satero

the god

...But he didn't want to. In fact, he did not want to do much of anything. He counted one hundred and fifty-nine ticks of the clock before he felt around in his pocket and withdrew a lighter. Then he wanted to burn the book. So he carried it to the open window and, with steady hands, held the bottom-right corner above the flame.

The burning pages flickered off into the dark.

Hail to the king, he said, dropping the entire sad, pathetic mess. Hail to the god damn king.

mukhari

the priest

And Mukhari Sharak was still raging in a feverish, drunk, philosophical stupor as Satero dragged him out of the bar. Mukhari wasn't coherent for a whole fifteen minutes. His slurring merely became loud when he was vehement. Satero paid him no attention. Then Mukhari tried to punch him, at which point Satero dropped him and stood back with his hands shoved into his pockets and a cross look on his face.

stone

the knight

Stone just grins at him. There's none of that typical Ishairai smirk on his face. Mukhari takes that as a good omen, because Stone never approves of anything they do, least of all the fact that Satero is still breathing. This is an atrocity in Stone's mind, and Mukhari is an enabler.

♔ sleepwalker

the birds

He screams like he never has before, screams and tries to keep completely still at the same time as more of his insides slither out and flood the floor and ❚❚t❚❚❚'s clothes, feeding the other birds, undisturbed by the noise. He suppresses a sob as the bird pecks at the remains of his eyes, streaming down the line of his cheek, jaw, neck. ❚❚t❚❚❚ holds him still and forces him to remain as he is.

This is not the beginning. And this is not the end.

♕ godkiller

the maggots

I am not my mother and I am not my father and I am not their son. I am not a soldier and I am not a coward and I am not a corpse. I am not your friend and I am not your enemy and I am not your lover.

♖ sound

the flies

You do not pulse. You flash like lightning. Short-lived, I say, pointing an accusing finger in your face as I hold a hand to my cheek and wait for the bone to disappear under slowly healing flesh, fibers knitting themselves together as I breathe and you die. You are short-lived. You are the storm and you are the rain. You are strong and you are unstoppable and you are gone, gone, gone. You are forgotten. You are mortal. You are a bastard. You are dead.