Chapter Text
POV: “Mad Hatter”
2324, \ Season
Moist soil gives way under the prying of six inch long fingers as they plant the forever un-blooming seeds of their last victims teeth. The chattering and clattering of jaws fills the silence that chases the “lost and haunted criminals” to the worlds that reside just behind their eyelids. Prayer is whispered to the only desperate gods who would care to listen as the “violent and ruthless” try to fight inevitable death.
Hedges of apology and repent are scratched upon the walls and written with blooming spots of crimson red as fingernails chip, shatter, and are pried off their numb and unfeeling stumps in the permanent panic that comes from the depths of those who sin. Repent… The Darkness whispers… come forth and kneel to us… It continues… Save us from ourselves… The Lost whisper back.
There is no true savior anymore. The Saints have long since lost themselves to the power that floods and consumes the mind. Magic like that is only granted to those with “responsibility” and “a proper sense of pride.” It’s just a shame that people with those qualities are at least ten times as likely to be consumed by them.
Give yourself away… The saints beg… Join us… But their mouths keep chattering, three sets of jaws and heads that chew and twist the flesh of sinners as six arms tear through the peritoneum and prepare organs for feasting. Prayer is a savior and a curse, a guide for you and for them. The lost saviors can hear you as your murmured pleas bounce along the thick stone walls and echo to the ears of holy beings, they will find you, they always do.
Spikes of spines pierce through thin and vein covered skin, pale as death within the confines of their labyrinth cage, as they follow the begging of a sinner whose lost hope. They thrive for misery and consume suffering, it fuels them. The tearing, rapping of clawed fingers and scrambling of limbs grow louder as the nearest Embriosnds find their real saviors, prey, and thank them for their patronage to their cause, ravage their mind and bodies.
They enter the chamber, all tangled limbs and prying eyes that are far too adjusted to the dark chasm of man-made maze. A single body bears up to nine arms, with as many bends as the power of the creatures see fit, and up to seven mouths, all filled to the brim with rows of sharp teeth and human molars. Noses, slits or hooks, breathe in the smell of scum and tearful shame, as they initiate the ritual of hunt, an art that has long since been engraved into their subconscious.
A group of “survivors,” three of them, realize their mistake as they try to run. But the clatter of their bare feet against the cold stone resonates in the chamber and the saints are rejuvenated in their vigor for food. A pool of power that feeds into a soul that unstable forces the mage to consume whatever sustenance they can to fuel their power or risk the power consuming them, they just don’t know it already has. The farthest straggler is grabbed and a struggle is put up but is quickly quelled by the first beast's front most set of jaws closing around the man's head. A *crunch* revolves through the square area as a mop of black hair is swallowed and a gorgeous strong jaw is deformed by the hungry.
The second runner gasps and pauses as they’re finally hit with the immobilizing fear the Embriosnds enact with their feasting. A shame really, I liked that one, she had real potential. But no… The second beast grabs her with its first set of three meter long arms and holds her in a vice grip in preparation for… oh shit- In preparation for the spray of paralysis inducing raw magic that it sends directly from its back most molars. How did it do that? Did it use the bone structured throat or the extra 13 muscles in their tongue? The teeth could of spread the molecules of to substance to make it really spray but I’m not sure if that would cause it to go as far as it-
The third sinner’s screams as a third, fourth, and fifth saint begin to tear through blood spattered succulent flesh and skin, indulging in endless insatiable hunger. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted… Crunching bone prevails through the quiet of cold stone walls and echo through the opening at the top of the endless labyrinth. The only warmth of the night is the blood pouring down his neck and the acid burning in his throat.
"May the Saints be your guide,
To call down the sky.
When light may fall through,
Praise those who you knew."
A silent prayer that will never be heard as he sits in the dark corner and stares unblinking at the feasting of the holy.
“All hail our guiding Saviors.”