Creatures--creations--these things-without-a-name, servants born from the darkness, they are d y i n g, the god can feel it in their bones. Each one is a link, each one attached to the deity’s very soul, a thread that has been cut two nights in a row. This time, this night, not so, not so. There will be
Dark, swift hands pull at the darkness that pools at their feet--though they are scarcely a yearling, creation comes as easily as breathing--and from the black smoke, their hands molded a body. It is small, delicate. They bring their hand to their mouth and exhale, and upon blackened fingertips catches a small, white light. It floats and flickers--perhaps smoke, perhaps a flame. It is the essence of life, derived from their very soul. They bring it to the head of their new creation, and it vanishes instantly upon contact. Born to die, a rabbit’s skull rises from beneath the blackness, a stark white in sharp relief, and the small creature moves. Its god and master embraces it, holds it gently, almost tenderly, as its head darts around in comprehension of its new world. It lives, and it understands. It has a job to do.
The moment its small legs touch the ground, it takes off running, the deity thundering not far behind.
As they approach the troublesome mind, the god falls back. They hover on the edge of consciousness, presence hidden as best it can be, merely a black smear on the horizon, little more than a source of unease for the chosen dreamer. They wait, and they watch.
Their rabbit, however, walks boldly forward. It is quick; it is ready, or so it thinks. It can smell w e a k n e s s in the air, the stench of a dreamer ripe for a nightmare. There is regret; there is grief; there is fear; there is the scent of a woman who fears she never connected enough with her freshly dead daughter. The rabbit’s form shifts and twists; it bellows and and expands until it has become that little girl. The replica is near exact; the only difference on this plane that marks the creature for what it is is the eyes: instead of soft brown irises, it has oilslick orbs that fill its head, pustules of darkness. While it sees Mordecai, it dismisses him out of hand, assuming he’s not of this plane, and advances on the dreamer. A wide grin splits its face, all teeth and gums. It is confident that this will be e a s y.
