Mar 4, 2023
Ex Anima - Bôl' Hôr
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Ex Anima - Bôl' Hôr
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Ex anima
Ex anima : une chronique de Chiara Darati !
Ex anima au Théâtre zingaro…l’ambiance est chaleureuse, bruyante, populaire. J’ai la sensation d’être échappée à la ville pour arriver dans un abri magique. Tout semble un rituel…même l’entrée : nous sommes appelés par un personnage énigmatique. Il y a des bougies par tout.
Après un instant de noir le spectacle commence et c’est une suite de tableaux poétiques où on voit des chevaux…
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Pliaga by Ex Anima
letters from condemned worlds track xxi
Unedited excerpt from a fic I'm working on...
TW: some description of gore--it's Naruto. Of course there's blood. This is basically a nightmare sequence anyway.
~animarune
It’s hard to say which is worse for Michiko: the fact that she knows she’s dreaming, that she’s apparently succumbed to the poison’s spread in her body enough to actually pass out, or that she’s dreaming of this at all.
The landscape is falling to pieces beneath her feet, the sky is bleeding thick, dark, viscous—the trees and the ruined stone buildings roiling in swirled colours the way only dreams can put sense to. And over and beneath and seeping oozing beating through the cracks of this universe booms a dark, distorted laughter while Michiko struggles to keep her footing.
It’s mocking her and she hates it but it’s all she can do not to spew the bile clogging her throat as she falls to her knees and she can’t breathe she can’t breathe. Gagging, Michiko clutches her neck, gasping for air and the stench of blood floods her nostrils until she’s coughing again. There’s not enough air. Not enough and too much.
Her gasping cries create a harmonic cacophony with the disembodied laughter; she’s choking on something, something large though she hasn’t eaten in what feels like forever.
This is why I give my dreams for your consumption, she spares a thought for the laughing monster in her head, but it’s only half-formed, barely subvocalized at all before she’s coughing again. Vomiting. Blood dribbles from cracked lips down her chin, droplets coalescing upon the distorted earth between her hands. She’s struggling for breath and her lungs sound wet and her throat-her throat!-her throat is clogged with something thick, something warm, something pulsing.
The laughter halts abruptly. The only sounds are the screaming wind and growling earthquake and Michiko’s retching.
Finally the voice hums, something like vile amusement in the tone as words spoken become written scratchily into the air around the girl.
"It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here," it says, so many voices in one that the message is nearly incomprehensible.
Michiko is, unfortunately, used to deciphering such things.
"How do you* like the redecorations?" it continues, blithely ignoring the fact that its addressee is currently incapable of responding. [*teme, omaera, etc.]
Michiko is also sadly used to the rudely informal speech.
A gruesome figure blurs into shape beside her, shadow looming over Michiko condescendingly. She refuses to look, instead concentrating on calming her gag reflex and diaphragm. That pulsing something remains stubbornly lodged in her throat.
"What is happening to me, Baku-san?" she croaks quietly to her companion.
"What goes in, must come out," it replies vaguely. Sharp teeth flash menacingly in her peripheral vision. Still, Michiko refuses to turn.
"What have I eaten that wants to return, then?" demands the girl.
That booming laugh cracks like lightning over her vulnerable frame and Michiko’s jolted back into retching.
"Oh, darling Michi-chi, don’t you remember?" it coos. Claws scrape through her hair and over her exposed neck in a parody of comfort. “‘A weapon with a conscience is unreliable,’ you said, no? Just as is a dream-eater who dreams. It seems you’ve begun to fail in both areas."
The presence fades before the message is completed, and by the final sentence, Michiko has managed to expel the stressor of her attack.
Air whistles through her teeth as she greedily sucks down huge gulps of air. The green of her eyes is sharper against the suffocated shadows now beneath them. Unfocused. Uncomprehending. Staring down at the pulsing object between her hands.
Oblong, fleshy, damaged…covered in congealed blood but still, still beating…
…Michiko’s heart.
