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  1. Recommended Listening. I I cannot tell you now; When the wind's drive and whirl Blow me along no longer, And the wind's a whisper at last-- Maybe I'll tell you then-- some other time. When the rose's flash to the sunset Reels to the rack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long"-- Maybe I'll tell you then-- some other time. I never knew any more beautiful than you: I have hunted you under my thoughts, I have broken down under the wind And into the roses looking for you. I shall never find any greater than you. -Carl Sandburg, The Great Hunt The darkness heaved with every breath, fury and terror hidden only by gritted teeth grinding harsher with each jolt of pain. Hakann spat out the dirt and phlegm, braced his numb legs and tried to pull himself up, but before any hold could be made on the dirt walls, his hands turned to stone, a grip to crack case-hardened steel. Another wave of agony swarmed through bone and nerve, sending his lungs into wracking spasms. His ribcage strained with the ferocity of his breathing, muscles quaking and bones threatening to fracture under the duress. Two thin streams of tears cut into the grime on the Skakdi's contorted face, seeping into the tortured half-smile that stretched his mouth. A silent blow deep in the red beneath his heart, and the sanguine warmth fled from him, leaving only a husk cold and shivering. Blood dripped from ashen lips as crimson fingers gripped the earth, knuckles whitening to strangle darkness. * * * He gestured to the six hunters, hand moving with an unconcerned grace. The Rahkshi seemed to melt into the shadows of the tunnels behind, silent in their assuming of the role of sentries, confident of their ability to protect him from would-be ambushers. After a few moments, the last reverberations of their movements ceased, leaving him alone in the dark and cold. Silence crept in from the shadows and dark-choked corners, strangling the rhythms of distant life. His breath crept through throat and lung, testing the air of his environment as he observed the texture of the dirt and stone that surrounded him. All details were supercharged in the neon haze of thermographic vision, like some great fiery abyss, distinct only in shades of flame. The darkness of his gaze drifted, stare burning with a vivid and lucid mania. The thirsting and hungering and craving for broken forms twisted in veneration of blade-pierced flesh lied behind the corpse-still aponia of Hakann's gaze, well veiled by shadow. A hint of a smile played on the Skakdi's lips, mirroring the empty hunger of his eyes. * * * Skin split, bones creaked as the pain swarmed and shrieked before diving into his mouth, eyes, veins to consume from within. Blood surged and thundered to the resounding drumbeat of fire and iron. Hakann's mind began the long, slow cutting of reformation, newly liquid within the crucible of an agony beyond flesh. Fear and rage swelled and roared in his skull, each heartbeat the crucifier's nail. * * * His gaze swivelled with deliberate lethargy, turning from the wall to observe the result of his efforts. It was a sizeable item to be certain, larger than an Antidermis vial and more sturdily constructed. An item hidden in the bottom of the tech pile, hidden within a collection of less useful items, could give him the advantage he hungered for. He had taken it and another promising piece of tech while the others bickered, hiding them in one of Mangaia's less commonly travelled tunnels while Rahkshi-recruiting. Now that he finally had the chance to analyse it with the attention it deserved, he felt oddly disappointed at the dust and dirt-covered metal. He tested its weight, lifting it in one hand to further appreciate its heft. It felt less than solid, and the weight distribution wasn't perfect. Perhaps some sort of Kanohi, or a specialised variety of Antidermis? Echelon and all of the Ko-Koro aristocracy would like that, to be certain. Hakann, his face showing no excitement and his movements hard and unconcerned, gripped the object's opposite end, and twisted with a strength to warp iron. The hiss of escaping air, and then an utter silence. * * * His crawling was interrupted by another seizure. Limbs flailed, teeth gnashed in the fury of randomly firing synapses and disrupted chemical messages. The foreign influence was weakly resisted, but it would not be stopped. Muscles and nerves soon conformed to its wishes. Rasping breath tore at Hakann's throat. Blood dripped from the insides of his palms, coated the undersides of his claws. A smile adorned his lips. Pain was beneath his concern of Hakann. To be frightened by discomfort, to be weakened by agony: the signs of inferiority. Does one dislike breathing, moving? Stimuli and responses. How quaint. The presence reached Hakann's mind, roaring with the voice of a reverse demiurge. The molten intricacies of its hatred now delving into all recesses, it rose