tw // death mentioned throughout (but no actual death)

Life had been dark for far too long. Cold, though sweltering blackness that stretched as far as the eye could see. After billions of years, they had adjusted to the stygian emptiness, had learned to accept it; to welcome it, even. The darkness was home.

They used the term "life" very loosely. Rather, the undead, though they weren't sure that quite fit, either. They had never been alive to begin with, simply existing in the unyielding blackness of... Time.

They thought that perhaps every time they had been hauled weightlessly out of their hole in the cosmos and into a warm body might be considered a life. In which case they had already died, many, many times. Is that what life was? To live and to die? One might think that, as one of the single creations to have existed as long as life itself, they would know the answers.

They didn't.

They hated it. Life was a nuisance, and even worse was death. They hated that all living things had to succumb to something so... Empty. To their brother of all beings. If he even was a being at all.

Perhaps this is why they did not revel in the twisting, tugging sensation in their gut that accompanied a calling. If the being could sigh, they would. Instead, though with a feeling of resignation; they succumbed to the call and allowed themselves to be lifted from the vast emptiness they had once again become accustomed to.

At last, they felt the warmth of a body once more.

It wouldn't last. It never did.

Loose flesh rolled grotesquely over muscle and bone, folds of skin filling out as a new being, bigger than their last not in physicality but in divinity; manifested within the cage of... Life.

The scent of roses filled their nose, turned them dizzy. They stood, slowly, as muscle and fat seemed to melt, their new form becoming gaunt and sickly. A groan passed from parched lips as joints popped back into place, as bones rearranged inside them. Their eyes blinked open as they registered the feeling of slimy wetness seeping down their fur, flattening hair to their body. They chuckled. Rose oil was a familiar sensation, though to wake almost drowned in it every time... It was maddening.

They twisted and turned to examine their new body, deep hums rumbling from within their chest; a lion, broad and skinny with a thick, shaggy, pink mane, their pelt a lavender-grey. It would do, they decided. They quite liked it. There was a certain... charm.

That in mind, they moved from the makeshift stone "altar" at last, paws crashing down into the sand with a thump, joints crackling in protest. They payed it no mind, sauntering over to a cluster of wax candles slowly and, after a heavy beat, blew out the flame.

Finally.

graphic gore ★ genderfluid ★ 3-eyed crow

Claws perched upon the bleached bones of a mounted skull, the little black crow waited. Rituals, tricky bastards. Interfering could prevent whatever squishy flesh forming from consolidating, but where’s the fun in that?

All three eyes upon the goop, Vale watched the sickly lion form. Familiarity, almost, gleamed in vis red eyes; the ardent had suffered countless rebirths. When one endures such twisting of the flesh often enough, a laziness takes over, because flesh is flesh, bodies are fleeting and temporary, and why bother stitching together life when decay is easier?

“A ritual to summon?” Vale leaned forward, beak tilting, and narrowed the leftmost eye analytically. “Or what, what, what?”

Wings spreading wide, Vale cawed wordlessly.

“Regardless, you have entered my desert. This is a vipers’ nest of violence and scarce resources… so aptly named The Pitt, despite its flat terrain.”

All three eyes squinted. “I am Vale Aston. Doubt you’ve heard of me. Doubt I’ve heard of you.” Vis wings fidgeted—itchy itchy itchy!—and a black feather drifted down to the sand. “Doubt this whole world cares about two mayflies passing by.”

The sound of movement greets their ears. They blink, falling completely still for all of a few seconds as if they'd suddenly been frozen, before still forming muscle and flesh pulls taut over old new bones as they turn to look at the two.

It's an immediate reaction, as if a lightbulb had just appeared over their head. They don't need introductions, they know all, they see all, but they suppose it would be rude.

Their mouth curls into a charming smile, flashing pearly whites at the two, and although it's not an unkind expression it appears almost cruel on their gaunt, angular face. There's no unfriendly intention behind the smile-turned-sneer, judging from the now fully formed lion's relaxed stance.

"I suppose that's what you'd call it- A summoning ritual." their voice rumbles out at last, and it sounds deep, though young. Perhaps a young adult. They conclude that whoever's body they now inhabit, they had only recently become fully mature, perhaps only one or two months beforehand. "Whoever called me here had deemed your... Pitt, very unfortunate, I'm afraid, if you say you are already scarce on resources." They remark, a hair-raising chuckle pulled from their throat at the irony.

They turn again, acknowledging the other creature with an appraising gaze, an amused hum falling from pursed lips as they talk, the over-all friendliness of the situation allowing them to relax further, seating themselves with squared shoulders and a straight spine.

Beezlebub? Like the demon; the insect? They certainly see where the name's inspiration comes from, what with their bee-like resemblance. They choose not to comment on it. Instead, they wonder how to handle the current situation they'd been put in, and subsequently decide to introduce themselves in the mean time. Perhaps the two would give them an ultimatum to choose from themselves. "I have many names to choose from. Your majesty, Famine, The Third Horseman... I believe Marcellus will do just fine, this time around. You may call me Mark." they conclude, the new name rolling from their tongue strangely. They would get used to it. They always do. "As for the flowers, Beezle, I appreciate the offer though I'll have to decline. I doubt nectar has any nutritional value for a lion."

graphic gore ★ genderfluid ★ eyeless hyena

“Unfortunate for everyone else,” the crow corrects, as the beak quivers and falls to the sand. Blood and teeth gush as the little black bird squelches, vis tiny mass expanding and rippling, until ve is not a crow, not a rotting something-inbetween, but a greyscale hyena.

The ardent yawns, grey tongue licking the off-yellow teeth. When ve faces Famine, vis eyelids blink over eyeless sockets.

“There are other ways to impress–and to flirt!—than referencing my non-existent majesty.” Vale giggles, and the pitch is high-pitched for such a muscular form. But this is normal for hyenas, if not most social mammals. “I could even say you’ve left your Mark, since nobody’s called me such a thing! Ever! Well, probably, at some point, but who can remember all those little details.”

Vale considers winking. Let the lion know ve jested. But the decision to become eyeless, hmm, that complicates things, didn’t it? Oh well. Probably is funnier to be ambiguous, anyway, since Vale isn't unaware of how others interpreted vis lack-of-sanity. Vis choice-to-forgo-sanity, if you want to be precise, which nobody really wants to be, because otherwise nothing would get done, the enemy of perfection being good enough and all that bullshit. Right? Right, nobody needs to listen to an infodump on what makes a joke a joke!

“Well, Thirdy, enjoy settling in! The desert’s particularly hellish this time of year, so I’d be mindful of your water resources during your blooding. Might want to cut the sightseeing short during the daylight hours. ‘Specially bein’ a maned cat and all. Those things get hot! You'll never catch me dead in that fashion accessory.”