O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell;
how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down.
There is a profoundness in the act of patricide that is rarely spoken of. To sever the bond to a parent so violently, so viciously. Rare few complete such a task, and Sysba wears this badge like a medal of honor. Alongside their badges of 'population control' and 'proud owner of the closest thing to a legal gambling ring someone can hold in Attollo', of course.
A Lovecraftian wet dream with an allergy to your routine burger, Sysba is a member of Ovo and the horror that haunts Dreamwalker's dreams (and bank account). They love themself above all else and would gleefully wipe out the entire city if they could, Dorian and Co. included. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for you to visit their club?
To sit down and describe Sysba's abilities would be akin to describing abstract art. Only the artist can tell you the meaning, and in this case, the artist is giving 20+ interpretations. Shapeshifter, world-warper, Hannibal Lecter in heels, and trying their best to hide the several dozen tentacles their true form holds, the status of 'eldritch nightmare' has enabled Sysba many tricks.
Unfortunately, getting out of Attollo is not one of them.
As a deity, Sysba can take many different forms, from the common gecko to a sea monster, if they so choose. They change genders as they please and re-style their hair at least once a day.
Commonly, they're seen as an individual of Korean descent, standing at about 6' in all forms. They have dark hair either cut short and pushed back, cut to their chin, or cut to their shoulders. Their eyes are an impenetrable black and seem to glimmer like an insects. Their teeth are sharp, their ears holding a slight point, and they possess nails that should be considered more 'claw' than 'manicured'. They love silks, love heels, and love spending 3 hours in the morning applying their face (sometimes literally).
Between their gigs of part-time nightclub owner and part-time gambling addict, Sysba's thoughts continue to be a mystery to all who know them - alongside their true ambitions in Attollo.
hi!! i've looked up and down your blog & can't seem to find somewhere i can read your the idol story-- i remember i really enjoyed it way back when it was on ao3, but you did say that you would take it down when published. is there anywhere i can find it? i'd love to buy it!!
I'll do you one better <3
The Idol
There is no one in the community who can say, with absolute certainty, when It arrived. It was as though one day we all woke up in synchrony to find Its great, twisted form looming over the temple-goers. Gone was the image of our patron god, replaced with one of an entity even the most educated of our priests could not discern.
Naturally, there was an investigation.
Self-proclaimed mages and scholars alike approached the statue to run their hands along the cold stone surface. They documented each notch and crevice that carved out Its form and they had artists—the most skilled in the city—map out the features so that we could look upon Its face in Its entirety.
The outcome of this order was nothing short of sacrilegious.
The Idol, as It would come to be known, appeared as though a man who knew of a god only by word of mouth had tried to replicate its form in the most defamatory of ways. Six great wings extended from Its body; four outstretched to cover the temple walls, and two folded in to cover Its gaze, as though It deemed us unworthy to look upon. Eyes, which should have been on Its face, were instead interspersed between the delicately carved feathers. Their gaze held malice within it.
“It is a parasite, Malchus,” my mother hissed when I asked her about It. “It slithered out from whatever den It was sired in, and now calls our home Its own. It will uproot and consume us all by summer's end.”
She was not the only one with this belief. I had heard the whispers of the clergy as they exchanged their thoughts about our predicament. The doors to the worship chamber were sealed until further notice—a first in over three decades—and any tribute to our patron god was directed to take place within our own homes. The temple went from the heart of the community to a shell of its former self within a few days; my mother, a temple cleaner, now spent most of her time dusting away cobwebs rather than mud trekked in by weary travelers.
Our entire manner of living was usurped by the arrival of this one, singular beast.
What did I think of it? I, the boy who hid behind his mothers skirts as priests walked by, who immersed himself in the murmurs and the prayers of the terrified within the altar room?
I could not see with my eyes—a trait I was born with, barring me from knowing any reality other than darkness. To me, what the Idol was or what intention it held was of the lowest priority in my life.
____________________________
Against my mothers predictions, it took several years before any changes began, and they did so when Phameus collapsed outside of the chamber.
I remember hearing the sound of his body hitting the floor, his choking breaths and twitching limbs making contact with stone. The temple healer—a man by the name of Adon—had dragged him out of the halls and into the healing chambers mere meters away. I had been listening from the shadows up until the moment that the chamber doors slammed shut, to which I then crept forward until I hovered just outside their wooden barriers.
I only managed to capture brief snippets of the conversation within, all of which came from Adon himself. Growing bored with the discussion, I had moved to draw away from the doors and back to my own chambers when a new, unexpected voice broke the reverie.
I was familiar with Phameus. He was a soft-spoken man and the youngest to join the clergy. Phameus had been born with a stutter that had remained prevalent even after coming to the temple, which caused him to trip over words and draw out sounds. The voice within the room belonged to neither him nor Adon; it did not stutter, it was not soft. It sounded as though multiple beings sought to speak at once, with no discernible gender to be pried from the mix, uttering words in a tongue I could not comprehend.
It spoke only for a moment before the healing chamber doors were forced open and Adon himself fell through.
I could hear his shock. I could hear the way his nails scraped along the stone and how they accompanied the whimpering cries that clawed their way out from his throat. I could smell that vile stench of piss and something older, something rotten, hanging off of his body.
I pressed my back against the wall as heat flooded out from within the healing room. If Adon registered my presence at all, I was given no acknowledgement before he clambered to his feet and bolted down the hall.
I was left in silence. The voices had ceased, and when I tilted my head towards the healing chamber to hear evidence of another presence, the silence only prevailed. If Phameus had been inside with Adon at any point, he was not there anymore.
“I told you,” my mother had moaned when I recounted the events to her later that night. “I told you! It is a parasite! Not only has It infected our home, but now It parades through our community with the mask of our clergyman on Its face!”
