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Inattentiveness was your undoing -- in a brief, fateful moment of it, the situation transformed. The dictated job spoke of humiliating simplicity; yet clutched between stiff digits is the letter you are currently unable to deliver. Pathetic. You're a failure.
A Dersite bejeweled in sleek armor flanks the left. Another grips your right arm with injurious force. As a parcel mistress, you are deemed to require chaste defense. The dance of an apocalyptic wind scathes your bare flesh, but it's lightless -- and this grants a cooling reprieve. On Prospit, a relentless golden glare plagues your pallid dermis. Lingering burns brew the pinkish hue of your cheeks, elbows, knees, and hands.
The sinistral Dersite guides you forward with affictitious gentility. A shroud of colorful linen whispers about your body. They cross the threshold of a gilded chamber, coercing your footsteps. It's carved of caliginous obsidian and a purple stone you cannot recognize. The click of precise, glittering fingertips resounds as each stitch is removed from your body. You'll dedicate focus to a daunting escape once the discomfort subsides. For the moment, dreadful fear and mortification are profound.
Both guards are female -- this doesn't appease your dignity.
Dersite garb of a sumptuous pattern is forced upon you. The cloth is thick, yet ethereal. You do not relinquish the letter, even when one official attempts rude procuration of it. They're stronger than you, but seem relatively uninterested in the slight burden. If it beheld a threat, they would have either smelled or felt it. You're left in peace.
Their semi-civilized behavior inspires wariness, and you immediately scour the room for an exit. Each wall is an intricate relief -- beautiful stories spun into reality upon enduring stone. You hesitate. An expanse of obsidian betrays your fate.
A sacrifice.
This is why so few postmasters are permitted travel to Derse. Not by the Black Queen and King, but as decreed by their Prospitian counterparts. The prohibition is intended as protection. In bleak, dedicated confidence, you defied the rules. The letter was entrusted specifically to you by a desperate entity.
This is your purpose. Soft, dersite fabric both comforts and shames you during the continued search for a swift abdication. A slot is carved into the bolted door's lower aspect. It's large enough to pass meals, and anything of similarly minuscule height. Your body wouldn't fit, even upon dismemberment.
A flicker of black.
Did you imagine it?
No.
Another sweet apparition appears beneath the slot's sculpted frame. Fingers; probing with odd curiosity. You possess no weaponry; otherwise, the pointed digits would face harsh reprobation.
A pair of eyes then peer at you. They're not unkind, but -- wistful?
With due caution and reluctance, you shuffle forward to meet the strange Dersite. You sense he's male, and of an invigorated age. His armor is sparse -- shielding scant amounts of crucial flesh.
Malevolence is entirely absent from his demeanor, even as tapered fingers reach for yours. It's a gentle gesture; meant only to comfort. You permit the exchange, and touch your weathered palm to his, marveling at a heated contact. Dersites produce such irrealizable warmth. They're surrounded by a constant, welcoming aura. It contrasts your situation with bleak persistence. You should disrupt the moment -- end it -- but you cannot.
He begins to trace curlicues of a daring nature across your vulnerable palm. The sensation is uncomfortable; your fingers curl and interrupt his art, but he only smiles -- an expression gleaned from his eyes. It's difficult to return the kindness through despair; but you do, and he's elated.
Footsteps; and he's led away. Those torrid fingertips tickle yours in the process of parting.
You're alone in the chamber. An echo of distress issues beyond your window, and upon investigation, a companion cell is discovered. They're conjoined by a cruel spiderweb of dersite bridgework, yet the arch swoops below your cell -- hazardous in depth. The gap might be brief. It meets with a stairway leading to the alternate cubicle. Close; and far. You're near enough to gain a clear depiction of the prisoner's quarter. It's identical to yours. There must be a series of rooms resembling this one -- spanning the hills in stillness as war-ravaged corpses.
The letter is damp.
A Prospitian thrashes against the bars. His eyes are lurid, diaphanous cataracts; they falter with madness and acceptance. Carapace is splintered at his fingertips, and a pinkish pulp oozes between fragmented ivory. You imagine the subtle, wet noises -- broiling oil, or spittle on pavement. They're notes of insatiable hunger; desperation.
He appears again, your gentle Dersite -- now, in the prisoner's window-frame. His eyes meet yours. A bleak admission. Alongside another guard, he peels blood-greased hands from unmarred stone bars. The Prospitian's eyes finally focus. He sees you.
