A Spoonful of Memories
We walked through the twisted trees for days. At least, I think it's been days; this ersatz sun doesn't seem to follow a pattern, rising and setting randomly, in varying parts of the sky. Yet, despite this rather disorienting change, it didn't seem out of place. Much like the leaves hanging black on their branches, the erratic nature of the sun only seemed fitting. Though, there is one thing that struck me as odd.
"I'm hungry," Anya said, scanning the trees for anything that could be eaten. Ever since we started, she kept having the same urges one would have in life; hunger, sleep, and the like. I, however, did not. Instead, I only had thoughts. I should be hungry. I should be tired.
"I'll see what I can find." I still had one desire. Every time Anya needed to eat, I relished in the thought of hunting and killing for her nourishment. Originally, I wrote it off as being able to support the only other sane being I've met since coming here. But, as each meal came, I grew more and more ruthless in my hunts. The beasts I sought to slay became easier to find, suffering increasingly grizzly deaths.
After a few minutes of searching, I came across a small hut in a clearing. Like everything else, its strange architecture would seem foreign anywhere else. The strange, purple smoke billowed out from the escheresque chimney at an alarming rate. "I guess she's home," I mused to myself.
"I knew you'd be along soon," came a burgundy voice from inside of the hut, to which I unwittingly meandered. "It's been too long, Blitz." The calm and collected nature of the woman's voice seemed restricted to it; the arm that beckoned me to my seat was clad in a schizophrenic mass of rags cobbled together into a sleeve, attached to what may have been a very regal vestment at one time. Her hair was equally frazzled, appearing as though two different styles were waging war upon her head. Despite this, though, there was a strange elegance and chaotic beauty about her that, if I even began to comprehend, would shatter my mind.
"You must be the Lady Krelo."
"You must be the new Escort." She eyed me up and down. "And a handsome one at that." She buzzed around her dwelling, grabbing small bunches of herbs and tossing them into a large cauldron set over a dark blue flame that burned away in the hearth. "I hope she likes my cooking." While my curiosity was piqued about what may have been bubbling away, the acrid smell emanating from whatever stewed inside kept me from investigating further. Waitshe? Does she know about-
"There you are!" Anya said, panting, and in a state of near panic. "The moment you stepped away, I heard this horrible wailing. The next thing I know, there were these eyes, leering at me from the bushes! I think it followed me!"
"You needn't worry about that, dear," Krelo replied. "While it appears menacing, it can only harm you if you let it."
"What WAS it?"
Letting out an exacerbated sigh, Krelo sat down at the two-legged table across from me, preparing for a lengthy exposition. "That, for lack of a better term, is the embodiment of the tragic events of your past. While it can take many forms, it normally appears as a haunting figure from a terrible incident that scarred you, be it mentally, emotionally, or physically. The more traumatizing the event, the more real it appears. But, so long as you remain mindful that it is merely an apparition, it can do you no harmat least, no physical harm."
She took a moment to spin around on her stool to ladle a sampling of her concoction into two bowls, which she then tipped at each of us invitingly. "You two must be starving." Anya greedily took up the bowl, forsaking the spoon in favor of a more expedient method of consumption. I wasn't nearly as enthused.
"I'm not hungry, thank you," I said, hesitantly.
"Physically, perhaps not. But I can see it in your eyes; you're mentally drained." She pondered me for a minute, as if she was trying to come up with a diagnosis. "Maybe your sense of self is not accepting your new self as readily as it should. Have some. Your thoughts will become clearer. I guarantee it." She smiled. But there was something odd about the smile. Perhaps it was how her eyes narrowed more than they should. Or perhaps it was that, despite their narrowing, they seemed to hold that surreal calm. Or maybe it was the two pointed, fang-like teeth that hung at either end of her mouth. Whatever it was, it had me frightened.
I grabbed the spoon with a shaky hand and dipped it into the fiery orange broth before me, lifting the foul-smelling liquid to my lips. Reluctantly, I drank it in, and surprisingly, it was phenomenal. The strange mixture of otherworldly flavors blended with tastes of my childhood, creating a palatable essence that was altogether righteous yet profane, with a sense of foreign unfamiliarity I've not felt in years.
This new sensation was ephemeral, though, as my mind was immediately plunged into a searing hot light of memory, bombarding me with a blitzkrieg of ethereal thoughts and emotions that sent my mind spinning. The dizzying rush of input overwhelmed me, tossing me from flashbacks of happy birthdays and nights of merriment to images of funerals and heartache.
In a single, blinding flash, it all came crashing down upon me with what I believe to be the mental equivalent of an atomic bomb. I must have passed out from the force of it, since the next thing I recalled was picking myself off of a dusty stone floor. Wait a secondstone? Oh, no.
"It always takes you so long to find the place." It was Blitz. Standing over me in that same, condescending manner, he extended his hand to help me off the ground. Reluctant to accept more of his "help," I batted his hand away as I stood up. "Always the loner," he sneered.
I looked about his chambers, noticing that it had taken on a more sovereign appearance, while still maintaining the feeling of crushing despair; a portmanteau of forms, it seems. The sconces along the wall now illuminated sinister gargoyles whose stationary pose seemed more of a personal choice than a sculptor's decision. His demonic throne, even more elaborate than last time, now sat upon a marble dais, draped in a ritzy crimson rug, leading toward the door that had now become a set of gilded double doors. All in all, it was very posh, in a menacing kind of way.
"What the hell was in that soup?"
