RE: The All-XX Battle: Narcissism Extravaganza
08-24-2012, 05:28 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-24-2012, 05:33 PM by Hellfish.)
It was the lack of heat that told Mokaiyat he had left the Temple of the Enduring Flame, long before the iron worm accepted that the walls were a matte white instead of scorched bricks and that the air smelled of chemicals instead of burning meat. Metal limbs clanked and shook on a slick tiled floor. Two glowing eyes swept the scene: white on white on white, little square things hanging from the walls and a fat fern beneath a small sign reading Coat Check. Impossible.
The familiar scent of woodsmoke and ash rose through the worm’s iron body and for just an instant he could believe that this was a vision, a divine madness, before he saw the thick wad of papers beginning to burn under his claw. An iron hand plucked the thing from the floor, trailing crumbles of glowing ash. Welcome to the TAMMRA, it said, the letters curling and smoking in his claws. Please follow the numbered signs to our featured exhibit, A Susurration of Silent-
It ignited all at once in a huff, a ball of smoke and flame dissipating into the air with a disappointed sigh. Mokaiyat trembled. Somewhere in his fiery innards a groan of scraping iron escaped, almost a whimper from the burning behemoth that rose half again as tall as any man from the blasphemously bare floor. Where were the braziers, the flame attendants? The temple girls? The sprites, the afrits? Where was he?
He looked again at the small pile of ashes trailing through his fingers. TAMMRA, he thought. TAMMRA. Who would build a temple and leave it bare?
His eyes had dimmed to barely more than a smolder, a gentle glow like dying coals. His mandibles scraped together, their fearsome appaerance somewhat lessened by this display of hesitation. Slowly the worm began to creep forward, afraid that at any moment the white walls would change to some other, more terrible hue or the high priest would appear and declare him unworthy of this challenge, tell him that he had failed Shadaiak in his cowardice and declare him an enemy of the flame…
The worm shook the terrible thought from his mind. “I am fire,” he said aloud, his voice the roar of a furnace igniting, The air wavered around his mouth. “I am the holy flame that burns and burns and never dies. I am the ember of Shadaiak. And I will burn this place to the lowest ground in His service if it takes me all my life.”
Tits.
It had been such a pleasant dream. A furnished parlor in the 20th century style, all brushed steel and polished oak and weird splotches on the carpet. Someone had installed odd red chairs in it that looked like fat tomatoes and felt like sitting on concrete. He’d been reading a book, some maudlin thing about his childhood when he’d caught a frog from the pond in his backyard and set it loose in the kitchen, and how he cried for days when he saw its little green legs kicking from the mouth of his father’s dog. The illustrations had been rather poignant. And now he was here, dreaming something else, and he thought peevishly that if this was the best he could imagine he might as well go back to waking up.
He was in yet another unfurnished room (he liked to call these blank canvases, it made him feel intelligent), lit from above by a scathingly ugly chandelier, walls bare except for what appeared to be a large painting of a dragonfly-like animal drowning in a bowl of cherries. It was wearing a small hat that Four thought was unflattering. A card next to it read Sex Machine and a Half, Serreo Yultin, 156, Oil on Skin.
Four had never liked oils. They were pretentious.
As he began to settle into this new dream he saw that the room was much larger than he had initially imagined. The ceiling was easily three times his height, extended though it was by the consciousness gel, and stretched out for many meters. Odd that they would only put one painting in such a large room, he thought. Such a waste of space. He noticed as well that he was not, as he was in so many of his reveries, entirely alone: there was a figure standing next to him, heinously tall, wearing what looked like an old plague doctor’s mask and a forest of weedy-looking pelts. Its skin was an unhealthy shade of sapphire and a wickedly curved sword hung from a clump of fur about its waist. He considered introducing himself, but decided that would be unseemly.
The figure gave a sob, startling Four more because he had not noticed that the room had been silent than because of its volume, and he was surprised to hear that its voice had a definite feminine tilt to it. The figure- she- continued to weep unashamedly for a few more breaths, delicately gasping for air. Four turned to look at her. The beak of her mask was dripping tears onto the immaculate floor, hissing where they fell. Her eyes were hidden behind some type of gauze, but Four felt her gaze pierce him accusingly.