The terrified visage fades into a slick penumbra as they lead him away. He's taken where you'll soon be.
A sinister clatter rouses your attention. Sterling beholds a lovely, eerie cuisine. The tray is beautiful -- composed of shimmering curves -- as is the food. It's horribly suspicious, of course, but you're more than famished. With trepidation, you swirl a finger in the dainty soup-pot, and lap its warm remainder. Steam blankets your carapace with salty condensation. The broth is ambrosial. You reach for an accompanying whorl of Dersite pastry and discover lettering penned hastily across your tender palm. Words are distorted by perspiration at random intervals, but you're able to glean the message.
Wrapped in a cot of opulent pillows and quilt-work, you rub the letters from your flesh. The guard's simple machinations cannot be recognized and halted by another official. You're uncertain of his trustworthiness, but options are severely limited. You will assume preparation for his plan with scarce but promising hope. He's the only being you can possibly rely on.
***
Clothed in the extravagant ceremonial robe, she appears round the corner.
Incontestably radiant.
Your coworkers sidle her. As the group passes, a jibe of hushed derision is uttered from one. With rapture, you observe a subtle, angry blush suffuse her undisguised cheeks. The official glances toward you momentarily, but his attention is dilute. You're practically invisible to these citizens -- as your station is reputably impotent. It's untrue.
The job you dedicate each fraction of energy to is crucial. Without your allegiance in the approaching process, matters would quickly deteriorate. As they soon will.
Her gracious eyes meet yours and an expression of fortitude is exchanged. Your message was received.
She's led down a multitude of steps; the treacherous stairway you're ever chary of. They're polished and mirror-like beneath your scuffs. A shining silhouette of the party behind you pursues. Swift, graceful movement is harshly encouraged -- all for the eveniency of a loathsome, unjust, outrageous ritual. You cannot, in good conscience, permit its detestable design -- not this time. Too many regrets taint your memories.
Besides, she does not deserve this.
None of the sacrifices did, truly, but you detect a foreign element in her. A mysterious signal of paramount significance. She must live.
The rigid guards murmur contentiously as the wonderful Prospitian struggles. Her formerly ragged figure has transformed -- even within the span of a single reprieve. Subtle curves test attentive stitching, spinning a pattern of undeniable, but inconspicuous eroticism.
A guard falters and you seize the glorious opportunity. In your pocket is a dart-gun of unimpressive size. It's slender design belies a sinister truth. Before either official can react, you aim two spikes into brief expanses of unprotected flesh -- several spikes, rather. Your aim is flawless, certainly, yet the situation carries a unique pressure. Any officer might be expected to unwittingly dither. Eventually, the guards fall.
In a moment, her hand takes yours.
She possesses superior speed and you're forced to provide quick guidance through labyrinthine tunnels. A marvelous team is birthed.
Then smothered.
At this time, all liturgical corridors are empty in exception to the occasional, purposeful guard predictably stationed. The only officials meant to be present have been dispatched by your hand.
An enormous, brutish minion should not encounter you here, yet he does.
The Prospitian becomes tense as he swiftly approaches. That will not do. You release her hand. A context of portals lies in the alternate hallway. Your gestures are frantic. She tugs your shroud with panic and insistence; but must forfeit. The enormous thug careens forward. You push her. It's a dishonorable stratagem. In startlement, she stumbles atop the nearest dais. It will transport her to LOWAS promptly.
She turns -- accosts you with a simple expression -- and disappears. It doesn't feel right bidding her farewell in such fashion.
You don't have time to dwell upon the pervasive disappointment. A feverish, throbbing fist bludgeons your face and pain saturates each span of exposed tissue. In delirium, you reach for the dart-gun -- with monumental force, your arm is stopped and grappled. Another influx of stunning agony.
The threatening mephitis of his scalding breath dampens your lax, tingling face. It's awful, and you cannot fight. A slicing cacophony of fury laces the growl; you're hauled upward, and flipped over his forearm. There is no escape, yet you claw his mediocre carapace in bleak, listless defiance. He does not notice.
A jeering crowd meets you. The bubble will soon arrive. If tribute is not given, unfathomable horrors will befall the entirety of Derse. This is your duty.
With gummy hesitance, you behold the masses. Former comrades leer and delight at the vision of your undoing. Perhaps you weren't admired.
The philistine forces you into a rigid standing position with splayed arms and legs. If you dare motion, he'll strike your raw, wounded head. Discordant fabric is removed from your dazed frame. The witnesses hiss cruel mockeries. You don't hear their specific words as each sentiment joins the slurry of nonsensical boisterousness.