I did not respond, choosing to busy myself with dinner instead. In my mind I replayed that voice with the different pitches and timbres Its words had carried. I had only been able to make out a few, brief snippets before Adon shattered the moment;
Ihr clya cæn.
To the clergy, perhaps they held significance. But to a temple cleaner's son such as myself, they were as meaningful as the dirt that gets swept away.
__________________________
Another year passed before It spoke again.
We of the temple came to the agreement that whatever had happened to Phameus was tied to The Idol, which still stood silent in the sealed off worship chambers. Explaining this theory to the community—especially Phameus’ father—had proven a fruitless effort. In response to the clergy’s claims, the civilians rose up with threats of violence against the temple; they were willing to rip the wood apart with their bare hands if it meant that whatever resided behind those doors would be returned to the unholy land that sired It. The Head Priest—a towering, bitter man—had taken on his most placating tone and ensured the community that he and the others would deal with the situation swiftly.
They did not anticipate The Idol to have an agenda of Its own.
The voice, which I had heard a year prior in that chamber hallway, now came back through the mouth of Jezebel, another temple cleaner like my mother and I, and one who was born into the most unfortunate of circumstances. She was a timid girl who spent many of her days slouched over cleaning rags, and when she was not doing that, she sought for the shadows in the corner of the rooms to hide her away. She was precisely what the clergy wanted in a cleaner—silent, out of sight, out of mind.
Which was why we were all taken aback when she stumbled into the meeting chamber in the early hours of the morning light. I knew right away when that fragrance returned—that horrible, rotting smell that had clung to Adon's body when he fell before me—what had happened to her. Jezebel was no longer silent. She broke through the doors wailing like a flock of demons were pursuing her, tearing at her clothes and her flesh with every step she took. A sickening, dripping noise filled the chamber, and with each droplet that hit the stone the rotten scent only grew.
One.
Two.
Three.
I counted them as they collided with the tile below. The rate of contact was heavy; whatever was spilling from her body to the earth below was thick, and dense, and coming in great volumes.
We did not speak—but Jezebel did.
“Pious fathers,” she whimpered, her voice that strange cacophony of tones that had sung in my nightmares for a year now, “do you keep me locked away to stave off your misfortune? Or perhaps my arrival was too abrupt for your feeble hearts?”
A heavy silence had descended on the hall as we waited for her to continue. I was sure she was smiling—perhaps at all of us, perhaps at the Head Priest, or perhaps at me in specific. It must have known that I was one of two who bore witness to It before. I, like a lamb facing a wolf, shrunk behind the Head Priest in search of comfort, the scent of incense my only guide to reassure me it was him.
“Come, father. Let me share my thoughts with you like all the others have—a confession, of sorts. Let me give you answers to the questions that burn in your mind from the mouth of the plague itself.” There was joy in her voice, but it sounded broken, and disjointed, and terribly wrong. The Head Priest descended from his podium at her call and although I gripped onto his hands and his robes in a bid to stop him, he shrugged off all of my attempts. I could only be an unwilling audience to the disaster that was set to unfold.
The others watched them vanish into the worship chambers together. I listened intently to the sound of their footsteps, my hands wrung together with anxiety—not for the well being of the Head Priest, but for the answers being spoken behind those doors that we continued to remain un-privy too.
It was on this day, the day of Jezebel’s grievance and The Idols honeyed offering, where my role in this tale first began.
___________________________
Time passed since that reckoning in the meeting chambers. Jezebel, much like Phameus, vanished shortly thereafter; all that was left of her presence was a vacant corner where she once stood. Her absence soon became as forgettable as she was until the day she finally spoke.
The Head Priest had returned to us in silence. He refused to entertain anyone for several hours, and when he finally did emerge from his rooms, he granted us merely a taste of the bitter fruit he had consumed.
We were not to speak the name of our patron god any further. All icons, altars, and idols of his presence were to be removed henceforth. I remember the outcry of the community, and I remember the Head Priest's comments; it was under jurisdiction that these actions were taking place. Remove the patron god, or we would gradually begin to see a reduction in our community numbers. The Idol had already claimed two; Jezebel and Phameus both had shrines in their honour buried in the back of the community. I was one of few who paid tribute to them.
Losing a child was the worst punishment to face, and no one wanted to endure what their families had. The loss of a child meant a broken branch in the family lineage—something that, in many of our cases, could never be repaired.
So a pyre was built. A great, roaring flame that seemed to laugh as it crackled, bellowing out ashes that recounted our history. It was the body of the god, I remember thinking. The scent was that of his flesh bubbling and blistering in the flame and the crackle his despondent cries as his memory was torn away.
We had fed our protector to the beast in our house, and now we stood as nothing but pariahs to our beliefs.
___________________________
“I think I know Its name.”
Sidon’s voice breaks me from my memories and I twist in confusion. He is around twenty three years old, the same age as I, but he retains the boyish attitude of his youth. His hair is a chaos of curls, which I know from the times I played with them between my fingers, and he stands out against the dreariness of the temple as my own private source of comfort. Even now, the devious tone he carries is foreign to this place.
“What do you mean?” I ask, allowing only a hint of uncertainty to creep into my voice. “Whose name?”
Sidon barely hesitates as he turns me towards where, many years earlier, our Head Priest had come to his final conclusions. Life has drawn to an ebb and flow since this time. We, having grown to become cleaners ourselves, now spend most of our time wiping away the black slime that seems to seep from the temple's decaying foundations. The rotten scent that filled the air around Jezebel has taken a permanent residence in the halls. Even those who pass the worship chamber doors fall out of their conversations and into silence, as if convinced that even breathing in that direction will curse them.
Truthfully, it might.
“The Idol. It is not truly a god, you know,” he hums, tapping my right wrist—a quirk he does when speaking to ensure I listen. “Eitan says that he saw It crawling back beneath the statue's feet. Since when do gods crawl on the ground like men?”