in black majesty to peel ashen skin and give face to a bliss far surpassing his own. Hakann's smile vanished. * * * It remained still at first, limp in his hand. He held it away from his grin-stretched visage, cautious, cowardly. It awoke to the beat of his heart, rumbling sawtooth rhythm of his blood. Surging over his arm, his shoulder, as he struggled to remove it in a mindless, hollow silence. Flitting over scapula, driving into flesh. Spreading. Infecting. A crude-wrought mask of agony, chipped and cracked plaster stretched too tight, coloured too obvious a crimson. A silent gasp, an encroaching dark- The world decayed into vermiculate patterns. * * * The agony grew steadily, a gradual and unstoppable ascent. His seizures grew in ratio to the deathly stillness, common movements repeated mindlessly. His Zamour Launcher was drawn from its position on his bandoleer and then crushed within his death-throe grip. The tool cracked and warped, shape lost in the torsion. Fragments of metal fell to the floor and sent reverberations shivering through Hakann's spine, setting his nerves ablaze. His other hand placed two gentle fingertips on his terror-widened eyes. The lenses began to heat and shiver, each vibration a new and unprecedented pain as all sank into a void beyond darkness. His gaze transformed into an excruciation of soul alone, presenting him with new varieties of evisceration as heat signatures and formless entropies coalesced in his consciousness. A pained sound rose from the back of a throat choked with the ambrosia of phlegm. Between a moan and a rumbling growl, it rose and then fell again in a tormented and enraged lament of lost rage. A dark flame blossomed from his labouring and quivering heart, turning his veins and arteries into twisted caricatures of Phlegethon and Cocytus. The noise was quiet, unbearably so; in its muted, near-silent intricacies the whole world lay vivisected for the shadows to peruse. Blood and vomit ran down his chin and dripped onto the stone and dirt of the tunnel floor. His heart slammed with staccato rhythm, helpless and twitching with the ecstasy of death. * * * The first pain was the kindest. It had only made his hands spasm, opening and closing tortured digits into shaking fists. It was pleasing, aesthetically respectable to a man of his past. No more than a blissful, tranquil state even for a man fully expecting to die in seconds. For him, no greater pleasure could be conceived of. He had shocked himself with his Lava Launcher on more than one occasion, inserted needles and nails through his hand just to test if he could still feel, tortured himself in whatever manner would not inflict permanently hampering damage. He possessed a great love of agony, a passion that had never met equal. This was beneath him, pitiful in its crudity. Smile as stretched and inflexible as a corpse transfixed by Death's rigour, Hakann stared straight and unflinching, eyes held with a horrible stillness, their madness perfected within the silence of blood-soaked ataraxia. He did not fear. * * * The darkness gathered itself for a final offensive. Hakann's body shivered from its position on the floor, his face frozen into the hollow grin of death. The invading shadow tore into Hakann's consciousness, consuming neurons with eager teeth. Skin peeling, bones breaking, eyes exploding, screamed the receptors of the mind. In reality, Hakann's spine arched, his limbs flailed. Sanguine and fear-born streams dripped from his chin, shivered down the skin of his chest. Chaos disrupted only by the action of his left arm, no longer under his own control, now moving with an unnatural calm towards the Skakdi's mouth, its fingers flexing slightly in anticipation. Hakann's mouth, open as he half-moaned, was filled with his own fist. A gagged sound, jaws tightening. The fingers felt gently, probed for its target. With a dull, wet grate, the fingers moved, the motion quick and hard in its violence. The grip tightened to the sound of flesh torn by fingers alone, and the hand retracted as quickly as it had entered. Held gently in the centre of his grip, stained a vivid crimson, lied the discarded petal of some grisly, eldritch blossom. The Skakdi's throat trembled with something between whisper and whimper as his hand returned to his control. Dead fingers closed tight on the the subtly rough surface, sickeningly tepid and nauseatingly wet. He could feel every detail, sense with perfect clarity every minute feature. Its scent pounded into his skull and sending nerves into squealing joy. Shivers of fear ran down his spine, jolting his lungs back into strained breath. A mindless, pained rumble of abyssal pitch and haunting quiet rose from Hakann's bloodied throat, reverberating with mournful and hollow timbre for the slightest moment until it was swallowed by the catacomb's grasping dark. Clenched in the bloodstained, red-hungering palm, torn neatly with the precision of a warrior collecting trophies of flesh and bone, lied the remains of Hakann's tongue. I I am the undertow Washing tides of power Battering the pillars Under your things of high law. -Carl Sandburg, Under ____________________________________________________________________ I I Red drips from my chin where I have been eating. Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth. Clots of red mess my hair And the tiger, the buffalo, know how. I was a killer. Yes, I am a killer. I come from killing. I go to more. I drive red joy ahead of me from killing. Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices of my inside bones: The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war. -Carl Sandburg, Fight The silent conversation was pure and stark, dialogue of vivid realism where romanticism and posturing had previously reigned. Wordless the Skakdi had wept, each and every breath a Sisyphean struggle. In response, only another thundering onrush of agony, a phantom pain in the left arm. The bones and fragments of soul that still resisted fell into a terrible silence. Her eager teeth tore into their marrow, hunting through the remains of her violence for any last vestige of hope. Where he had knelt, she now stood, movements carefully designed. The left hand, still gripping Hakann's bloodstained tongue, brought the now cold muscle up to his open mouth. * * * The circumvoluted remains of the Zamor Launcher possessed a certain sculptural beauty, hidden deep within the ruins: each twist and deformation was a testament to the extents of rage, a collection of crushed steel now intimate with hatred. The warped metal was a reminder, of his moment of weakness, of the beauty of the destruction that had consumed him in a sudden onslaught of forcefully induced suicidal rage. Slight quivers of fear ran down his spine, broken remnants of his vanished will. Raging nihil to replace his faux brilliance, tainting the perfection of his control. The equivocal half-smile had vanished, its previous dwelling now occupied by a horrible straightness of crimson-stained lips; neither pout nor grimace, the opposite of manic grin. The hollowness was a testament to the gnawing that filled his stomach and dominated his thoughts. The parasite filled his mind, leeching his purity with symbiotic glee. He could feel it absorbing his lifeforce, consuming the energy of his soul and body, tearing away potential lives where he was untainted by subjugation, perfect until the moment of death. The parasite stormed into his consciousness, sending Hakann's thoughts slithering away and replacing them with a wordless message that ignored the Skakdi's will, breaking through his wall of deadening pain. Images flooded into his mind's eye, forcing out any distraction he attempted to focus on, slowly becoming the entirety of his awareness. Flashes of skinned and eyeless half-corpses, field-dressed in distant and desolate plains, pounded through his skull. The fear began again, sending shivers rocking through his back and turning his heart into a pulsating furnace. His heartbeat seemed to increase to an incredibly heightened rate, counting down the vanishing moments until another cataclysmic outburst. The invading presence did not speak or deign to explain itself. It announced its presence with a shriek, exceeding the boundaries of frequency or volume with its alien display of wrath. Hakann was afraid to close his eyes and attempt to focus on gaining control, lest more of the images come. For the first time he could ever remember, he suspected he was feeling what the doctors and morticians must experience when they autopsied his victims. A dull nausea that consumed compassion and care with its heart-eating repulsion, for the images and emotions the parasite forced into his mind were not recognisable enough for empathy. He had flayed and dismembered and eviscerated possibly hundreds of times. He had plucked out teeth and fingernails like rose petals, cut into eye-sockets and tongues, still quivering with life, as if they were the finest delicacies. Never once, to his great pride, had he felt nauseous. Not even in the earliest period of his life, skinning unfortunate Rahi and leaving them to die from the subsequent circulatory shock, had he felt disgust. It seemed beyond him, in every sense of the word. The next series of images came, beating into his consciousness with the ferocity of a warhammer meeting sternum. Their edges and boundaries were vague, a Rorschach amorphousness of exposed bone and tendon, some terrible hint of movement in their frames. Hakann's otherwise expressionless face twitched in synchronisation with the tightening of his blood-encrusted left fist. The bittersweet bile of emesis rolled through his stomach and threatened to surge through his throat. * * * The Rahkshi had waited with their usual silence, uncaring and unconcerned. Hakann had instructed them to keep him alive at all costs, and they knew the creature that latched into his mind and soul. Removing