Glossy robing grants an intermission from mortification. The vestment brands you as a sacrifice, and concedes entry to certain, rogue Horrorterror domains. One such realm commences.
You watch, alongside a rapt crowd, as the viscous spectacle prepares to engulf your trembling body. Even your unwanted chaperone is uneasy -- the stiff, unnatural gait explicated as he retreats is proof. You would laugh.
It hits your paralyzed frame like a dysfunctional portal-stream -- all vacuous, frigid space and mindlessness.
***
The document is with you; it was not lost. However, you failed to deliver it. A nearly imperceptible smutch of carmine sullies one mutilated corner. You stand in the Land of Wind and Shade beneath a crystalline tree.
Finally, you realize who the letter is meant for.
***
A rocking chair cradles your body. Sweat carves a cold, biting brook down the center of your chest -- and stalks each angular rib. You pinch a fold of gossamer cloth and stroke the moisture to dryness. The garment is besmirched. A dagger of vindictive glee plagues your gut as you examine the rocking chair.
Cleaved of gladsome, pastel wood, the seat falsely resembles a nonfunctional toy. You stand, unsettled.
The bubble depicts a landscape of cadaverous, vestigial pep. You're on a veranda of wood equally plasticized to the chair. A frictionless suggestion is supplied, but not drastic. The substance is barely galvanized. Serviceable, yet unnervingly manufactured.
You breathe.
A sizzling smell tickles your senses. It's absolutely bewitching. You turn to accost a perfect blue doorway lingering upon the veranda, and leading house-ward. The knob -- a creamy mauve bauble -- does not shift beneath your persistent ministrations. Eventually, you're forced to desert the veranda. You would have tried the windows -- but trespassing is an unforgivable crime you've already partially committed. Besides that, the windows appear to be painted reliefs; entirely fraudulent.
The concept disgusts you. This world is spun of artificial intersections; notches; nooks; and acreage. It's simply awful.
A pitiful scribbling noise beckons you from the stoop. The sweet redolence also dances from beyond its steps, so you traverse willingly.
Dainty keening spans the lips of a tiny, otter-like creature. Its fur is luxurious, and rises to tiny, tight spirals of toxic orange. Though it's soft, and affectionate upon contact, you cannot help but distrust the circuitous rows of spit-spangled teeth which rise from malefic black gums. If its mood was to suddenly fluctuate, you'd surely lose several fingers.
Yet it purrs, mewls, and titters with tolerably sinister charm, and you don't retreat. It curls about your arm; a quivering flesh-pipe. Doleful, pupil-less lime eyes confront you; then it gazes forward with strict purpose. You plague its chosen path along an avenue of decorative stone cut into glutinous hearts and stars.
Surrounding the lane are indefectible processions of more cutesy mansions. As you walk, the features -- doors, windows; even shrubbery -- become artless, and morose. Gradually, the barest blot of pigment is all that remains of domestic character. The houses become dotted, smudged, crippled boxes -- featureless in exception to vague, slandered paint-work.
You hesitate, and the creature encircling your arm emits a deranged hiss which prompts
grim progression. A circle of bewildering vibrancy spatters the horizon. Upon nearer inspection, you discover the outline of a carrousel. The wonderful scent intensifies.
Death lingers here. You're certain of it; but continue forward.
The dainty monster becomes euphoric and spins about your arm lackadaisically. A singing steam welcomes you to the carrousel. Headless pigs rawly impaled upon shrill, rusted spikes rotate deliberately. Then you see it.
The Horrorterror.
Initially, it's a mere portrait -- or animated sculpture -- in the vile, embellished canvas. A grinning mask of relatable facial features. The already spectacular smirk widens to surreal proportions, revealing an odd, pimpled tongue. You cautiously retreat as the ghoul descends; materializing as gangling, divergent limbs, an insectile torso, and mirthful visage.
Elongated, inked cheeks distort as the creature's expression shifts. It gazes toward the little abomination curled around you and a glittering agony rains upon your arm. You've been bitten.
Rivulets of rude scarlet bestrew the childish stone ground. A slimy, convulsing muscle swipes your arm, and sends the spiteful creature skittering away. The Horrorterror tastes thick, greasy blood -- its organ vibrates with pleasure and you witness each pimple split to reveal familiar, uninterrupted acid irises.