Sidon’s words sit heavily in my mind as I ring out my rag in a contemplative silence. The studies that he and I had listened to while growing up made clear the differences between ourselves and our patron god; his divinity prevented him from stepping onto the earth that we reside on, for doing so would taint his form. To hear that The Idol we now worship to preserve our lives crawls beneath the floorboards like a common rat is uncomfortable knowledge. I drop the rag down into the bucket and turn my head towards where I know Sidon stands.
“What do you mean to do about this?” I muse, wiping my hands on my pants. “It would be good to remember that Eitan is not the most honest. He smuggles extra bread rolls underneath his shirt nearly every night.”
A scoff is the only response I receive, followed by the thump of Sidon dropping his own rag. I bet his hands must be as black as the night after our cleaning. I know mine surely are. “That's why I told you. I want you to come with me to find out just how true Eitan’s words are. If they're false, then we have nothing to worry about.”
“And if they're true?” I shake my head. “Sidon, you and I have both heard of the consequences inflicted upon those who enter the worship chamber. The miasma, the night terrors, those are real. Eitan’s words may be false, but what those people endure daily is certainly not.”
I turn away to make it clear that the discussion is over, but I am stopped in my tracks when Sidon wraps his hand around my right wrist. His grip is warm and comforting, and he reaches up with his other hand to cup my chin. I know he's smiling at me before he even speaks, and the image I've carefully constructed in my mind from touching those upturned lips fills me with warmth. I know I'll do as he asks before he even asks it.
“One night, for a few moments. We sneak in through the servant entrances, we check The Idol, and then we leave before anyone suspects a thing.” His thumb caresses the inside of my wrist, and I bite down on my lip. Cheater. “Please?”
I stand facing away from him, caught between my morals and my affections for the man holding my wrist. It's not a hard choice to make in the end; I, like my mother, wear my heart on my sleeve.
“Fine,” I sigh, closing my eyes as I do so. “One night.”
______________
The air feels static as I wait for Sidon to come. I had spent the entire day meticulously rearranging my chambers in order to keep my mind off of things, only to find myself falling back into rumination with each shift I made. I was fortunate enough that, before the chambers were closed, my mother had been the individual assigned to clean by our patron god’s feet. I grew up within those walls, basking in the scent of incense and sage while the faint sounds of my mother’s sweeping filled the air. I wonder how different it will be for Sidon and I when we go in there tonight.
I wonder if this is worth the sacrifice of those memories?
My answer is given to me by a quiet rapping against my door. I get up from the bed and crack open the door enough so that I can capture the scent—dirt and miasma—of my dear friend. He presses a single finger to my lips to indicate my silence before grasping my wrist. I nod and slip out of the room, closing the door behind me as softly as I can. As soon as I'm standing out in the hall with him, Sidon turns on his heels and sets off at a brisk pace, hardly waiting for me to collect myself.
“Sidon!” I hiss under my breath, dogging after him like some child following their parents’ steps. “Sidon, slow down!”
Whether he heard me or not I’ll never know, because as soon as we round the corner Sidon comes to a stop, causing me to collide into his back. I don’t need to ask him the reason for his pause.
Because this? This didn’t make sense.
My room is at least twenty minutes down the hall from this chamber. I know this because I had specifically chosen the farthest room from the chamber that I could possibly afford; I didn’t want the darkened energy that seemed to hover around the entrance creeping its way into my room at night. I already had horrible visions of unseen hands wrapping themselves around my throat, of a body pressing against mine until I cannot move, of eyes like predators watching me from all corners, always watching. I didn’t need them to get worse.
“Sidon,” I began again, reaching out to touch his arm, only to have him jerk away from my reach. He doesn’t even grant a response as he moves past the worship chamber doors and towards a side-hall where the servants entrance resides. I stand, rooted in place with uncertainty. All of the anxieties that I try so hard to repress are now blooming in my chest and dancing their way through my veins, blurring my thoughts and quickening my breaths as I hear Sidon’s footsteps disappear.
This is wrong. In fact, this is not just wrong, it’s downright criminal. We shouldn’t be trying to deduce the divinity of whatever resides within this chamber; we should be trying to banish It, like the community wants. We aren't meant to play martyr in this life.
And yet, I can’t let him do this alone. If I let him go in there and die for whatever being, god or not, that slumbers beneath that Idol’s feet, then I, too, would die regardless.
So I force my feet to move. I force myself to take step after step, and I follow Sidon.
_______________
The chamber is exactly how I remember it from years before. The scent of incense hangs faintly in the air, and there’s a certain warmth that pulls at my heart. It reminds me of the stories I heard as I grew up; of kindness, of love. The tiled floors still cause my footsteps to echo out, bouncing off of the towering ceiling I know hangs above us, and I can’t help but stretch my arms upwards.
The only difference is The Idol. I know that It sits there, watching me relive my childhood joy. Six wings. Hundreds of eyes. A great, looming body that stretches out to me. The only difference now is the dripping sound that I hear, a sound that brings me back to Jezebel’s reckoning. It’s the black liquid that we’ve been cleaning from the temple foundations for months, steadily flowing from The Idol to rot away the temple floor beneath Its body.
“Come,” Sidon murmurs, his voice still booming in the repressive stillness of the room. “The entrance is at the feet.”
“Did Eitan tell you this?” I ask, following after him. Sidon offers no response—but something tells me that he’s smiling, that my question amuses him. As I approach The Idol’s base, the rotten scent seems stronger here than anywhere else, to the point that I’m swaying with the emotions I feel. I clench my jaw as I follow after Sidon.
Eitan, for once, is truthful. As soon as Sidon and I reach the final step, I feel a gust of cold, bitter wind brush along my cheeks. A soft swear escapes from my lips as I drink in its touch. Sidon says nothing. Instead, I hear him approach the entrance, his hand pressing against The Idol’s base with a soft thump.