We walked through the twisted trees for days. At least, I think it's been days; this ersatz sun doesn't seem to follow a pattern, rising and setting randomly, in varying parts of the sky. Yet, despite this rather disorienting change, it didn't seem out of place. Much like the leaves hanging black on their branches, the erratic nature of the sun only seemed fitting. Though, there is one thing that struck me as odd.
"I'm hungry," Anya said, scanning the trees for anything that could be eaten. Ever since we started, she kept having the same urges one would have in life; hunger, sleep, and the like. I, however, did not. Instead, I only had thoughts. I should be hungry. I should be tired.
"I'll see what I can find." I still had one desire. Every time Anya needed to eat, I relished in the thought of hunting and killing for her nourishment. Originally, I wrote it off as being able to support the only other sane being I've met since coming here. But, as each meal came, I grew more and more ruthless in my hunts. The beasts I sought to slay became easier to find, suffering increasingly grizzly deaths.
After a few minutes of searching, I came across a small hut in a clearing. Like everything else, its strange architecture would seem foreign anywhere else. The strange, purple smoke billowed out from the escheresque chimney at an alarming rate. "I guess she's home," I mused to myself.
"I knew you'd be along soon," came a burgundy voice from inside of the hut, to which I unwittingly meandered. "It's been too long, Blitz." The calm and collected nature of the woman's voice seemed restricted to it; the arm that beckoned me to my seat was clad in a schizophrenic mass of rags cobbled together into a sleeve, attached to what may have been a very regal vestment at one time. Her hair was equally frazzled, appearing as though two different styles were waging war upon her head. Despite this, though, there was a strange elegance and chaotic beauty about her that, if I even began to comprehend, would shatter my mind.
"You must be the Lady Krelo."
"You must be the new Escort." She eyed me up and down. "And a handsome one at that." She buzzed around her dwelling, grabbing small bunches of herbs and tossing them into a large cauldron set over a dark blue flame that burned away in the hearth. "I hope she likes my cooking." While my curiosity was piqued about what may have been bubbling away, the acrid smell emanating from whatever stewed inside kept me from investigating further. Waitshe? Does she know about-
"There you are!" Anya said, panting, and in a state of near panic. "The moment you stepped away, I heard this horrible wailing. The next thing I know, there were these eyes, leering at me from the bushes! I think it followed me!"
"You needn't worry about that, dear," Krelo replied. "While it appears menacing, it can only harm you if you let it."
"What WAS it?"
Letting out an exacerbated sigh, Krelo sat down at the two-legged table across from me, preparing for a lengthy exposition. "That, for lack of a better term, is the embodiment of the tragic events of your past. While it can take many forms, it normally appears as a haunting figure from a terrible incident that scarred you, be it mentally, emotionally, or physically. The more traumatizing the event, the more real it appears. But, so long as you remain mindful that it is merely an apparition, it can do you no harmat least, no physical harm."
She took a moment to spin around on her stool to ladle a sampling of her concoction into two bowls, which she then tipped at each of us invitingly. "You two must be starving." Anya greedily took up the bowl, forsaking the spoon in favor of a more expedient method of consumption. I wasn't nearly as enthused.
"I'm not hungry, thank you," I said, hesitantly.
"Physically, perhaps not. But I can see it in your eyes; you're mentally drained." She pondered me for a minute, as if she was trying to come up with a diagnosis. "Maybe your sense of self is not accepting your new self as readily as it should. Have some. Your thoughts will become clearer. I guarantee it." She smiled. But there was something odd about the smile. Perhaps it was how her eyes narrowed more than they should. Or perhaps it was that, despite their narrowing, they seemed to hold that surreal calm. Or maybe it was the two pointed, fang-like teeth that hung at either end of her mouth. Whatever it was, it had me frightened.
I grabbed the spoon with a shaky hand and dipped it into the fiery orange broth before me, lifting the foul-smelling liquid to my lips. Reluctantly, I drank it in, and surprisingly, it was phenomenal. The strange mixture of otherworldly flavors blended with tastes of my childhood, creating a palatable essence that was altogether righteous yet profane, with a sense of foreign unfamiliarity I've not felt in years.
This new sensation was ephemeral, though, as my mind was immediately plunged into a searing hot light of memory, bombarding me with a blitzkrieg of ethereal thoughts and emotions that sent my mind spinning. The dizzying rush of input overwhelmed me, tossing me from flashbacks of happy birthdays and nights of merriment to images of funerals and heartache.
In a single, blinding flash, it all came crashing down upon me with what I believe to be the mental equivalent of an atomic bomb. I must have passed out from the force of it, since the next thing I recalled was picking myself off of a dusty stone floor. Wait a secondstone? Oh, no.
"It always takes you so long to find the place." It was Blitz. Standing over me in that same, condescending manner, he extended his hand to help me off the ground. Reluctant to accept more of his "help," I batted his hand away as I stood up. "Always the loner," he sneered.
I looked about his chambers, noticing that it had taken on a more sovereign appearance, while still maintaining the feeling of crushing despair; a portmanteau of forms, it seems. The sconces along the wall now illuminated sinister gargoyles whose stationary pose seemed more of a personal choice than a sculptor's decision. His demonic throne, even more elaborate than last time, now sat upon a marble dais, draped in a ritzy crimson rug, leading toward the door that had now become a set of gilded double doors. All in all, it was very posh, in a menacing kind of way.
"What the hell was in that soup?"
meow:
What would you like to know?
