Old Demons, Old Nightmares

[KeiaTypeBeat 3277]

Art by Chris Cold

 

An old Mali'ame tosses in his bed, sweat matting their hair as old demons whisper in the night. 

 

"Old. Broken. Weak. You don't even need my influence in order to fail." The tone was laced with judgement, deep and resonant was its cadence. 

 

"You aren't real." His voice was tired, weary, and had an undertone of trepidation.

 

"Are you certain? Is that truly what you believe?"

 

"It is not a matter of belief. It is a fact. My power is gone. And so too, are you."

 

"Your power... I would laugh, if I were not so greatly insulted. You had me. I  had all of the power."

 

"You aren't real."

 

"You're mad."

 

An ebony-black miasma began flowing down the cavern's walls. It settled on the floor, then, as though willed by an unseen force, it crawled to the bedside, enveloping the Mali in a blanket of smog. He began to choke as the noxious vapor flooded his airways, leaching into his very being like a toxin. It was odorless, tasteless.. but its energy was unmistakable. 

 

The Mali's soul was a fountain, his mana the water. The cloud functioned as a pollutant. The waters of magic flowing through the Mali curdled into a molasses-like non-newtonian fluid, stained as black as the dreadful mist itself. As the Mali's mana corrupted, all too familiar maladies were made manifest. The twisting of the heart, the stabbing in his gut.. and worse.. the panic. 

 

He struggled with a foreign invader unlike any on this mortal plane, and his body was desperate to escape the danger present in his very being. A thousand eyes were watching his very step, each pair belonging to an unseen predator ready for an opportunity to strike. He felt the clawed hands of inferis pests pressing his chest down, holding him in place as though they were holding him underwater.  He wailed in his sleep, crying and begging for help that would never come. 

 

"Don't you miss this dance of ours, Vincrute? Don't you miss the wonderful chaos we once wrought? The trouble we got up to in Vira'ker? Llyria? Weren't those days fun?!"

 

"No.."

 

The ink-black cloud coalesced above the Mali', writhing and undulating as it took solid form: the pitch black silhouette of a man. Its limbs were lithe and crooked, and they snapped and bent back into place. A seam at its mouth began to rip open, revealing dark grey teeth sharpened to points. His eyelids followed suit, tearing open to reveal an orange, ethereal glow flickering in the creature's sockets. A wet, ripping sound echoed through the room as four black tendrils sprouted at its back. 

 

"LIAR!"

 

Upon manifestation, the being fell onto the man, clawed fingers wrapping around the Mali's throat. When the thing's knees slammed into his gut, the bed beneath them shattered like glass, and reality shattered around them as they began to fall into a shadowy chasm of unknown depth. 

 

"LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!"

 

The Mali's eyes opened, and he found himself in free fall. Plummeting downward, the tops of what looked like buildings came into view... No. Bookshelves. Kilometer high bookshelves. Then, the floor: a pristine white marble tiled in perfectly arranged squares. He crashed into it. Unharmed, but dazed, the Mali'ame pushed off the floor and sat himself upright, onto his knees. His assailant was nowhere to be found until its booming voice reverberated off unseen walls and tightly packed shelves. 

 

"EVERY MEMORY! EVERY THOUGHT! YOUR MOST PEACEFUL FANTASIES, AND YOUR MOST WRETCHED OF TRAUMAS! THEY ARE ALL MINE, VAS! HOW DARE YOU THINK YOU CAN LIE TO ME!"

 

"YOU ARE NOT REAL!"

 

"And you will see how little that matters."

 

Without warning, an ungodly skittering noise echoed off the floor, and the being crawled towards Vas with unnatural speed. It was bent over backwards, scurrying on the tips of its claws. When it reached the 'ame, it lifted off its front limbs and jumped over him, landing on its feet. A tendril ripped from its back, then darted around Vas' neck. It lifted him off the floor. Vas clawed at the black substance, which was hard as iron yet as flexible as clay. He choked, gasping and sputtering, his face turning red. 

 

"I know everything about you, BOY! I have watched through your eyes three hundred years pass by, and I know how deeply you have come to loathe your retirement. I know how ravished you are for a taste of the power you once had. I gave you everything you had. 