They blink and spin in deep, sinewy sockets. Your arm no longer hurts, and with a greater intake of blood, the Horrorterror gains consequent beauty. Its tongue retracts. Mellow, voluptuous lips maintain their ostentatious grin. The carrousel is stilled.
"Hello."
A voice like syrupy, melted glass formally greets you.
It's only polite to nod in response.
"You're delicious, and I'd love to keep you -- however..."
The Horrorterror reclines against a pig. Its limbs have become proportionate; curvaceous.
"Your recent sacrifice is bitter. I don't care for selfless hardship. In addition to that, you deserve to live a little longer. Don't you?"
It's not a question you're expected to answer.
"So. I have a proposition for you, Small Creature."
You step forward with slow, blatant dedication.
"Stay one week, and I'll permit you to leave. However, that's only if you're able to traverse the barrier with your own two feet."
It awaits your answer. Inside your skull a throbbing illness of thought festers. There must be an underlying deceit -- subtle trickery. You examine the creature's words internally. Of course you're willing to abdicate the bubble upon your own two feet -- how else should it be done?
You deftly bow in acceptance of the bargain. A carnivorous expression graces the Horrorterror's poignant features.
"Lovely."
It makes forward vestige and grants the carrousel a vast arena. You watch, in beastly enchantment, as the world's illusions dissipate. Lavish with your blood, the cobblestones transform rapidly; oscillating beneath startled feet. Vanished have the stars, hearts, and toyish flowers, and in their place are compacted frames of insectile wings. Weathered ashen; they churn heady dust in sequence of your frantic footsteps.
The carrousel is a greasy, glaring nightmare -- fevered with smears of sizzling blood. Human blood -- the blood of God-Children. In lieu of pigs, headless, contorted fetuses throb and twirl in an alabandical promenade. The cranial voids regard you with invisible disfavor, and distressed dejection. Glittering pikes shudder and slam outward; becoming the splayed arms of a grotesque star. Tiny bones are crushed as pulpy organs split; spilling bile and pus. Weak, youthful legs spasm with agony and are then still. Your sacrificial garment is drenched in gobs of fetid plasma. The resulting stench is oppressive.
In the ruined carrousel's center-most spiral lies a bleak chasm. It's an unlit tunnel. You're beckoned to descend by the merry specter. Juiced baby-hearts squelch between your armored toes. You wish, desperately, to abandon this pursuit. How finality must have felt for those preserved child-corpses, you cannot imagine. The bleak injustice tweaks taut fibers within your pattering heart.
"Take my hand." That dark, saccharine voice.
Its command explicates your anti-desire. You would decline, yet fear prohibits the defiance. The flesh -- decidedly velveteen and warm -- seduces calm from inside you. Terror melts into abhorrent submission; true relaxation, and you witlessly relinquish control.
In the carrousel's bowels is displayed an impossible banquet. Divine music beguiles your senses and imbues an atmosphere of unrivaled lavishness. Voices ferment the air; stewing a hypnotic molasses. Horrorterrors of exquisite design populate the amphitheater in various states of recumbency. The precious orange otters gambol about, appealing to their masters' whims.
You're marshaled to a seat at the bountiful table. The Horrorterror -- yours, specifically -- rests in a parallel settee. It stares; and waits.
"Well, go ahead. I know you're hungry. I know everything about you. Go on. Eat. Cooperate."
The words bear unsettling emphasis, yet carry no malevolence. You're easily convinced, or perhaps bewitched, to consume -- devour. Vibrant fare mottles your worn talons. Eventually, the bits of carapace rupture and become prostrate. You allow them to fall beneath the opulent buffet.
Magnificent flavors tantalize your palate as the music concocts a dazed imperative in which to rest. The Horrorterrors gossip and cackle. You guide does not join them. It simply watches you transform.
The ceremonial garment cinches, deviates, and bursts. You clutch the remains with unprotected fingers. It's difficult to control the joints beneath thick rings of porcine flesh. The silken fabric slips and you're exposed. A chaffing, collective murmur resounds; haunts you. Humiliation is vague, distant. Your mind still lingers in a cloying realm. The ghoul steps beside you. An opalescent berry is clutched between delicate, frayed digits. It's pressed to your mouth -- electric instinct halts compliance. Your jaw tenses. Carnivorous dentition forms a barricade.
A whisper teases one auricular whorl with the lovely Prospitian's implication.
"Please."
Your teeth part. The berry tastes like milk.