“Let’s go,” is all he offers as he moves further from where I stand. My mind draws a blank and I find myself unable to say any words of protest before his footsteps vanish once more. We had agreed to confirm that the creature crawled on our grounds; we had not agreed to go hunting after It like fools. I hesitate again, torn between what I know is right and what my loyalty to my beloved says. Once again, the decision is easily made.
I approach the hole and, taking a deep breath, I follow into the abyss.
________
There's a room beneath The Idol’s feet. It’s a cavern so vast that I find it hard to determine its actual size. The sound of water hitting something solid echoes through the air, and fragrant decay hangs heavy around us. I stumble a few times as I follow Sidon’s fervorous steps. He’s moving so quickly that I find myself out of breath and I’m forced to press my hand against one of the walls.
I feel a wetness on my skin. Even as I pull away, I know it isn’t water. I flex my hands into fists and try not to think about this as I continue to follow Sidon down.
“How long do you intend to keep us here?” I murmur as we make another turn. We’ve turned so many times now that I’ve lost count—surely we’re just walking in one great circle?
“Just a bit further ahead,” Sidon replies, increasing his pace once more. My brow furrows in concern as I continue to trail after him. My mother’s words are ringing through my mind right now, scolding me for all the irresponsible decisions I’ve ever made, and how this one surely is the greatest. I trust Sidon with my life, yes, but that doesn’t mean I wish to lose it any time soon.
I only know he’s stopped when I bump into him. He’s unnaturally still, even for Sidon’s standards, and I reach out to press a hand on his broad back in concern.
“What do you see?” I ask. He is my eyes in this moment.
“Stars.” He steps forward and I do as well, ever trailing. We must’ve entered another room because the walls seem farther apart than before; there’s a cool breeze brushing against my cheeks again, carrying that heady, rotten scent on its back. I push forward to stand beside Sidon rather than behind, and my feet come to a stop at the edge of what seems to be a drop.
A cavern, perhaps? A chasm?
Maybe this is the entrance to the underworld our priests have so desperately sought?
“Sidon,” I murmur again, “where do you see the stars?”
“Everywhere.” Sidon’s hand comes down to grasp my arm. “They are everywhere, Malchus. Dots of light, swirling around our heads, just waiting for us to fall. They create patterns and tell stories of the people who live before us. They are burning so brightly.”
His finger taps my wrist.
My left wrist.
“This means they are close to their end, no?”
My heart drops to my stomach as I let his words sink in. I cannot see with my eyes. Despite this, I should have asked the others, I should have been concerned with The Idol’s appearance. Phameus, Jezebel. My mother said once that It paraded through our community with the mask of a clergyman on Its unholy face.
It seems to have traded that for the mask of my lover instead.
“You've been watching me for many years, have you not?” The Idol sighs, continuing to tap my wrist. I don’t move against Its advances. It would be a death sentence for me to do so, so close to a drop like this.
I have been made a fool.
“We've been visiting each other in our dreams since the moment you stood outside of that healing chamber, have we not?” It laughs, Sidon's voice now substituted for a tone that sounds of both man and woman; it slithers like a serpent over my body and into my mind, burrowing itself deep into my thoughts. I shiver at the intrusion. "Although you still have yet to see me."
"Something I'm grateful for." This is all I can offer. My loss of sight has granted me a blessing in that it's spared me from seeing The Idol’s grotesque form. There's a tutting noise as It moves closer.
"Not good!" It sighs, hot breath fanning over my face. "Do you know I was once called the most beautiful of the divine? I used to have others, both mortal and not, kneeling at my feet, begging me to grace their bedchambers each night. I was the source of wars, of betrayals, of events that shaped the very history you exist for!"
There's a horrible spitting noise as The Idol pulls back. When It leans close again, It smells of the rotten fragrance that parades the entire chamber.
"Sweet Helen was a mere trinket compared to the likes of me."
"Then why are you here?" Death seems unavoidable to me at this point. Even if The Idol lets me go, I have no knowledge on how to return to the surface. No one knows that I'm here. I will walk forever until I finally collapse, and Sidon…
My heart aches as realization settles in. Sidon has likely met the same fate as Jezebel and Phameus.
"If you are so desired by man and god alike, why do you spend your nights crawling along a temple floor like a common cockroach?" I flinch as The Idol’s grip tightens. "This seems unbefitting for someone who puts the renown Helen to shame, no?"
"Your sharp tongue exists to balance out your lack of eyes," The Idol hisses, pressing closer to me still. "No human would dare speak to me in such a manner. Little dreamer, I have killed for far less."
"Then why am I still here?" The question rises in my mind like the morning sun, burning out the shadows that colluded my thoughts ever since The Idol first began to speak. If It has killed for less, why does It allow me to remain?
"Why have you not consumed me like you did Phameus, or Jezebel? Like… like Sidon, or those that came before them? Why lure me here?"
The Idol remains silent against my questioning. It's only when the words begin to die on my tongue and the last traces of my voice carry out to the darkness that It moves. I'm pushed back as It steps in front of me, blocking me from the chasm below.
It's tall. I can visualize Its six wings and innumerable eyes in my mind, the horrible descriptions the community members provided me with as vivid as a dream. My breath catches in my throat as It leans closer, closer, until Its unseen mouth is inches from my own.
It means to consume me.
"You wanted someone to hear you," I whisper, my breath mingling with Its own. "That is all you ever wanted. That is why you wore the face of the community, why you attached yourself to Phameus, why you made Jezebel run through those doors. That is why you wore the face of Sidon to lure me down here. I am the only one who has heard you."
There's a moment of silence, and then a low, rumbling sound emanates from The Idol. It grows and grows in volume until laughter fills the chamber, booming around me like the performance of a thousand men. My hands come up to cover my ears and The Idol captures them in Its own.
