[Comm] Spawn of Hell

Another dull throb radiates through the front of Lysander’s skull; the warm ache makes him clench his jaw with frustration. No amount of over the counter medications or designated attempts to lay and relax would make this strange fog over his mind sway. It was beginning to affect him more than he would like to admit. The ache, again, spreads through his mind. His mouth runs dry. His vision blurs for a moment. Lysander pulls off his glasses to allow them to hang from their chain as he rubs his face blearily. Whatever sickness this was, it would need to resolve quickly. His commitment to the church needs to be his top priority

Lysander swallows his self-pitying and regathers the books on the desk in front of him. There were numerous unlabeled boxes stored in the winding halls of the church that required tending to, and he is one of many that volunteered to assist in the reorganization. Finding old relics, unused books, sheet music, rosaries, all sorts of odds and ends that seemed important at the time. Purging the trash, contributing anything worthwhile to current church functions or donations— Lysander smirks to himself about bringing darkness to light and such similarities. 

As he opens another cardboard box, absently concluding that all the stirred dust must be contributing to his stubborn ailment, a stronger throb pulses through him. Lysander stops rigid at the voice speaking to him.

Come.

He turns to face the door, but no one is there. Anxiety begins to trickle through his hooves. Lysander goes to reach for one of his rosaries but stops short.

Come home.

The call is futile to resist. It’s as if the world pales in comparison. Church duties forgotten, Lysander drops his arms to his side and exits the room. He follows the halls to the back of the building where no other souls linger. Once outside, his body propels him through side alleys and back roads towards the outskirts he is painfully unfamiliar with.

Each stagger brings him further from home, further from the city, further from everything he knows. Lysander chokes in a gasp of air as his body carries him out of the safety of home to the darkness of the woods. Inside he is rigid, frozen with fear, his mind paralyzed with a swirl of anxiety. Why can’t he resist this? Where is he even going? What about the church? Will anyone notice his absence? 

He can feel his throat spasm with emotion, but he is unable to resist the call. Each tremble of anxiety is culled by the fog in his mind. It covers him like a blanket, soothing each worry; at least until it fights again to resurface. Lysander picks up his foot and moves forward, trudging through the unknown.

It is dark and there is no longer any light to guide him.

——— 

After some time journeying through the brush of the outer city, the trees part into a clearing with some sort of building. Lysander squints to make out the faint details of an unkempt mansion. It’s foreboding spires twist at the corners in what surely used to be an intimidating display of architecture. Perhaps decades of neglect has reduced it to something more sinister looking. A deep tug in Lysander’s chest urges him to pull out one of his rosaries, but the desire fades quickly within the fog. His hooves twitch as if crying out.

Finally at the entrance, Lysander reaches out to push open the front where it had not been fully closed. His heart thrums with anxiety but his body continues to move like a seamless machine; no matter the panic in his mind it is as if he is cycling through motions he has already done tenfold. His eyes water traitorously.

Something feels so wrong inside him. 

Lysander’s body carries him forward deeper into the mansion as the door remains swung open behind him. The further he goes the more noises and smells he begins to pick up on. He is far from alone. Inside the next room is a swarm of other buns, though none he particularly is able to recognize. Each face seems wholly unfamiliar— and for some reason, in his fogged mind, all the faces look identical. They are all one.

Lysander shuffles in an open spot amidst the other spawn mindlessly standing idle. As more squeeze in, the soft sway of their bodies pushes them to and fro like a wave. Ebbing and bobbing as the walls close in tighter and they fill in the aging halls. When one steps forward the rest follow in staggered unison, drawing in tighter. His glazed eyes drag from the dull carpet at his feet up to the front of the hall. Before the hoard is a set of dark wooden doors. A small piece in the deepest part of his mind is fighting to the surface, desperately trying to make sense of where he is going, but it is wrestled back into the fog just as quietly.

Someone in the front pushes open the doors; spawn spill through the new entry with haste, as if they already know each twist and turn of the mansion. Lysander catches a taste of something in the decaying air and lifts up his head to track it better. Something almost savory lingers around him. Other spawn seem to notice it as well, sniffing and looking around with thoughtless eyes. The more they walk the stronger the scent becomes, until every spawn feels the same tightness of desire in their chest. Their instinct to feed.

Lysander lets out a choked sigh, licking his lips idly. So hungry. Why so hungry? His mind fights through the fog again as he’s shuffled forward. The crowd in the back pushes in urging everyone to keep pace as they follow. Some spawn break off in groups through different doors, answering a different calling, while the rest carry on with their invisible string. A pained expression twitches over Lysander’s face as his consciousness struggles to surface through whatever is influencing his mind.

Each attempt to be logical results in nothing. The fog crashes over him again and again, and with the swarm of spawn surrounding him, deviating from their path is just as mentally difficult as it is physically. The longer Lysander the resides here the more he finds himself slipping deeper into a trance. There is little fight left.

A sudden pulse hits him like a shot of energy. Every spawn gasps as if struck, staggering in place or stumbling into the bun beside them. The voice in his mind echoes to all of them at once.

Capture them!

The spawn surge forward with renewed vigor, running through the hall now. The tantalizing scent from the air grows thicker the deeper they go. Lysander feels his stomach turn in on itself and his mouth floods with saliva. He feels hungry. So very hungry.

Their first offense dives forward, snarling and baring their fangs at the assailants. Lysander can’t see anyone from his position in the middle, though he can hear and smell them. A frenzy grips his heart fast. Everyone pushes faster now, fighting to disarm the intruders.

One by one the spawn begin to fall. The stakes driven into their chest breaks the connection; the spawn crumble to the floors, forgotten, as two more take their place in an instant. Lysander rushes forward through a gap and jumps over another downed spawn. This time his heart does not seize with worry. He does not spare a single glance to his fallen brethren. His frenzied eyes stay fixed on the envy bun before him.

She swings through the crowd of spawn, hitting them back and diving with stakes as she fights. Lysander’s eyes trace over the flow of her hair as it hits her neck. Soft, tanned skin hidden under the collar of her leather jacket. The twist of his hunger screams louder now, instinctual. Lysander weaves between two spawn engaged in combat to make his leap.

“Jackal, behind you!”

A voice cries out from elsewhere in the room and Lysander’s target spins on her heel to face him, face hardened and stake in hand. She side-steps in a dodge before following him down. Jackal pins Lysander as he thrashes desperately, clawing and scratching and biting at the air with a snarl, before burying her next stake into his heart.

Lysander goes still immediately, vision fading to dark. Around him the fight continues as his frozen body joins the dozens of other spawn having met their match.