 

I wore your skin and spoke your voice. I impressed the aristocrats for you. I kept you afloat when you were too weak to WALK! I had you crowned as a PRINCE!"

 

Vas was thrown across the floor, gasping for air. When he tried to push himself up, he felt the tendril lash at his back, knocking the wind out of him, pushing him to the floor. He was kicked, forced to roll over onto his back. There, the parasite straddled his stomach, wrapped its hands around his throat, and repeatedly slammed his head against the floor. 

 

"I MADE YOU!  YOU WERE WORTHLESS, EVEN AS A STEWARD, WITHOUT ME!"

 

Pesima stood, and it wrapped its tendril around Vas' waist, then flung him into the air again. The 'ame crashed against a shelf, causing books to fall down onto him. One book opened in his lap, its pages shimmering with the images of so many familiar faces. Pesima made its way back to the 'ame, and it shoved the open book in his face. 

 

"One hundred and twenty years! And you had it all. A codependent family of imbeciles who kissed the ground you walked. Followers who listened to your every word like drug addicts chasing a fix. Look at them. LOOK AT WHAT YOU LOST!" 

 

Vas saw a young dark elf man, whom he met one day when he was using mental magic to cure the trauma of a petrified woman. He felt the same foreign influence he would later be cursed with upon opening his mind to the void. It originated from the 'ker. It was his first personal interaction with a host. Then, he saw a black haired human, cursed by a parasite spawned from his own. He could hear the sound of her voice, calling out to him for guidance that was met by abandonment. Finally, he saw his family. A cohort of castaways abandoned by society, whose only reprieve from the evils of modern life were found in the schemes and treacherous labors they committed together.

 

"Look at your mistakes."

 

The first book was thrown away, replaced by another. He saw his wife, coated in soured blood. He could feel her dead weight in his arms. He saw his child, foaming at the mouth. He could feel her seizing against his body. He saw the letter his mother wrote to him, announcing she was soon to pass. He couldn't remember her face.

 

"What do they have in common, Vas?" It did not wait for an answer. "You were in control. And you fucked everything up. You ALWAYS **** everything up! The parasite threw the book away, then slammed his fist into Vas' face. "Even the way you talk… you learned from me. You pretend to sound so regal… So composed. It's as though you still need me to talk for you, too."

 

"Enough…" Vas gasped out, shaking his head as the world spun around him. Though he had sustained no real damage, he spoke with the voice of a tired, wounded man. "Enough."

 

Pesima backed away. Though its face was otherwise featureless, the disappointment he beamed at the 'ame was palpable. "We were so close to greatness. So close. And you threw it all away. For what? To be a good father?" The thing guffawed. "You couldn't do that right. Run away, you did… off to a little cabin in the woods, where you spent the next two hundred and eighty-three years. Cleaning. Praying! ENSLAVED TO THE VERY SPIRIT WHO RIPPED ME FROM YOUR SOUL!

 

The thing charged at Vas, then stopped. Vas flinched. Pesima laughed. The bookshelves collapsed in on themselves, and everything turned to dust. It was dispersed by a hot wind as a bright, orange star illuminated the sky above them. The world was a lifeless, barren wasteland. Jagged rocks littered the landscape, and the debris of collapsed buildings and homes surrounded the disrepaired cobblestone road they stood on. A familiar dreamscape, to be certain. The 'ame began walking, following the lonesome road. There was no purpose other than to escape the pest plaguing his dreaming mind. 

 

He walked in silence for what felt like eons. His boots had worn out, leaving the bottoms of his feet exposed to the hot rock below. Blisters had formed at his heels, but every time he stopped, he felt his spine crawl as though something were gaining on him. He began to hear that skittering noise again. His pace increased, and the 'ame gritted his teeth through the pain even when he felt as though the flesh of his feet were splitting open, his calcaneus and metatarsals threatening to burst out. 

