And they said “again”. Immortal, Immutable, Infinite. The whispers never stop, not for rest and not for war. Sometimes they whisper, a restful buzz when you sleep but when you awake once again they clamor with a fervor, asking for that which you cannot give. Not even those closest can grant peace and quiet, merely standing as a distraction from the unending tide of eternity.
Blood for the blood god, they whisper, Blood for the one who never dies. You mirror their calls, never having figured out, are you the blood god they speak of? or are they a blessing (curse) of some higher being? The voices never answer either way, so you let it lapse, perhaps fearful, perhaps uncaring of the answers unforthcoming. It matters not in the end, you are the strongest because that is all they will allow.
You find likeminded individuals; such as your winged partner, a steadfast friend through thick and thin; A steely woman with pink hair who smells softly of musty books, bread and pastries under the thick scent of ash; and a tall youth in the wrong place at the right time (or perhaps the wrong time, you aren’t quite sure yet). Together you found a syndicate, a place to be equals if not in raw strength then in status by the table. It is a release in some small way, to show off to the voices, to your allies. The voices whisper in awe, whispering about you (to you?). Your dedication, your allies, they whisper of those who have passed and those who have yet to pass. It is a strange sort of calm from the constant baying for blood but you will not refuse the peace. You are sure they will soon ask again however, the voices never unified but for one request. Blood for their amusement. Blood from you, from yours, from those around you. You who has sent thousands of souls to the void, for their first or second or final deaths. You who have slain gods and men alike, unceasing, unending blood. For now your blade is is gleaming softly, free from the sweet copper tinge of those around you. You know it wont last. Violence is the only answer to the silent question of the unrelenting voices, the only answer to the unasked question.
Perhaps though, this time they will be kind. Perhaps, for a while, you can be more than just a blade, The Blade. Perhaps, this time you think, you can trust.
And still they whisper, the silent thousand eyed watchers, content in their knowing... The wheel will spin and again we will be fed.