“Are you a devil?” she said. Her voice was thick with weeping, but there was a current of steel underneath it. “Have you brought me here to punish me?”
Four heard his voice reply, echoing through the gel. “I should ask you the same, beautiful.”
The woman gave a short bark-like cry of Tormentor! The mask swung from side to side, blank eyes gaping at the ceiling. “Is this then my long-awaited penance?”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t share.”
There was a brief pause. The glittering beak nodded solemnly as the woman took in the towering column of dark blue plasma surrounding the limp body beside her, little more than a man-shaped shadow shrouded in an azure gelatin mold. Dimly he saw her peer in to examine his face. “You are like no devil I have ever seen.”
“I’d hate be a devil, I think… it seems like such a lot of work, hmmm. I doubt the horns would flatter me.”
This was a strange dream, he thought. Bird women and bad art. He watched his new companion stare haltingly around the room, beak wobbling unhappily. He often knew what the dream figures wanted, but this one was different. It was refreshing, somehow. Maybe this dream was more complicated than he’d thought. “Who are you?” he asked her, figuring the worst she could do was lie, or stay silent. “Why are you here?”
The mask’s hollow eyes turned back to him briefly. “I am Svalinn, fallen shield of the Silver Kings. I am here to pay for what I have done.”
She lost interest in him after that, examining the dragonfly painting with a conspicuous level of scrutiny. Her hands, spidery and impossibly long, probed the surface in a way that made the plasma-bound Four feel vaguely voyeuristic. She moved like a cat if cats were insects. “Not very friendly, are you?” Four said to her fur-covered back. She did not respond. He’d never been ignored in a dream before, he realized. That struck him as funny, and he chuckled. The bird woman twitched and reeled about, laying a delicate hand on her sword.
“Do you find this amusing?” she said quietly. “Do you find my sins a joke?”
Four shrugged. The gel around him wobbled. “Maybe,” he said. “I had thought I had a better sense of humor.”
The bird-woman stared at him for a moment, motionless, then turned sharply and prowled out of the room. Four followed at a safe distance, figuring that if his subconscious was going to dress up for a carnival then that was its own private business but maybe he had best keep on eye on its proceedings.
The familiar scent of woodsmoke and ash rose through the worm’s iron body and for just an instant he could believe that this was a vision, a divine madness, before he saw the thick wad of papers beginning to burn under his claw. An iron hand plucked the thing from the floor, trailing crumbles of glowing ash. Welcome to the TAMMRA, it said, the letters curling and smoking in his claws. Please follow the numbered signs to our featured exhibit, A Susurration of Silent-
It ignited all at once in a huff, a ball of smoke and flame dissipating into the air with a disappointed sigh. Mokaiyat trembled. Somewhere in his fiery innards a groan of scraping iron escaped, almost a whimper from the burning behemoth that rose half again as tall as any man from the blasphemously bare floor. Where were the braziers, the flame attendants? The temple girls? The sprites, the afrits? Where was he?
He looked again at the small pile of ashes trailing through his fingers. TAMMRA, he thought. TAMMRA. Who would build a temple and leave it bare?
His eyes had dimmed to barely more than a smolder, a gentle glow like dying coals. His mandibles scraped together, their fearsome appaerance somewhat lessened by this display of hesitation. Slowly the worm began to creep forward, afraid that at any moment the white walls would change to some other, more terrible hue or the high priest would appear and declare him unworthy of this challenge, tell him that he had failed Shadaiak in his cowardice and declare him an enemy of the flame…
The worm shook the terrible thought from his mind. “I am fire,” he said aloud, his voice the roar of a furnace igniting, The air wavered around his mouth. “I am the holy flame that burns and burns and never dies. I am the ember of Shadaiak. And I will burn this place to the lowest ground in His service if it takes me all my life.”
Tits.
