(no subject)
It begins with dust.
Fine gray powder sifts through the near-invisible crack that was created when the clay statue shifted. What starts as a trickle soon becomes a steady stream, flowing outward from the crevice to form an ash-colored drift.
Blodwen watches intently. Aside from its being a visible sign of weakness in her prison, not to mention being the first new thing she's seen in over a year, she finds that focusing on the dust soothes her pain-wracked vision. The bland gray hue of the dusty mound leaches all brightness away, dimming the light and casting a shadowy haze into the surrounding space.
A hoarse sound of relief escapes her dry throat-- and is unexpectedly met with a response.
The strange gray dune lurches, drawing itself inward and upward until it matches her height. There it remains, in one place and yet still moving, twisting around and over itself in a shapeless mass as it pitches and yaws back and forth in front of her. The constantly shifting dust is not silent, either; the powdery grains scrape against each other over and over in a droning, monotonous whisper.
Several seconds pass before Blodwen realizes with a shock that the buzzing drone has words; that the amoeba-like form is, in fact, speaking to her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"It has been a long time since I have found one such as you," it hisses. "A very, very long time." Gloating satisfaction oozes from each sibilant word.
"Obviously you haven't been looking very hard," Blodwen snaps back, nerves and temper together edging her tone like a blade. "Right here have I been, dear, and for all this time, too."
The dust-thing chuckles. "To be sure. You are still. But now... so am I."
It's the significance of that point which holds her silent as she considers it.
"Who -- what are you?"
The faceless figure leans toward her, and as it does an unseen wind stirs the dust of its shape and blankets her with the ghastly, fetid stink of charnel houses and death, of gangrene and corpse-mildew.
"I am Corruption."
Speechless, choking on the foul reek of its breath and the stench of its body, she can do nothing but listen as it continues.
"I am the rot which devours all things," it tells her. "The worm at the core of the fruit; the disease that poisons from within; the doubt which savages, the greed that consumes. I am the corrosion that erodes strength, the festering of mold and the crumbling of rust; I am putrefaction and decay. Where I exist, nothing lasts - and I am everywhere. Not even the craft of a god could bar my way for long."
She gasps in a breath, immediately wishing she hadn't.
"I know what you have been, Angharad North, Blodwen Rowlands, White Rider. It is what you are now that interests me." The figure shifts, and suddenly her own withered, gaunt face stares back at her.
"Mortal woman made immortal power, then turned mortal once more, and finally left here to decay undying," it croons, its rasping voice thick with the rancid sweetness of overripe fruit. "Your very existence calls to me like no other, and the strength of your hatred is wondrous.
I have come to bring you a gift."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In the end the offer is simple; her choice, even more so.
Soon the clay statue is left empty, its hollow eyeholes dull and dark once more.
A gray-shrouded figure stands before it and watches for some time before reaching out and touching it with a skeletal finger.
Seconds later, nothing remains where the statue once was save only a pile of dust.
Fine gray powder sifts through the near-invisible crack that was created when the clay statue shifted. What starts as a trickle soon becomes a steady stream, flowing outward from the crevice to form an ash-colored drift.
Blodwen watches intently. Aside from its being a visible sign of weakness in her prison, not to mention being the first new thing she's seen in over a year, she finds that focusing on the dust soothes her pain-wracked vision. The bland gray hue of the dusty mound leaches all brightness away, dimming the light and casting a shadowy haze into the surrounding space.
A hoarse sound of relief escapes her dry throat-- and is unexpectedly met with a response.
The strange gray dune lurches, drawing itself inward and upward until it matches her height. There it remains, in one place and yet still moving, twisting around and over itself in a shapeless mass as it pitches and yaws back and forth in front of her. The constantly shifting dust is not silent, either; the powdery grains scrape against each other over and over in a droning, monotonous whisper.
Several seconds pass before Blodwen realizes with a shock that the buzzing drone has words; that the amoeba-like form is, in fact, speaking to her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"It has been a long time since I have found one such as you," it hisses. "A very, very long time." Gloating satisfaction oozes from each sibilant word.
"Obviously you haven't been looking very hard," Blodwen snaps back, nerves and temper together edging her tone like a blade. "Right here have I been, dear, and for all this time, too."
The dust-thing chuckles. "To be sure. You are still. But now... so am I."
It's the significance of that point which holds her silent as she considers it.
"Who -- what are you?"
The faceless figure leans toward her, and as it does an unseen wind stirs the dust of its shape and blankets her with the ghastly, fetid stink of charnel houses and death, of gangrene and corpse-mildew.
"I am Corruption."
Speechless, choking on the foul reek of its breath and the stench of its body, she can do nothing but listen as it continues.
"I am the rot which devours all things," it tells her. "The worm at the core of the fruit; the disease that poisons from within; the doubt which savages, the greed that consumes. I am the corrosion that erodes strength, the festering of mold and the crumbling of rust; I am putrefaction and decay. Where I exist, nothing lasts - and I am everywhere. Not even the craft of a god could bar my way for long."
She gasps in a breath, immediately wishing she hadn't.
"I know what you have been, Angharad North, Blodwen Rowlands, White Rider. It is what you are now that interests me." The figure shifts, and suddenly her own withered, gaunt face stares back at her.
"Mortal woman made immortal power, then turned mortal once more, and finally left here to decay undying," it croons, its rasping voice thick with the rancid sweetness of overripe fruit. "Your very existence calls to me like no other, and the strength of your hatred is wondrous.
I have come to bring you a gift."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In the end the offer is simple; her choice, even more so.
Soon the clay statue is left empty, its hollow eyeholes dull and dark once more.
A gray-shrouded figure stands before it and watches for some time before reaching out and touching it with a skeletal finger.
Seconds later, nothing remains where the statue once was save only a pile of dust.