"You humans love to make yourselves the central characters, do you not? Every event always needs to tie back to you somehow. It never fails to amuse me." I feel The Idol run Its thumb along my wrist. They feel like human hands still, as warm and as comforting as Sidon's were. The thought of this parasite still wearing his face makes my stomach roll.
"However, I'm not laughing at you this time." A sigh, one that sounds as though it carries the weight of a thousand years. "I'm laughing at myself. Your lack of sight has forced me to dance into your mind, Malchus. You paid me attention when no one else would. I suppose this has made me pliant."
"Pliant?" I'm unsure if I like that response or not, but The Idol gives me no chance to decide.
"I want to let you see," The Idol whispers, Its lips ghosting across my own, "And if you watch with me, I swear by my word I shall let your community be."
I inhale sharply at this. The Idol could be lying for all I know; the Head Priest did tell us that demons enjoy speaking honeyed-promises to lure the unwitting into their embrace.
But this can save my mother. This can save my community. I can ensure that no Jezebel, no Phameus, no Sidon, ever occurs again. Saying no to a promise like this, even if it drips from the lips of a liar, would be signing a death sentence for thousands.
So, I nod.
There is a sharp pressure as It connects Its mouth to my own. I move to pull away, to escape from Its embrace, but my limbs raise a protest against my mind. I feel my body tumbling to the floor, and before I can react, the darkness I know is replaced with a darkness unfound.
________
I'm in a room, lying in a bed of silk and satin, blanketed by a ceiling of stars. They shift and flow like gentle waves, as though a nebulous sea is above me. When I stare around the room, I realize I'm not the only one present. Others reside in the corners and the floors; some look like myself, some remain an amalgamation of wings, eyes, and teeth, bejewelled and wrapped in velvet and silk. The air smells bitter, like sex and sacrilege, and heady breaths break a heavy silence.
My eyes dart frantically, drinking in every color and shape I have missed in my twenty three years of life. Lost in the sensory overload, I only become stabilized when my gaze settles on the figure who resides beside me on the bed.
Unruly dark hair, marked pale skin, and inky black eyes that are both empty and as vibrant as the stars above. They catch my gaze, and their kiss-swollen pink lips spread into a smile that gives both promises and damnation at the same time. Its teeth are white and as sharp as knives—the teeth of a predator.
"I want to let you see."
I drown in the darkness once more.
________
I’m in a chamber. I think it must be similar to how I always imagined the worship chamber, but it lacks the warmth and comfort that the home of my patron god once held. It’s a cold, unforgiving environment in here, with its distance only emphasized by the darkness that engulfs the room. The nebulous stars that drifted above my head now dance all around me, comprising the walls and the ceilings with their shifting, effervescent forms. I drink in the galaxies and the planets as they circle by, right until my gaze drifts to the figure on my right.
The Idol is beside me. I was true in my predictions—six great wings spread out, two that cover Its eyes and four that expand Its presence. Hundreds of eyes lazily watch myself and the other occupants of the room as though we’re providing It with sparse entertainment. It wears a robe, and a crown of stars above Its head that accompany a horned halo. Its hands are still that of a man’s, although they look as though they’ve been dipped in the stars that shine above us, and they reach out to grasp my hand as a man's would.
“Watch,” is all It directs, and I oblige. There are others in this room with us, but I cannot discern their forms like I could the bedchamber. The Idol whispers to me about every single one.
There is a gray presence in the corner, which seeps malevolence and despair as It hovers just above the floor. The Idol leans close. “Devourer in the mist, born of bile and tears.”
Another is a tall, slender man who seems to carry himself in similar gait to a Lord, broken only by the smile on his face. The Idol clicks Its tongue. “A Stalker among the stars. He has a strange affinity for your kind.”
A third that I turn my attention to is nothing but an essence of mist, hovering between the stars that encircle the room. The Idol notices I watch It, and a bitter laugh escapes from Its throat. “Father, The Void. I was born of his rib, which he tore out of his body with his own two hands. He, like I, has a hunger which shall never be satiated.”
A shudder races through my body. I feel as though It’s watching me, despite the lack of eyes, and I force myself to turn away. The Idol provides no better comfort; It watches me with a too-wide mouth, hosting an array of sharp teeth within that are decorated with the black slime I have spent so many years cleaning. It looks amused at my misery.
“And what are you?” I finally ask, “Which of this pantheon of horrors are you?”
The Idol does not reply. It simply continues to watch me with a smile, right up to the moment that the stars erupt and the figures that accompany us become nothing more than wistful nightmares.
________
When I wake again, I’m in agony. It runs through my veins like a sedative and morphs all my thoughts into terrible blurs. A shattered gasp slips through my lips as I press my blackened hands—
Blackened… hands?
I stare down at them in silent confusion. These are not my hands. I have never seen my hands before, but I have had the same ones for twenty three years, long enough to become accustomed to their feeling. My nails are not the talons of a predator. My skin has been stained with the black slime I clean, but not like this. I have no place for black, molten feathers to fall from, yet they surround me like a blanket of my own design.
I taste rot on my tongue.
My body moves on its own accord and forces me to raise my head, to look at the product of my actions. Stars dot the ceiling above me—they dot every ceiling I have seen on this hellish journey—illuminating the body that lies prone on the bed, its shadowy form far more still than what I saw in that chamber.
The sight, the toxic smell, the heat that seems to oppress the entire room, causes me to double over and retch. Black bile spills from my mouth and hits the floor and I stare at it in a numb shock, unsure of how to process it. The agony in my body continues to throb; my neck, my chest, my stomach, my—
“Do you understand?” The Idols voice breaks through my panic-driven thoughts. I cannot see It in the darkness, but I hear It as though It's standing right in front of me. “The oppressed always prevail, little dreamer. The harder you try to stop something from happening, the higher its chances of failure become. I tasted sweet autonomy when I lived on your Earth—when I danced with your kings, when I caused your cities to crumble, when I consumed the flesh of your mothers and your sons—and I never wanted to lose that.”