it would the equivalent of having the Panrahk plunge its staff into his skull, so they had obeyed his commands, abandoning him and remaining in their distant positions as he experienced agony that transcended the physiological. There had been a great silence after that, long and uneventful. Ice Resistance had skewered a Rahi that had come too close to its position, but other than that there was no noise. Mind Reading tensed subtly, revealing the return of Hakann. Before the others even heard his footsteps, the mentally active Rahkshi had been prepared for whatever task the sadistic Skakdi requested. The others gripped their staves and stared listlessly into the dark where their master had previously disappeared. Hakann appeared without his usual theatrics. Instead of nearly strutting with pride, he strode, movements brusque, locomotion identical to the style he adopted in battle. Each step was the inception of an offensive, every movement designed to transfer momentum in the most damaging way possible. The Rahkshi screeched softly, surprised at the manner in which the Skakdi approached. Staves were gripped tighter, stances subtly changed. Hakann paused, what might be mistaken for a gaze settling on Mind Reading. The Skakdi's gaze was consumed by shadow, empty in a cruel mimicry of gouged void. Mind Reading was not fooled: he had been able to navigate the darkness, moving well enough to not give away his position to the other Rahkshi. There was nothing to be found in his expression, only a corpse's hollow imitation of life. Hakann opened his mouth to speak, but nothing but an gravel-choked rasp appeared, continuing in twisted roar until he realised his situation and snapped his mouth shut in frustration. Mind Reading followed the handsignal that came after Hakann had calmed, and delved into the Skakdi's consciousness to find his order. Tell me how to kill this parasite Mind Reading, for the smallest of moments, was utterly still. It gazed into Hakann's face again, searching carefully and picking apart the individual components, but found no hint of humour. With a subtle relaxation, it surged into the strange pseudo-Parakuka's mind and attempted to discover its thoughts. Hakann's lips tightened in perfect synchronisation with his fist. The parasite's aura of mocking disappointment at Hakann's decision was unmistakable. At first, it feigned a state of tabula rasa. Then, with horrible certainty, a revealing of self, projection of a vivid collection of thoughts and emotions. The Rahkshi emitted something vaguely similar to a strangled whisper of a shriek, disconnecting immediately. Hakann exhaled suddenly, a hint of pain seeping into his stolid visage. The Rahkshi stared at Hakann in horror, waiting for punishment. The Skakdi merely calmed his breathing, and then began to walk, striding past the Rahkshi, who quickly resumed their previously commanded positions around him. As Hakann strode, each movement twisted and reborn in the crucible of fear, the parasite repeated a single scene, disjointed and staccato in pace. Mutilated beings, unrecognisable as sapient or Rahi, being driven through a desolate forest, trees killed and greyed by winter. Other, similarly unidentifiable, things were hung or impaled via gnarled and ashen branches, or shoved half-broken into the fork of the trees, some still screaming and moving, most twisted and contorted by varying stages of rigor mortis. An unseen shadow pressed from behind, tearing at the shrieking cripples that lagged and driving forward those able to run, weeping, screaming. Beyond the treeline, distant and formless, something waited, more omen than tangible, a mountain that walked in silence. Shadows loomed off of it, writhing in the tortured dusk. One final shriek and then a horrible stillness. The series of rapid images was lucid, incredibly detailed. Hakann could feel his stomach tightening at the thought of it having any basis in reality. The stares of the grotesque monstrosities, the true and unfiltered terror of one watching everything they have ever known skinned and burning, remained in Hakann's mind, an impression tinted ash-grey. Each step through the tunnels was forceful, powered by wrath-fed nerve and screaming heart, the run of a predator, or the fleeing of prey. * * * Hand gentle and assured in its motion, Hakann fed his tongue through the gnashing of crimson-delineated teeth, every bite accompanied by the sound of flesh torn with anterior force. He worked through the tastes, grisaille face newly motionless. Blood ran slowly, creeping down tooth and gum. II I am a sleepless Slowfaring eater, Maker of rust and rot In your bastioned fastenings, Caissons deep. -Carl Sandburg, Under Parts III and IV will be added soon! Discussion topic here.
  2. Simulacrum

    A Dark Dawn

    NOTHING TO SEE HERE
  3. Here's the story link:http://www.bzpower.com/board/index.php?showtopic=1727post all comments here!
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