![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Pain [Open]
Jun. 26th, 2014 07:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnomnom_feels[CW: Torture; NPC death]
Everything is pain. It overloads his body's systems until it is the only thing coming from any of his sensory organs, until so much of his brain is overloaded with the signals that his mind buzzes, thoughts running in erratic circuits. There is no room for thought or solutions, though he'd known since a couple Daughters of Paline caught him that there would be no way out, not until they got bored of him and perhaps not even then.
Demons do have such robust senses of humor.
Even when he could think clearly he wasn't able to entirely convince himself that keeping them busy with a toy they can't permanently break is a hit worth taking for the mortals they would otherwise harass…or that torture for the sake of torture was truly their end goal, though it seemed likely enough. Now, though, there is no attempt to rationalize. There is not even dogged endurance against torture. He is alive because he cannot be other than alive, here because he cannot be other than here. It will end when his torturers tire of it, or it will not end at all.
His body lets out a long, low moan as strong hands grip his flayed, burned arms and haul him upright. How long has it been since he fed? The few brain cells not occupied with his body's pointless attempts to shut itself down spark with the need to fill the void that has grown inside him. He opens his remaining eye to meet the gaze of his current tormentor.
"It's time," she decides, but the words are meaningless to him. "There's someone I'd like you to meet," she chuckles, "A little bird told me peregrines can become archons again. Wouldn't you like that? All you have to do is eat him before he eats you. And if it doesn't work, well, at least it'll be fun."
Blood bubbles out from between his lips as he opens his mouth to reply, and she lets him drop, apparently losing interest. "I'll be back, babycakes, don't go anywhere."
Blowing a kiss at him, she turns to depart. Rashad watches her go, his breathing ragged. She's broken two more of his bones this time, and nothing is healing. It won't heal until he can feed, and wherever they've taken him, it's far away from any mortals -- from their joy, their laughter…their fear….
He does't realize he's drooling until he gives a convulsive jerk as if to leap to his shattered feet and seek out the sustenance he needs. The pain remains, but it is old pain now, a constant he can start to set aside again. The hunger he can't ignore, though, and thoughts that should be going toward escape instead circle back to needy visions of lovers and of riots. Darkness begins to set in again along with shock, consciousness slipping away from him.
And then, a scream and the sound of running. It's not the sound that awakens him, nor the sudden freshness of the air. It's fear. Nearby, coming nearer, yes, a human full to the brim with fright and pity. His eye snaps open to see a man dropping to his knees, reaching with trembling hands for Rashad's torn body. There's no thought, no moment of consideration or of remembering that the being above him is fragile and precious. There is only sensing the source of emotion and immediately drawing it into himself, taking everything the man who came to help him can give and more. The mortal's body collapses to the pavement beside him as Rashad's own begins knitting itself back together and as he breaks into racking sobs. It's like drinking from an oasis in the desert only to be filled with acid. His body is healing but the pain is infinitely worse now that he processes it as cause for fear. That's when he remembers the man, too, and he turns his head to look at his would-be rescuer, his turn now to tremble and reach for the other.
"Please," he gasps. "Please, no."
It's too late now, too late again. The man's body is still, an emptied vessel. Rashad turns his face to the pavement and weeps with the man's pity for him, now his pity for the man. It's already fading away, though, the damage to his body too extensive to allow him to do anything with the energy but heal some of the hurt. His breathing slows as fear and sadness fade. He's still hungry, so hungry, but some semblance of rationality is back now. He looks at the dead man again, this time impassively assessing the extent of the damage he's done before flicking his gaze up and around. Trees. Sky. Paved walkway.
More mortals coming.
He drags himself first to his hands and knees, then to his feet. It doesn't quite register that he's as conspicuous now as he's ever been in his life, drenched as he is in his own blood. He wavers a moment, imagining himself turning toward the sound of approaching people and taking them as well, but then lurches away instead into the trees. In his malfunctioning mind it seems reasonable to suppose he can get out of sight and not be found.