Hands touch my neck, my chest, my stomach, everywhere that I ache. I feel The Idol’s form looms over me. “So I had to take it back. Ach ewyll bah-eh mira mir-lil .”
I don’t know what else It whispers in my ears that night. When the shadows come again to carry me out of this memory, I welcome them like a salvation.
________
I don’t know at what point I end and The Idol begins. We become entangled in the past, It and I, like two lost stars seeking home in the never ending skies. We are so bright in our moments that we burn out, only to be born again in the next breath. Our hands fumble to lock in a vice-like grip, both of us afraid of losing and both of us too proud to admit it. I let It consume me in return for a taste of Its life; a deal that, although consequential, holds benefits for us both.
We are only in the past for a moment but these moments weave a thousand years of emotions into my heart. I see It rise amongst the gods—as beautiful and loved as It claimed to be—and I see the moment that It fell from grace. I feel Its despair as It wakes in my world, as It travels from village to village, trying to discover the pathway back to the stars. I feel Its hunger, Its desperation, so powerful that tears fall down my cheeks. I feel Its desire, Its pain, and I do my best to soothe it all. I cannot change the past, but I can control the narrative.
The Idol is my eyes, so I become Its heart.
It allows me to press my hand over every scar and wound It so carefully conceals beneath the guise of confidence and allure. It wears a mask of a thousand faces—each one different from the next—but despite the disguise each new mask brings, the face underneath never changes. I reach out to trace my fingers around the edges. I want to lift that mask so I could see the name of the parasite that wraps itself around me. It does not move, even as I begin to reveal the smooth flesh of the chin underneath.
It’s only when I get to Its lips, kiss-swollen and dripping black, that It calls for the darkness to hide It once more.
________
I open my eyes to nothing. The pressure of The Idol’s lips against my own is the only tell that I am, in fact, back in the chamber. I taste toxin and rot on Its tongue, which swirls within my mouth as though seeking to consume me. I let It. I don’t move or respond until The Idol finally pulls away. I don’t speak when It does. I can’t.
What does one say after living a thousand lives?
“Did you enjoy the sights? Did they answer all that you wish to know?” It asks, a breathless whisper in the night. I mull over my answer carefully; I have never seen before, and the sights that I bore witness to—despite the terrors they contained—sit heavily in my mind. I know that I’ll replay them to myself for years to come, because they are the first and the last things I’ll ever see.
One question remains unaddressed, though.
“Which of that pantheon of horrors were you?”
I make one change to the original question, because it finally occurs to me that I worded it wrong. The Idol no longer is; The Idol was, which is why It never deigned a response the first time. I am met with a silence, a long, exhausting silence, before The Idol finally laughs.
It’s the laugh that a dog would give before tearing out a rabbit's throat.
“Thousands of secrets revealed, and you still pine for the one that I did not give?” It traces a hand along my cheek as It asks this. The touch feels like blades digging into my flesh. “I should cut out your tongue for the audacity alone.”
I wait for It to continue. I know It isn’t done yet.
“But you have been pliant with me, little dreamer. You have weathered yourself through a gods tale, danced with me when I requested, and I suppose that is grounds enough for a reward.” The Idol rests Its chin upon my shoulder, and I hear the smile in Its voice. “I will tell you, and then I will depart, and you will never speak word of what happened here tonight.”
No words come out of my mouth in response. If this is the deal It wishes to make, who am I to protest? The Idol, sensing my willingness, tilts Its head so Its lips are pressed against my ear. I pause in my thoughts as I feel something soft brush against my arm. Feathers.
“I have had thousands of faces and thousands of names for the many years I have lived among you. The Envious, The Prodigal Son, The Void, The Harbinger of Greed.” I feel It smile again, and something wraps itself around me. It’s warm and comforting, like a lover's embrace, and the soft texture of feathers gently kisses my skin. “But you, Malchus? You may call me ‘Ymnar.”
As soon as the words slip from Its mouth, I feel a terrible pressure rise up in my chest. A thousand eyes are watching me from the shadows, scrutinizing my every movement and breath. I feel claws and wings wrap tighter around me as though they’re afraid to let me go. That terrible, toxic scent grows in intensity, and my hands begin to dig into the darkness in front of me in a bid to make my escape, to make any escape. Agony throbs through my body,
Then, nothing at all.
I am floating in a nebulous galaxy—a forgotten speck, an essence of nothing, set in a direction it knows not itself, and I can only welcome the free-fall when it finally comes.
________
There is no one in the community who can say, with absolute certainty, when It arrived. It was as though one day we all woke up in synchrony to find Its great, twisted form looming over the temple-goers. Gone was the image of our patron god, replaced with one of an entity even the most educated of our priests could not discern.
There is, however, one person who can say with absolute certainty when It left. When I awaken to the warmth of sunlight upon my face, I am alone. The Idol, which had grown to become a staple in our lives, is gone—as though It had never existed to begin with.
Naturally, there’s an investigation.
I am asked over and over again what occurred the night Sidon disappeared. I can give no answer. I sit, mute and numb, listening to the priests argue from the next room over. Mages and scholars alike throw out theories, all which are refuted. With no leads, the chaos soon eventually fades away. We all simply wish to move on. We all simply wish to forget.
My mother and I both relinquish our positions as temple cleaners and elect to settle into a quieter life. I fall into an occupation of a story-teller; my elaborate tales of entities in the stars, of a temple cleaners journey with a Harbinger of Greed, draw in enough crowds that I can retain a stable income.
In the wake of The Idol, The Head Priest cleanses and blesses the worship chamber, but when I ask about the chamber beneath the floors, I am met with nothing but confusion. The black slime ceases appearing from the foundations. No more funeral altars are built for missing children of the community.