It had been such a pleasant dream. A furnished parlor in the 20th century style, all brushed steel and polished oak and weird splotches on the carpet. Someone had installed odd red chairs in it that looked like fat tomatoes and felt like sitting on concrete. He’d been reading a book, some maudlin thing about his childhood when he’d caught a frog from the pond in his backyard and set it loose in the kitchen, and how he cried for days when he saw its little green legs kicking from the mouth of his father’s dog. The illustrations had been rather poignant. And now he was here, dreaming something else, and he thought peevishly that if this was the best he could imagine he might as well go back to waking up.
He was in yet another unfurnished room (he liked to call these blank canvases, it made him feel intelligent), lit from above by a scathingly ugly chandelier, walls bare except for what appeared to be a large painting of a dragonfly-like animal drowning in a bowl of cherries. It was wearing a small hat that Four thought was unflattering. A card next to it read Sex Machine and a Half, Serreo Yultin, 156, Oil on Skin.
Four had never liked oils. They were pretentious.
As he began to settle into this new dream he saw that the room was much larger than he had initially imagined. The ceiling was easily three times his height, extended though it was by the consciousness gel, and stretched out for many meters. Odd that they would only put one painting in such a large room, he thought. Such a waste of space. He noticed as well that he was not, as he was in so many of his reveries, entirely alone: there was a figure standing next to him, heinously tall, wearing what looked like an old plague doctor’s mask and a forest of weedy-looking pelts. Its skin was an unhealthy shade of sapphire and a wickedly curved sword hung from a clump of fur about its waist. He considered introducing himself, but decided that would be unseemly.
The figure gave a sob, startling Four more because he had not noticed that the room had been silent than because of its volume, and he was surprised to hear that its voice had a definite feminine tilt to it. The figure- she- continued to weep unashamedly for a few more breaths, delicately gasping for air. Four turned to look at her. The beak of her mask was dripping tears onto the immaculate floor, hissing where they fell. Her eyes were hidden behind some type of gauze, but Four felt her gaze pierce him accusingly.
“Are you a devil?” she said. Her voice was thick with weeping, but there was a current of steel underneath it. “Have you brought me here to punish me?”
Four heard his voice reply, echoing through the gel. “I should ask you the same, beautiful.”
The woman gave a short bark-like cry of Tormentor! The mask swung from side to side, blank eyes gaping at the ceiling. “Is this then my long-awaited penance?”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t share.”
There was a brief pause. The glittering beak nodded solemnly as the woman took in the towering column of dark blue plasma surrounding the limp body beside her, little more than a man-shaped shadow shrouded in an azure gelatin mold. Dimly he saw her peer in to examine his face. “You are like no devil I have ever seen.”
“I’d hate be a devil, I think… it seems like such a lot of work, hmmm. I doubt the horns would flatter me.”
This was a strange dream, he thought. Bird women and bad art. He watched his new companion stare haltingly around the room, beak wobbling unhappily. He often knew what the dream figures wanted, but this one was different. It was refreshing, somehow. Maybe this dream was more complicated than he’d thought. “Who are you?” he asked her, figuring the worst she could do was lie, or stay silent. “Why are you here?”
The mask’s hollow eyes turned back to him briefly. “I am Svalinn, fallen shield of the Silver Kings. I am here to pay for what I have done.”
She lost interest in him after that, examining the dragonfly painting with a conspicuous level of scrutiny. Her hands, spidery and impossibly long, probed the surface in a way that made the plasma-bound Four feel vaguely voyeuristic. She moved like a cat if cats were insects. “Not very friendly, are you?” Four said to her fur-covered back. She did not respond. He’d never been ignored in a dream before, he realized. That struck him as funny, and he chuckled. The bird woman twitched and reeled about, laying a delicate hand on her sword.
“Do you find this amusing?” she said quietly. “Do you find my sins a joke?”
Four shrugged. The gel around him wobbled. “Maybe,” he said. “I had thought I had a better sense of humor.”
The bird-woman stared at him for a moment, motionless, then turned sharply and prowled out of the room. Four followed at a safe distance, figuring that if his subconscious was going to dress up for a carnival then that was its own private business but maybe he had best keep on eye on its proceedings.