 

As he continued to run, he found himself flanked on all sides by various figures. Many wore thick, bony armor the color of the wasteland surrounding him. Others were clad in wispy black coverings that mimicked the dancing of  a midnight bonfire. Some reached for Vas as he moved past them. Others fell to their knees in prayer. Most stood silently and watched. All of them were chanting in Al'tahrn-Durngo; they were discordant and chaotic with no flow in their preaching. Embodying the nature of the wretched language themselves. "Nuz'koverb daz'shatchar. Nuz'goken re'narg'bign," he heard one chant in repetition. 

 

Soon, the crowd around the road became so numerous, thousands of black and beige figures littered the horizon. It became so crowded, he could no longer run. His feet bled from beneath him, and the moment he came to another halt, the skittering returned. He tried to steady his pace, to break into a sprint… But he hadn't the will. He was stronger, back then. That was for certain. And as though they were capable of smelling Vas' weakness, the discordant hymns of the damned fell silent. Each and every decrepit, cursed husk turned their sights onto him. 

 

The beings gathered around Vas Vincrute, raising their arms in unison, and they each extended a finger at him. Mouths craned open, and an ear shattering wailing erupted from their dry, raspy throats. The skittering noise soon overpowered even these screams, and hundreds of crawling, chitenous-clad beings scampered past the fallen souls, brushing past their legs as they each crawled over Vas, pushing him to the ground. Their claws ripped him asunder, tearing apart his chest until it was nothing but a bleeding hole… baring a silver, glowing light: his soul. 

 

The horrid Fiends of Rancour pried open the flesh and bone protecting the source of his mana, and the Vicars of the Twisted Paths stared at it hungrily. One was brave enough to step forward, only to be met with a vicious assault from its compatriots, the entire crowd erupting in a violence brought on by the madness of insatiable hunger. Shrieks, screams, howls of distress and decadence alike flooded the air like an unholy anthem of chaos incarnate. 

 

Vas lay awake through it all, bloodshot, emotionless eyes staring at the apocalyptic sky as he waited for the torment to end. And oh, how he wanted the torment to end. His lips soured, and he gritted his teeth. His shrieking joined the Ebrietaean Choir, and he flailed his arms in defense. Two fiends pounced on his limbs, their claws digging into his flesh as they held him still. 

 

Finally, silence. Vas could feel his throat vibrating with the rhythm of his shouting, and he could see the lips moving and the aggressive attacks of his hosts. But no noise was heard in the dry, burning air. And then, he heard footsteps. A form similar to his own stood above him: a mali'ame, with locks of brown hair donned in red and black robes. 

 

The eyes looking at Vas were not his own. They were solid black, much like the veins running throughout the doppelganger's body. It looked at Vas with hatred, as though it were forced to bear witness to a mistake it had personally made. Without a word, the being held up its right hand, and with a hellish shriek, a burst of black fire erupted in its palm. Inside the miasma was the faint flickering of a sickly green shade, before that too came to life. It took the appearance of a worm, swimming in a womb of dread. 

 

Vas shook his head. "No. No, no no no, no. You can't. You. Aren't. Real. Please let me wake up. PLEASE!"

 

The thing tilted its head ever so slightly, then it grinned, revealing razor sharp, pointed teeth. "Welcome back to the family." 

 

It reeled its hand back, and it rocketed its palm against Vas' exposed soul. Dread Fire and Parasite latched firmly in place, and as Vas felt the familiar burning of the parasite burrowing into his soul, he let out one final scream. 

 

 

Art by Chris Cold

 

 

Vas awoke with a start, gasping for air. He lurched to the side, fell off the bed, and he vomited on the floor. He got up and stumbled back, but fell again. This time, he landed against the wall, and he sat against it. He panted and choked for air, and it filled his lungs. He set a hand against his heart, squeezing at his chest, then coughed violently. But soon enough, his panic subsided, and despite the pounding in his head, he was able to find a semblance of calm again. 

 

Faint whispers echoed in the background. Nothing like when he was cursed… but present nevertheless. He stared in the open air for minutes. Then, he raised his hand. Looking upon it, he focused. And he strained. He imagined the amber in his body, then tried to will it forth.

 

Nothing. He had no parasite. He had no amber. He had no power. He was just an old Mali'. And he was disappointed.