Life drifts back to how it was.
Except for my dreams.
Although it's far rarer now, sometimes there are moments in the night in which I believe It—’Ymnar—to be near. The faint smell of rot, a soft pressure of a hand on my chest, the sensation of feathers brushing along my skin. In my dreams I see a thousand eyes peering at me from above—Yarich’s own mockery of the galaxies It can never return to. They stare at me in unblinking silence until I, inevitably, raise my arms to embrace them.
I don’t shy away from It anymore. I have lost the point where I end and ‘Ymnar begins. Even thousands of miles away, we are still as entangled as we were in Its memories. It shows me things, things that I will never experience again in this life, and so I welcome It back each night that It comes.
Despite my better judgment, ‘Ymnar has become my eyes, and so I remain Its heart.
Inc: Dreamwalker, Sysba, Pariah, MC.
WC: 2.8k
Warnings: Nothing of note
Summary: Dreamwalker's POV during the La Rumeur club scene
READ HERE
Excerpt Below
“You look murderous right now. It's quite sexy, actually." He turns his attention away from the one party-goer he was watching—a blonde man, trying far too hard to hit on another—and focuses on his new companion, whose painted lips are pulled into a lascivious grin. The glimmer of their jewellery makes them practically glow in the dark, and he notes that they’ve dressed in their best attire.
In turn, he raises an eyebrow with a frown. “I have no idea what you mean, Sysba. I’m merely enjoying the show around me.”
Sysba looks out onto the crowd, and he watches as their expression shifts into one of pity and amusement. “Ah, the first wave is always the most fascinating to observe. For some reason or another, they go much harder than the second or third, who usually come later in the night.”
“Perhaps they go harder because they wish to enter a state of inebriation faster, so they can therefore drown out how miserable they are with their lives.” He leans back against the booth and crosses his arms over his chest as he glances at the crowd. In his peripheral vision, he can see Sysba fixing him with a dubious stare.
“I thought you’d be actually quite happy, considering that you get to see our very special guest later on.”
hi!! i was wondering if you could elaborate a bit about sysba being on the aro spectrum–i think you've said before at some point that they're demiromantic? i was curious about how that be reflected in their route in comparison to the other ROs! have a good day <3
Yeah!
So, people who have ventured to Sysba's route may already see that Sysba tends to be a very physical kind of person (lots of touching, lots of ominous looming, etc). They experience physical/sexual attraction easily (they can appreciate a pretty person, which tends to be just about everyone to them except Sylvester) because they express themself very physically—it's how they've lived their like, extensively long life. But it terms of romantic emotions, this doesn't happen to them as often. It takes a while and a bond for them to feel that way (I think their only other bond was with Malchus which was like, a LONG time before the events of Attollo)
Sysba, thanks to their extensively messy history, also has a lot of trust issues, so this can be a bit dicey which means working for that bond. It took Dreamwalker almost a decade of working extensively with them for him to establish the closeness ("closeness" since even he still doesn't really know Sysba) they have.
So with the route, it'll be slow in terms of "romantic". Sysba's happy to spend time with others, but there won't be any declarations of 'I love you' or anything. I'm eager to write the slow evolution of Sysba and MC (especially in book 2, huhu) as the opportunity to establish that bond arises. I have a lot of plans for them I can't say, but yeah. Just know it'll be majorly physical with them, but over time one will see the easing of more genuine emotion as a bond is built.
Sysba—??? It's somethin [1.4k-ish; NSFW cont. will be on Patreon by end of the day]
Spelunking and Monsters
There is a pit within the factory.
It descends far enough down that, to the naked eye, it seems practically bottomless. When you lowered yourself down, and the platform you stood on creaked with both age and effort from disuse, you couldn’t shake the lingering fear that you were aiming for a non-existent end. It was only when your feet touched the cold dirt floor and you could look up to see the pinprick of light that was your exit did that fear morph from an end to the unknown.
And there is a tunnel within that pit.
It felt like you were walking for eons. The light of your phone—which was rapidly losing battery—barely penetrated the darkness beyond and the heat of the humid underground made your clothing stick to your skin. When you saw an orange glow reflecting on the wall ahead of you, you turned off your flashlight and watched as it flickered and varied, like a burning flame deep within the earth’s core.
And there is a chapel within that tunnel.
A door, which looked like it was carved in an era long-passed, allowed only a sparse amount of that orange light to break through the cracks. It was cold to touch—far colder than the tunnel it sat in—and when your hand grasped the steel knob, the metal burned against your skin. Twisting it had been met with no resistance, and when you pushed the door open enough to peer into the chasm, an awful, heavy silence is what you were greeted with.
And within that chapel there lies a beast.
Which is how you came to be now.
It lay before a makeshift altar of sorts, with a large window that permitted no light directly behind it. Candles lay burning on the floors and on old oil-lamp hangers, which look as though they’ve been out of use for as long as the platform you descended on. The walls are of stone and carved rock, allowing a blend of both nature and man to collide in some unrighteous abode. But it was the being—the one before the altar—which drew your attention the most.
You could see what lay before you, but for some reason, it was like your mind couldn’t comprehend its form. The mass of feathers which twitched and spasmed by the sudden burst of hot air brought by your arrival had no distinct shape, and when they parted to reveal a slitted scarlet eye that peered out at you with nothing less than contempt at your disruption, you found yourself rendered immovable from your position.
When it speaks, the voice is the only part that you come to recognize, although it sounds hoarse from their presumed slumber.
“You, again?”
“Sysba,” you breathe, the name escaping from you with a tone of relief you didn’t anticipate. The sound of feathers rustling fills the room as the great mass—wings, you realize—unfurls enough for you to see a familiar pair of black eyes.