A bizarre countenance permeates the abomination's features. It takes your hand -- the one hovering in perplexity -- and forces you to rise. The process is labored; careful.
Staggering, globular flesh looms, then swells forward to droop across gelatinous, conical thighs. As you walk, burdensome curves jounce with dictatorial rhythm. The plush modulation sways your balance, but you're deftly supported. Incredible strength is an aspect the Horrorterror might claim. In this instance, you're glad for it -- appreciative. Grateful.
This is wrong. Your emotions are wrong.
Softly draped and ample cheeks supply resistance as you madly denote the situation. The fiend settles you upon a rounded chaise conceived of copious pillows. Your own seat morphs and billows outward, further cushioning the enslaved mass.
"The upper-world is for children. This hall of delights, however, belongs to us; beings of sophisticated persuasion. You're our guest for one week, remember." Its breath stirs a sweet mist.
"Though time means nothing to me, I posit you better understand your unique circumstances now?"
You nod, creating complex divots in ample curvature. Hope is blemished as a sparse flame in harrowing winds. Still, it's not abandoned. You think of the Prospitian lady. She held a letter, and would not release it despite her grim destination. Even as you forced her to the dais, she clutched that scant document with beautiful resolution. You remember her face -- the deep-set, somber eyes.
Nights are an abstract concept, as they are on Derse. You record them in a fiery crescent conjured by the carrousel's suspended wound. Light fades, illuminating the cruel shape; then bleeds rosy and blackens.
The second night is a dizzying repetition. Initially, compliance is drawn and obtained. Then, in the unaware hallow of anesthetized indulgence, you fight. Two specters feed you. A rupture in their predictable harmony startles them into terrifyingly brief docility. In that lapse, you manage to stand partially, testing imprisoned bones and musculature. The strength such minuscule movement requires is affecting.
You never again hesitate to struggle; and with weight grows tenacity, durability.
Your Horrorterror is distinguishable from the rest by an intensified radiance. As you expand, its beauty blossoms. A face of intricate, painted porcelain plagues you as it lingers close. Scalding breath entrances you as it entwines with the scent of tender, exotic butchery. No snatch of carapace withstands your augmentation. Toes and fingers spread, succumbing to lascivious complaisance. Your hands are ineffective as instruments of precision; bound as they are by swollen surplus.
The fifth night is a convoy of monument. In application to standards raised by Horrorterrors, you might be entirely quiescent -- anchored by an orbicular divan of trembling excess. Your girth is blatantly mocked and admired by the vociferous ghouls. They stroke the profound fat of your voluptuous legs; lolling belly; and cumbrous arms.
"This is the archway that will grant you reprieve." The creature dictates with uninhibited derision upon an encroaching seventh night.
A platinum lattice has materialized three paces from you. A trifling distance. You can conquer it.
"I am doubtless of your permanent commitment to me."
Yet its confidence wavers even as you twitch; struggling to shift beneath your obscene, amorphous mass.
The crescent begins to illume.
You never stopped fighting. Not once, in several cycles. The amassed stability rivals your impressive physique. With meticulous effort, you rise. A thick blanket of full, unwieldy adipose dominates your unchaste stance. Cascades of flesh pendulate; the motion unsteadies you.
One step.
The Horrorterrors watch in awe as you arrange the varying densities of surrounding luxuriance. The enormous crest of your abdomen obscures each leg as it wavers. Your gait has become instinctual; compelling.
A second step.
Cacophonous gales of unhappy astonishment sweep the hall. You can feel the wrathful glower of your patron Horrorterror. Every nook of your body quivers with the inspiring range. The pout of your lips must alter prior virtues. You wonder how your face has changed. Will you recognize your reflection?
Hope sculpts the future; the third step.
You confront the horrorterror's gaze. It is no longer beautiful.
The archway radiates a vivid turquoise.
You're free.
***
The Land of Wind and Shade evokes nostalgia -- as though you've been absent nearly an entire lifespan.
Buoyant yellow ensnares your peripheral vision as Salamanders amble about their sordid affairs. You smell pure, stygian oil, and moist mushrooms. They're barely visible beyond your expanse. However, it is evident your immense weight has slightly lessened. It is a simpler task to meander, and you do, until a conspicuous stone flanking the river is perceptible.
Upon it sits a lone Prospitian.
You join her.
The oil-creek splashes tiny, effervescent rocks near its shore. Her hand touches yours with a tremor so subtle it might be imagined. Protected within her alternate fingers is a letter.
In the morning's gentle march, she delivers it to you.