Everything is pain. It overloads his body's systems until it is the only thing coming from any of his sensory organs, until so much of his brain is overloaded with the signals that his mind buzzes, thoughts running in erratic circuits. There is no room for thought or solutions, though he'd known since a couple Daughters of Paline caught him that there would be no way out, not until they got bored of him and perhaps not even then.
Demons do have such robust senses of humor.
Even when he could think clearly he wasn't able to entirely convince himself that keeping them busy with a toy they can't permanently break is a hit worth taking for the mortals they would otherwise harass…or that torture for the sake of torture was truly their end goal, though it seemed likely enough. Now, though, there is no attempt to rationalize. There is not even dogged endurance against torture. He is alive because he cannot be other than alive, here because he cannot be other than here. It will end when his torturers tire of it, or it will not end at all.
His body lets out a long, low moan as strong hands grip his flayed, burned arms and haul him upright. How long has it been since he fed? The few brain cells not occupied with his body's pointless attempts to shut itself down spark with the need to fill the void that has grown inside him. He opens his remaining eye to meet the gaze of his current tormentor.
"It's time," she decides, but the words are meaningless to him. "There's someone I'd like you to meet," she chuckles, "A little bird told me peregrines can become archons again. Wouldn't you like that? All you have to do is eat him before he eats you. And if it doesn't work, well, at least it'll be fun."
Blood bubbles out from between his lips as he opens his mouth to reply, and she lets him drop, apparently losing interest. "I'll be back, babycakes, don't go anywhere."
Blowing a kiss at him, she turns to depart. Rashad watches her go, his breathing ragged. She's broken two more of his bones this time, and nothing is healing. It won't heal until he can feed, and wherever they've taken him, it's far away from any mortals -- from their joy, their laughter…their fear….
He does't realize he's drooling until he gives a convulsive jerk as if to leap to his shattered feet and seek out the sustenance he needs. The pain remains, but it is old pain now, a constant he can start to set aside again. The hunger he can't ignore, though, and thoughts that should be going toward escape instead circle back to needy visions of lovers and of riots. Darkness begins to set in again along with shock, consciousness slipping away from him.
And then, a scream and the sound of running. It's not the sound that awakens him, nor the sudden freshness of the air. It's fear. Nearby, coming nearer, yes, a human full to the brim with fright and pity. His eye snaps open to see a man dropping to his knees, reaching with trembling hands for Rashad's torn body. There's no thought, no moment of consideration or of remembering that the being above him is fragile and precious. There is only sensing the source of emotion and immediately drawing it into himself, taking everything the man who came to help him can give and more. The mortal's body collapses to the pavement beside him as Rashad's own begins knitting itself back together and as he breaks into racking sobs. It's like drinking from an oasis in the desert only to be filled with acid. His body is healing but the pain is infinitely worse now that he processes it as cause for fear. That's when he remembers the man, too, and he turns his head to look at his would-be rescuer, his turn now to tremble and reach for the other.
"Please," he gasps. "Please, no."
It's too late now, too late again. The man's body is still, an emptied vessel. Rashad turns his face to the pavement and weeps with the man's pity for him, now his pity for the man. It's already fading away, though, the damage to his body too extensive to allow him to do anything with the energy but heal some of the hurt. His breathing slows as fear and sadness fade. He's still hungry, so hungry, but some semblance of rationality is back now. He looks at the dead man again, this time impassively assessing the extent of the damage he's done before flicking his gaze up and around. Trees. Sky. Paved walkway.
More mortals coming.
He drags himself first to his hands and knees, then to his feet. It doesn't quite register that he's as conspicuous now as he's ever been in his life, drenched as he is in his own blood. He wavers a moment, imagining himself turning toward the sound of approaching people and taking them as well, but then lurches away instead into the trees. In his malfunctioning mind it seems reasonable to suppose he can get out of sight and not be found.