“You’re quite a nosey one, travelling all the way down here.” They sigh—a wistful, papery sound—and an arm emerges from behind the wings. It’s pale, but their fingers are claw-like, and look as though they’ve been dipped in black ink. They beckon for you to approach. “Come closer; we aren't alone down here.”
You approach with a sense of apprehension, and as you do, one wing unfurls fully to draw you in. You try your best to ignore the scarlet eyes that continue to watch you, or how the sensation of the feathers on your body feel more like needles than anything soft. Sysba sighs again, and the sound of it overwhelms you with just how close you are now. It’s dark within their embrace, to the point that you can’t see anything at all; an experience in sensory deprivation, if you will.
“What should I do with you, now that you woke me up from my rest? We can’t just stand here in silence, after all.” The feathers move around you, and you shiver by reflex. When they speak next, their hot breath brushes against your cheek. You didn’t even realize how close you were. “And we’re past the talking stage.”
“You said there were other things down here—” your voice hitches as the feeling of something cold pressing against your cheek halts the words. You feel it warp in shape, and you realize it’s Sysba’s lips—or what you assume are their lips. Their wings pull you in closer until you feel constricted as they press a kiss against your temple. “—other things down here—”
“Mhm~?” they hum, halting your words again as they kiss the corner of your lips. You squirm and try to look behind you, to where you entered from, only to see nothing but a wall of darkness.
“You’re thinking about something else? When I'm right here?” You feel a hand that ends in clawed fingers cradle the back of your head, forcing you to look back where Sysba’s face presumably is. You feel like all sound is becoming muffled around you until only a faint ringing in your ears remains. There is no scent, no sight; only the touch of needles on your skin. Their hand slides down until it rests on the back of your neck and their fingers curl, as though attempting to choke you from behind. “I thought you came down to see me?”
“I—” protests rise, and then they fall as you’re pulled closer, as the heat of Sysba’s breath brushes against your lips and although you can’t see it, you can feel the way that they’re grinning over your reaction.
“Then you should only focus on me. There’s a price to be paid for waking me up, after all.”
You open your mouth, intending to reply, but any words you may have to offer are swallowed up as Sysba’s lips press against yours. The taste of ozone overrides your senses as they force you against them, as you feel every monstrous change that has overtaken them in their semi-transformed state. You feel as though you’re spiralling, as though your body is sinking further into the darkness that surrounds you as they kiss you with a greater urgency, with a hunger, never encountered before.
In response, you raise a hand to grasp at the nearest wing you can reach, tugging sharply on the feathers as you do so. You feel the limb shudder with your action and Sysba groans, their smile widening in response.
Then they withdraw, leaving a string of saliva connecting the two of you, which they quickly swipe away with a laugh. Your breath escapes from you in haggard pants and your mind is swirling as Sysba’s hand comes to rest on your waist, toying with the hem of your shirt as they do so. They lightly bite at your earlobe before shifting their body against yours, as though they wish to make sure any audience you may have knows who's favour you're in.
[ GUIDE ]: in the process of guiding the receiver through a crowded place, the sender’s hand protectively grazes against the small of their back. /// Vasilisia does this to MC. Pariah does this to MC. MC does this to Suha. MC does this to Sysba. Sysba on a good day is horrendously amused. In their mind's eye flash crowds hundredfold these, lying at their feet in worship, in fear, or in blood. Oh yes, little love, please protect them. On a bad day, Sysba is horrendous.
I hope you don't mind me rolling with this; you apologized for sending these, but I absolutely adored reading them all! Thank you! I decided to change things up and write from Sysba's POV for once so, dynamic???
[ GUIDE ]: in the process of guiding the receiver through a crowded place, the sender’s hand protectively grazes against the small of their back.
Memories hold like holy relics, wrapped in sheets of velvet and stowed away behind bulletproof walls. They are illuminated by a singular light that displays their form; you will never know the weight of them, the sensation of their touch, but you will observe in awe at the depth of history that they contain. Blood has been spilt for these relics; a thick viscera that turns browns to blacks and whites to scarlets.
Sometimes—when one least anticipates it—these relics are removed. Circumstances vary and are always rare, but even tarnished relics need repairs once in a blue moon.
Your touch is what serves as the catalyst for this incident. I don't think you consider it when your hand stretches behind you and your fingers wrap around my wrist like a bond, tethering the two of us together. I don't think you see the humor that I do at the notion of myself having to be guided through a crowd like a child on a leash.
Humans are always a source of humor. I don't operate with fear, but if I were to, I think I would monopolize this fear of loss that they all seem to have. Loss of materialistic items, loss of self, loss of those around them. You are oblivious to your own actions as you continue to prattle on ahead of me about this and that; something you saw today, something you heard, or something you wish to experience while we are out. In this comforting act, you remain blind to your own fear of loss that you're acting upon right now.
It is fortunate that I am in a mood to entertain today. I consider, as I examine your back and your neck, the vulnerabilities that you allow me to so easily exploit. Had no one ever taught you not to turn your back on those who seek your ruin? Did you grow up so blissfully that you never felt the heightened sense of adrenaline, that surge through your heart as your eyes skim treelines for movement that you swore you saw?
Times most certainly have changed. Years ago—so long now that the constellations were yet to be named—people like you would never have existed. Those who served as my protectors before were hardened; born of blight, forged in famine, warped by war and more devoted than the apostles themselves. I had to win their trust and love through bloodshed and delirium; with you, all I had to do was give a pretty smile and a few honeyed words.
Your hand squeezes my wrist. My lips curl into that very same smile as you look back, your eyes full of wonderous naivety to the thoughts passing my mind. You don't need to be privy to these; I quite like you like this, my humorous little human, and I would be dissatisfied were I to see that warmth you behold me with dashed away so fast.
I remove my hand from your grip, but I step closer in turn, resting it on your lower back instead. You glow with a content satisfaction at the gesture. Pretty smiles and honeyed words, I think, are a far better deal than the destruction my hands know.
