Post by infidelzombie on Oct 20, 2010 3:17:20 GMT -7
The artist had been easy. Out of all the other minds shining bright in the subterranean and forgotten darkness of the underground, it had been the most unbalanced. So ripe for the picking, so consumed with his creative vision. So easy to twist and mold. The thing spoke to him in his dreams, whispering it's insidious lies and darker truths; slowly unraveling the fragile mind that grasped at order and creation through it's fumbling hammer and chisel, canvas and paints. All the youth had needed was the right tools. A blade in place of chisel, and flesh and blood in place of cloth and pigment. It gave him the knowledge he needed to reach out; and he did so admirably.
The guardthing had been first, and both the youth and entity relished the kill. So smoothly did the blade slide into the neck, slipping between the base of the skull and the spine to stab into the brain with nary a whisper. Just as it had shown the youth in his sleep, wasting not a drop of blood. A kill so pure it was what the boy had been stumbling for all along in the dark with the others. So pure it was art.
The youth -Hidiro, it told the Whisperer was it's name- took the body to a private room, locking both it and himself away from the sight of the others, citing the benediction of a muse and how he was not to be disturbed while he worked. They pretended to understand.
For five days the youngling worked, shaping flesh with blade and setting the parts together with blood and the ground flour of bone. Just as the thing had shown him. The guardthings searched for their compatriot, and redoubled their watch but remained unaware of the darkness growing around them with Hidiro's work. But the flesh of just one was not enough. Their salvation came in the form of compassion and affection.
On the sixth day, one of the others entered the workroom, worried for young Hidiro. A womanthing that had fawned like a sycophant over the young artists most unworthy of works. Had nearly warned all of the others before the time was right with a scream when she saw the unfinished work. The thing had to stun her with a mental lash while Hidiro slit her throat. A waste of blood, but much still remained and was usable. And she had ample meat to finish the task. The guardthings again hunted uselessly, finding and exterminating a small colony of the flesh eaters. The whisperer relished the irony that they would destroy its enemies in their search for itself.
On the eighth day the work was finished, and the Whisperers strength waxed high. It was also the day Hidiro outlived his usefulness. The others cowered from the workroom in fright as the youngling screamed....and screamed...and screamed. Only when the screaming stopped did they dare to pry open the door, and even then they had the guardthings do it for them to reveal a charnel house. The guards fled, one falling before he could even to turn to run. But the artists commune, with minds full to bursting with fear came under the Whisperers sway and fell before the totem molded of flesh and blood as infidels before an idol. As was right for them to do.
They offered their eyes and tongues up to the Whisperer, who raised them from their ignorance in exchange. They carved it's devotions into their flesh, and it shared with them it's power. They hunted their scattered guards in the darkness, led by it's conduit Hidiro; now a thing born of the blackness, devoid of it's humanity and life. And the Whisperer glutted on the flesh and blood. And grew strong from it. Until they came.
A pair of them, they came, and it welcomed them to it's home. Inviting them into the heart of it's power, thinking to grow stronger off them. But they were blind to it's glory, and it's power. They came, and they killed it's worshipers and destroyed its conduit before fleeing like vermin before the predators claws.
But they left it there, left it to grow, and recuperate in the darkness. They could not destroy it. The Whisperer only needed time, and it was a patient being.
The guardthing had been first, and both the youth and entity relished the kill. So smoothly did the blade slide into the neck, slipping between the base of the skull and the spine to stab into the brain with nary a whisper. Just as it had shown the youth in his sleep, wasting not a drop of blood. A kill so pure it was what the boy had been stumbling for all along in the dark with the others. So pure it was art.
The youth -Hidiro, it told the Whisperer was it's name- took the body to a private room, locking both it and himself away from the sight of the others, citing the benediction of a muse and how he was not to be disturbed while he worked. They pretended to understand.
For five days the youngling worked, shaping flesh with blade and setting the parts together with blood and the ground flour of bone. Just as the thing had shown him. The guardthings searched for their compatriot, and redoubled their watch but remained unaware of the darkness growing around them with Hidiro's work. But the flesh of just one was not enough. Their salvation came in the form of compassion and affection.
On the sixth day, one of the others entered the workroom, worried for young Hidiro. A womanthing that had fawned like a sycophant over the young artists most unworthy of works. Had nearly warned all of the others before the time was right with a scream when she saw the unfinished work. The thing had to stun her with a mental lash while Hidiro slit her throat. A waste of blood, but much still remained and was usable. And she had ample meat to finish the task. The guardthings again hunted uselessly, finding and exterminating a small colony of the flesh eaters. The whisperer relished the irony that they would destroy its enemies in their search for itself.
On the eighth day the work was finished, and the Whisperers strength waxed high. It was also the day Hidiro outlived his usefulness. The others cowered from the workroom in fright as the youngling screamed....and screamed...and screamed. Only when the screaming stopped did they dare to pry open the door, and even then they had the guardthings do it for them to reveal a charnel house. The guards fled, one falling before he could even to turn to run. But the artists commune, with minds full to bursting with fear came under the Whisperers sway and fell before the totem molded of flesh and blood as infidels before an idol. As was right for them to do.
They offered their eyes and tongues up to the Whisperer, who raised them from their ignorance in exchange. They carved it's devotions into their flesh, and it shared with them it's power. They hunted their scattered guards in the darkness, led by it's conduit Hidiro; now a thing born of the blackness, devoid of it's humanity and life. And the Whisperer glutted on the flesh and blood. And grew strong from it. Until they came.
A pair of them, they came, and it welcomed them to it's home. Inviting them into the heart of it's power, thinking to grow stronger off them. But they were blind to it's glory, and it's power. They came, and they killed it's worshipers and destroyed its conduit before fleeing like vermin before the predators claws.
But they left it there, left it to grow, and recuperate in the darkness. They could not destroy it. The Whisperer only needed time, and it was a patient being.