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zxxxxxxxxxxx›⊱ˊ ─ 𝐀 𝐑 𝐂 𝐓 𝐔 𝐑 𝐔 𝐒 ⋅.━xxzxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
zxxxxxxxxxxxxzxxx ( rank: beta) . ( bio ) . ( location: densite ) . ( tags: open ! ) . ( mutation: psychic influence )
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zxxxxxxxxxxx›⊱ˊ ─ 𝐀 𝐑 𝐂 𝐓 𝐔 𝐑 𝐔 𝐒 ⋅.━xxzxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
zxxxxxxxxxxxxzxxx ( rank: beta) . ( bio ) . ( location: densite ) . ( tags: open ! ) . ( mutation: psychic influence )
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The forest was primordial. Centuries-old trees with sprawling limbs guarded the darkness, blotting out any sunlight. Their bark was mottled and splotched, as if bubbled soup had been frozen in time on its surface. Clumpy combs of wet moss dangled from their rotten boughs. Underneath the moss, lethal larkspur peppered the mulchy floor. A pungent tang oozed from every sentient being in the forest. Bewailing sounds ghosted through the trees. Whether it was from victim or victor, only the forest could tell.
A dark figure lay sprawled, limbs akimbo in the stillness, amid the fallout trees. The body was impossibly long, grotesquely stretched as if reality itself had faltered in shaping it, and thin to the point of starvation—a spill of ink bleeding into the tender green of spring's first grass.
Only the faint, deliberate rise and fall of its chest betrayed life, an almost reluctant concession to existence. The wood seemed to cradle it, those roots, gnarled and feeling, embracing the thing as though it were one of their own, birthed from shadow and rot. And yet, the face. That face. Beneath the gaunt hollows and angles, there was something dissonantly feline about it, though it held no peace. It was Arcturus, lay there quietly… in waiting.
Above, a raven circled. Its wings were oiled shadows, brushing against the low-slung branches as if testing their patience. It cried out, a sound jagged enough to scrape the air, and yet Arcturus remained still. The forest was his accomplice, the trees conspirators in his quiet performance. Moss whispered as the bird descended, an arthritic flutter before it perched on a fallen branch. Its bead-black eyes were glassy, lit with a wary hunger.
The raven hopped forward. It paused. Its head jerked to one side, then the other, a scythe of motion cutting through the thick silence. Arcturus’s face, that unsettling mask of feline and angled aristocracy, betrayed nothing. His chest rose. Fell. The earth beneath him did not so much as sigh.
The bird came closer. Bold now. It pecked, its sharp beak testing the flesh of Arcturus’s shoulder. And then, emboldened by the utter stillness, it shifted its weight, talons digging into the fragile fabric of his ribs. Its wings relaxed, feathers spreading into an ugly, careless mantle of triumph.
It was in that moment, the very instant of certainty, that Arcturus moved.
The suddenness of it was obscene, a violence too fast for nature to recoil from. His head shot upward, a dark and blistering blur against the budding green, fangs locking around the bird’s neck like the tightening of a noose. The raven shrieked, a wail so thin and sharp it seemed to cleave the air in two, but Arcturus’s grip did not falter.
He sat upright in a single, fluid motion. His form unfolded, horrifying in its spindled elegance, the long planes of him carving shadows into the air. The raven writhed, its wings a frantic blur of desperate beating. But Arcturus’s jaw, that gnarled instrument of cruelty, was relentless. He held the bird aloft, the corded strength of him a silent testament to his unholy patience.
His face, that face, finally shifted. A smile, slow and curling, broke across his lips, a thing that had no business being there. The raven’s struggles grew weaker, its cries reduced to a thin wheezing as the light in its eyes began to gutter.
When it was done, when the bird was no more than a limp weight in his grasp, his eyes, twin points of green, flicked upward to the tree canopy. Where the other ravens watched in a collective silence, their black forms like punctuation marks in the empty sky.
In his soft retreat, Arcturus slipped through the fallout trees, the shadows clinging to him like second skin. The boughs above sagged, ancient and accusatory, their broken limbs framing the densite like the ribs of a great, dead beast. He moved as if unburdened by bone, a creature made of liquid intent, his form melting into the folds of the forest until, with a languid poise, he emerged into the den’s center.
The air there was a misty concoction of rot and resignation, a stale soup ladled from the very marrow of the earth. He held the raven idly, its limp form dangling as if it were an afterthought. Blood, dark as old wine, traced the arc of his jaw, pooling at his chin before dropping soundlessly to the dirt. His lips... Was it blood that lined them, or the venom of some unseen toxin? Twitched in the semblance of a smile. A thin one. Or perhaps it was merely the curve of exhaustion.
The kill pile greeted him with the dismal sag of neglect. A pitiful heap, its contents gnawed and sun-bleached, a graveyard for things that had barely lived at all. Arcturus tossed the raven onto the pile, the carcass landing with a soft thud that barely registered. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the grotesque tableau, and then, slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, his long limbs folding into a posture too formal to be entirely relaxed.
The densite was silent but for the rasp of his tongue. As he leaned into the wound on his shoulder, a small price, he thought, to pay for salvation. While his eyes drifted once more to the kill pile, and something in him coiled tight with distaste.
Born from luxury into this. This was what it had come to. The scraps of a land too poisoned to love them back. They stayed, though. Of course, they stayed. They fed off the monstrousness of it, and in turn, became monsters themselves. Each bite they took, each breath of the noxious air, etched new scars into the fabric of what they had once been. Some bore their mutations like badges, their flesh warped and grotesque, proof of their survival in this ruin. Others, though. Others carried it deeper, their deformities hidden in the hollows of their minds, their veins, their ribcages where the heart beat strange and furious.
