SLEEPWALKER // storage & testing

[rakue]

hey look another half-written post
i think this was for a religious character fleeing from his cult? i wouldn't mind picking him up again tbh
i really love my over the top writing in this ngl

Spoiler:

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BloodClan was certainly... different. Different did not mean "bad", nessecarily. But it was not better. It was close to a culture shock adapting to the different lifestyle, nevermind the sand that settled like cement within his lungs. They all answered to one Leader, a concept implanted in almost every group Anachronism knew of: they held themselves as powerful and strong. As in control, when they were just as weak and mortal as those that followed them. Barbara Fawkes was no different. But she had a lightheartedness to her that Anachronism had not seen before, if it could even be named such. ​He would not quite dub it lack of care, nor lack of responsibility- maybe it was lack of fear? BloodClan was considerably more barbaric than the inseparable clique Anachronism had been raised in. In contrast, it was also more emotional. Was it the rampant, unchecked emotions that led to such extremism? The deep-seated need, the primal desire, to outshine the competition in even the smallest of matters. This had been subverted in the cult: most everyone received the same rights. The same privileges. The same punishments. The silver pentagram felt heavy against his chest, the chain scraping against his skin with each thought of his former residence. It was no longer fitting to call it "home". That was to imply Anachronism had ever considered it a home. There was a saying passed between the overly optimistic and weak-willed that "home is where the heart is". Anachronism had a heart: one of flesh and blood, one susceptible to knives and daggers. His heart was something he guarded intensely, after it was nearly ripped still beating from his ribcage. Emotions were not tied to heart. Strengths and weaknesses could not be blamed on a tight bundle of muscles. Happiness was not tied to its rhythmic beating, nor could shortcomings be faulted on its gaping veins. Unsightly actions, alongside the buzz of jubilation, ran deeper than just flesh. Connected to the very essence of someone, ingrained in an eternal form. Held within the hands of a higher power, guiding their actions and correcting their missteps.

Anachronism could not hide behind his God forever. His holy actions were overshadowed by what had become genocide, blinded to the suffering of the selected martyrs by pride. Dutifully ignoring the fact he was little more than a pawn