[Corcituri] The Heartbeat

[Zarsies 6101]

The following is accessible information only to current corcituri.

 

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You slip into the snug dark of sleep or a hypnagogic trance and your mind’s eye drifts in and away to distant fathoms. This void melts into the typical knit of forgotten dreams yet unlike those nights you stir. Your mind refuses to be lulled comfortably, instead in a state of fringe consciousness, eyes ready to snap open and wake. You cannot.

 

A dip in a pool, the drudgery of labor, a savored conversation; flying, falling, being chased, losing teeth. Your mind runs laps around you as the dream, whatever it may be, coaxes you in and urges you forward. Your wayfaring mind conjures up stories of storms abroad, unfaithful friendships, laundry, four-winged dragons, and overdue taxes. They abound and twist as you shift and slump where you rest.

 

The reality of your dream becomes apparent, its inconsistencies and absurdities cluing you into its false nature. In place of imagination and rest you have vigilance and unease, the cord of waking just beyond your mental grasp. You cannot wake.

 

Your fingers sweat, your hands tremble, your guts churn and usher forth bubbling groans, and your heart thumps like a drum. This dream slides out of focus and the image stains red, blood leaking overhead to pour down walls and gush with alarm. Gore paints the walls in sticky ribbons. You cannot wake.

 

Your disturbed fragmentary sleep coalesces with force. Your heart palpitates and overwhelms your hearing, the thud and pump drowning out what meager coherent thoughts you can form. Then the imagery slides back into focus and your dream sours; trees weep red, the earth bubbles with ruddy pits, faces frightfully dissolve into inhuman globules, and all sense of safety and rest are shattered. The heat cranks, your heart pounds, your head throbs, and you clutch at your chest. Gruesome avian claws now sprout from your fingers. You open your mouth to howl in alarm yet you are greeted by a dry itch which tickles your throat and chokes, thirst. You cannot wake.

 

Your chest seizes and liquid fire splashes about in your guts. You open your mouth to heave yet instead a torrent of blood spouts out and bathes the ground and yourself. Sticky, frightened, ablaze with chest pain, there is finally relief in what feel like final dying moments, prone and dizzy. The hypnagogic experience reorientates. Your head turns skyward. The fragile elements of the story unfolding in your sleep break down. In place of dread or anguish you feel only stillness. Overhead the ceiling or heavens of the setting collapse upon you in a final omen.

 

Scratching, shoveling, the scrape of topsoil.

 

A candlelit chamber bereft of structure.

 

The scarlet flare of hellfire.

 

The scene falls upon and over you. Your vampiric eyes parse from the shadows a broad and squat ebony marble table adorned by a fluted cup whose glass spines could cut deep with crimson candles.

 

A pitch basin.

 

Red to the rim.

 

Clawing thirst.

 

Either falling into the sky or flattened by it you drift closer to the dim sight. Freshly turned earth fills your nose alongside subtle brimstone and smoke. You see your reflection in the vessel’s crimson fill. A monstrous reflection; fanged, feral, and eyes of fire.

 

You open wide.

 

You drink deep.

 

Euphoria.

 

You wake.

 

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Corcituri receptive to Prophecy are haunted by another Ill Portent

[Child Neglecter 2213]

[z3m0s 1788]

[Unwillingly 11386]

((making me wish I played a corcitura again for the vampire aesthetic

[MeteorDragon 3030]

Rolling in his sleep, an elder vampire attempted to rest. The visions ran through his mind, piercing his thoughts, making him squirm like a bug. Upon his wake, The Embered ran his fingers through his locks, grasping onto them. "The basin. It returns. It calls to me." The mad man moved up to his feet, stumbling about in his home as quiet laughter rolled out of his cursed jaws. Gnawing on raw meats, he spoke to himself, "You will be mine again. All mine."

[Lapidary 387]

Not visions nor dreams were so common to Florian, as new to the vampiric as he was, but in his sleep his brow furrowed and he found when his eyes had opened beads of sweat rolled their way down his temples. "What does it mean?" He uttered first, a hand pressed to cover one side of his face. Below, the uncertain murmurs of others could already be heard. ". . Meeting. Jea must call a meeting." 

[Duarchist 329]

Deep in the woodlands of Aevos, in a bed of white camellias, did an aging Wieszcz begin to stir. She turned her head to look at the serpent — who looked back with all the harrowing intensity of his ancient eyes. I was dreaming, she told him, I was dreaming. Poisonous dreams.

[alexmagus 624]

Not a single sound nor movement becomes of the crone-parasite in her slumber. An observer would think her to be dead. Within, the mind painted a different tale, the horrid screeches of a soul tormented by the horrid aberrations called forth by some malevolent being. The Crone - locked in her youthful state by the very curse that tormented her so now - pleaded and begged to awaken from this grim vision, and yet still she partook in it.

 

Demonic voices chanted within her ears, the call of terror, of tyranny. They sing their devil's song and yet she understands naught. Her visage contorted beyond human recognition, she imbibes upon the blood within the basin, drinking deeper and deeper-

A gasp, spluttering, choking on her own ichor that she had so carelessly spilled in her slumber; her tongue nigh split in two and cheeks rended to viscera. She awakens, her own crimson spilling about her.

 

"Why..."

She begins with. Plagued by more terrors. Wracked with more nightmares.

"What?"

She questions. Was it truly a divination, or was it simply the tumult of her ancient mind?

"Where."

She settles upon. That basin. Real, it must be.. Where, where could it be?

[28idle 127]

WAKE UP BABE NEW ZARSIES LORE JUST DROPPED !!!!!