So uh, short bit of original writing below, fair warning it's extremely different from what y'all have seen from me before.
(She/her but not necessarily female Old God talks to non-gendered protagonist with body horror? Also this is open ended and I don't have current plans to continue it, it was just an experiment.)
“I have need” She says, and the skin of Her face blisters and slides. I step forward, pressing my lips as the sting of burning flesh washes over me.
She nods, Her skin stilling, then gathering up as it breaths.
“I have expired,” Her hand comes to rest upon my back, spanning the length of me and sprouting new fingers to brush across the nape of my neck. “It is time to make myself new”
I keep my eyes trained on Her throat where the blood move thick, occasionally seeping from a pore to bead on Her skin.
“Do not make that face” She tuts and Her hand blackens, growing claws to scratch deep welts down my spine. I feel the muscle pull apart and my own blood soaks the back of my robes before it all knits back together around the shredded cloth. It is not the first time I’ve become one with my clothing.
I don’t dare speak, I don’t need to. The silence in this room is only true on the face of it. A false bed of leaves hiding a grave for imprudent bones.
“You are young.” She sighs, Her voice shifting and sliding over itself with the groan of tectonic plates. “I am old, and I will be old when you die.” I suppose that’s enough.
“Tiny thing” She laughs and my bone rattle violently.
I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from cracking; only Her hand at my back to stop my knees from buckling. Her palm stretches behind me, sliding under my feet and scooping me up. She lifts me, up and up, the space between us stretching taught and snapping back as I struggle to perceive the near-fareness of it. The planes of Her face that blur with distance one moment and fall into perfect focus the next. And back again.
Her eye rolls down to meet me, sclera vast as an ocean with a pin-prick pupil jittering across it. Sometimes Her eye is a hole, deep and black. Sometimes I sleep in it. Sometimes, the iris becomes milky and it fills with salt water, spilling over and rushing down in great torrents. I would drown in it finally if She didn’t pluck me from the tide and squeeze it all from my lungs.
“You will help me to prepare.” Stern and heavy Her voice weighs upon on my shoulders. I know She thinks me foolish for the way I fret, but I cannot help what pulls around my ribs when She speaks of Her journey. “You will go into the world, and you will bring me a maiden.”
I shudder at that and She laughs again, but I know not of the world and I know not of maidens. I am lost in this when one of Her hands- now the size of my own and bearing seven thumbs- cups my cheek gently. The hand strokes up and She pushes a digit dotingly into my eye socket.
“How will I know who to chose?” I ask, weeping aqueous humor until my skin closes around Her. I welcome Her in and She wriggles obsenely inside me, tickling at the gyri of my brain. Her thumb pushes deeper and like a snake it constricts around inside my skull. I can barely think but still I understand when She replies:
“Your judgment is trusted.”
Her thumb pushes out the back of my head and then She is slithering through me, the whole unfathomable mass of Her impossibly threading through the tiny hole of my eye to spill out the other side.
So I will go into the world, and I will bring her a maiden.