Arcturus’s mutation lay there, in that secret place where flesh could not betray it. But it wanted to. It pulsed beneath his skin, thrumming against his ribs like a thing caged too long, demanding release. Its need was relentless, gnawing at him until he wondered if it was his own need or something wholly other, something birthed in the rot and venom of the land.
Exhaling, a slow and measured breath, his tail brushed the dirt beside him, the earth soft and damp beneath him. Yes, he was blessed, though he said the word with the faintest curl of irony in his mind. Blessed with a mutation that had been a curse for others but a gift to him—a useful mutation, indeed.
.
A dark figure lay sprawled, limbs akimbo in the stillness, amid the fallout trees. The body was impossibly long, grotesquely stretched as if reality itself had faltered in shaping it, and thin to the point of starvation—a spill of ink bleeding into the tender green of spring's first grass.
Only the faint, deliberate rise and fall of its chest betrayed life, an almost reluctant concession to existence. The wood seemed to cradle it, those roots, gnarled and feeling, embracing the thing as though it were one of their own, birthed from shadow and rot. And yet, the face. That face. Beneath the gaunt hollows and angles, there was something dissonantly feline about it, though it held no peace. It was Arcturus, lay there quietly… in waiting.
Above, a raven circled. Its wings were oiled shadows, brushing against the low-slung branches as if testing their patience. It cried out, a sound jagged enough to scrape the air, and yet Arcturus remained still. The forest was his accomplice, the trees conspirators in his quiet performance. Moss whispered as the bird descended, an arthritic flutter before it perched on a fallen branch. Its bead-black eyes were glassy, lit with a wary hunger.
The raven hopped forward. It paused. Its head jerked to one side, then the other, a scythe of motion cutting through the thick silence. Arcturus’s face, that unsettling mask of feline and angled aristocracy, betrayed nothing. His chest rose. Fell. The earth beneath him did not so much as sigh.
The bird came closer. Bold now. It pecked, its sharp beak testing the flesh of Arcturus’s shoulder. And then, emboldened by the utter stillness, it shifted its weight, talons digging into the fragile fabric of his ribs. Its wings relaxed, feathers spreading into an ugly, careless mantle of triumph.
It was in that moment, the very instant of certainty, that Arcturus moved.
The suddenness of it was obscene, a violence too fast for nature to recoil from. His head shot upward, a dark and blistering blur against the budding green, fangs locking around the bird’s neck like the tightening of a noose. The raven shrieked, a wail so thin and sharp it seemed to cleave the air in two, but Arcturus’s grip did not falter.
He sat upright in a single, fluid motion. His form unfolded, horrifying in its spindled elegance, the long planes of him carving shadows into the air. The raven writhed, its wings a frantic blur of desperate beating. But Arcturus’s jaw, that gnarled instrument of cruelty, was relentless. He held the bird aloft, the corded strength of him a silent testament to his unholy patience.
His face, that face, finally shifted. A smile, slow and curling, broke across his lips, a thing that had no business being there. The raven’s struggles grew weaker, its cries reduced to a thin wheezing as the light in its eyes began to gutter.
When it was done, when the bird was no more than a limp weight in his grasp, his eyes, twin points of green, flicked upward to the tree canopy. Where the other ravens watched in a collective silence, their black forms like punctuation marks in the empty sky.
In his soft retreat, Arcturus slipped through the fallout trees, the shadows clinging to him like second skin. The boughs above sagged, ancient and accusatory, their broken limbs framing the densite like the ribs of a great, dead beast. He moved as if unburdened by bone, a creature made of liquid intent, his form melting into the folds of the forest until, with a languid poise, he emerged into the den’s center.
The air there was a misty concoction of rot and resignation, a stale soup ladled from the very marrow of the earth. He held the raven idly, its limp form dangling as if it were an afterthought. Blood, dark as old wine, traced the arc of his jaw, pooling at his chin before dropping soundlessly to the dirt. His lips... Was it blood that lined them, or the venom of some unseen toxin? Twitched in the semblance of a smile. A thin one. Or perhaps it was merely the curve of exhaustion.
The kill pile greeted him with the dismal sag of neglect. A pitiful heap, its contents gnawed and sun-bleached, a graveyard for things that had barely lived at all. Arcturus tossed the raven onto the pile, the carcass landing with a soft thud that barely registered. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the grotesque tableau, and then, slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, his long limbs folding into a posture too formal to be entirely relaxed.
The densite was silent but for the rasp of his tongue. As he leaned into the wound on his shoulder, a small price, he thought, to pay for salvation. While his eyes drifted once more to the kill pile, and something in him coiled tight with distaste.
Born from luxury into this. This was what it had come to. The scraps of a land too poisoned to love them back. They stayed, though. Of course, they stayed. They fed off the monstrousness of it, and in turn, became monsters themselves. Each bite they took, each breath of the noxious air, etched new scars into the fabric of what they had once been. Some bore their mutations like badges, their flesh warped and grotesque, proof of their survival in this ruin. Others, though. Others carried it deeper, their deformities hidden in the hollows of their minds, their veins, their ribcages where the heart beat strange and furious.
Arcturus’s mutation lay there, in that secret place where flesh could not betray it. But it wanted to. It pulsed beneath his skin, thrumming against his ribs like a thing caged too long, demanding release. Its need was relentless, gnawing at him until he wondered if it was his own need or something wholly other, something birthed in the rot and venom of the land.
Exhaling, a slow and measured breath, his tail brushed the dirt beside him, the earth soft and damp beneath him. Yes, he was blessed, though he said the word with the faintest curl of irony in his mind. Blessed with a mutation that had been a curse for others but a gift to him—a useful mutation, indeed.
.
.
