the dark.

A great hole in existence where there is nothing, no shapes, no sounds, no sensations.

[somnifacient]

Laughter echoes around him, piercing his mind, rending him as useless as he feels. The struggle against that which holds him back is a futile effort, and even as his world tears apart in sharp edges, relief doesn't come to him. Darkness envelops the reverb of dread resounding throughout flesh-coated walls, and he's released into the nothingness.

To Noctis, who comes a world of where dawn threatens to never peek over the horizon ever again, this is just as terrifying as the corpses that had dangled above his head. It is in many ways worse, because it represents what would come of his failures -- nothing short of a world that withers in the dark, as the gods wordlessly watch their own creation die.

Fingers tighten into a fist. He can't see, he can't hear, he can't feel, but he's cognizant of his being. But this is not unlike floating in a vast, empty sea, and Noctis feels his dread amplify in the quiet. He reaches out, grasping at something, anything.

[sistershoggoth]

There's just her. The nothing that is everything, enveloping, just as smothering and ill-conceived as her monstrous servitors. Her embrace is not warm, it is only strong, certain in its vast crush. Gravity in the face of immense density. She consumes him, swallows him. Earth devouring soil. Flesh devouring blood. Consumption, spoiling, entropy. Darkness.

He is of her.

And in the nothingness where not even his body exists there is her slow, vast heartbeat...