Hanging in a limp state of amniotic stupidity, Raid's body curled instinctively into the fetal position as his mind drifted away. Arms folded over his legs, he couldn't feel the warm, sticky fluid that encompassed the entirety his naked body. Scars of epochs long gone pockmarked his flesh like little rivers and deltas. His body looked as if it had become nothing more than a fresco for the wounds of the past, painted on by whatever enemies and abusers had managed to get a fair shot at him. A halo of crimson hair radiated from his head, undulating with the dead current of his grotto like it was part of the liquid itself. Thirty thousand liters of the viscous substance presently entrapped him in the womb of the sepulcher, held him in fluid suspension that allowed him to slumber like nowhere else on the planet. Halfway between the realm of Morpheus and reality, the slumbering lord of the Ironskull Horde dreamed.
Etched in perfect grayscale, the alleyways and recesses of his sacred mind were explored. From an observer's point of view, he watched every single moment of his life with wonderful clarity, analyzing and inspecting as if he expected to draw something from the review of the rest of his life. The looming epiphany did not dawn on him, however, from gazing upon the foundation material that made him what he was. No number of alleyway beatings, or holocausts, or genocides, or gods, or vendettas would resolve his introspection. Resigning such meditation for another time, he instead focused his mind onto the present.
Twitching and pulsing like an insect, Raid didn't feel his body start to rebel. Without even realizing it, his arm flung quite suddenly to the left, floating in absentia even though his eyes remained shut. Stuck in a trance he could not quite find his way out of, the pool of cyan water he slept in shuddered once before quieting itself. A nearby tree shook a few leaves loose, but that was the end of all the activity in that particular instant. Fronds at the bottom of the lake gently flowed back and forth, just as fluid as the rest of the environment.
The cerebrate now looked through the eyes of his supplicants. Each one had, once upon a time, been a human being with its own free will. Sympathy, though an emotion that had at times evoked great wellsprings of power within him, refused to find its way to him. Thousands of souls, shackled. Chained to the bones that had once held their bodies together. The firmament of the body, taking Raid's every order and carrying it out to the letter. They were constructed, atom by atom, to serve him, and the scarlet luminescence that pumped through their marrow like oh so much blood was Raid's to command. With but a thought, he could end them. Perhaps this was where the answers lay. With one person in charge of all, there was no conflict. With one God, there was no war. A part of him told him that this was not the path to enlightenment which he sought.
Trembling from some internal strife, his body underwent one massive seizure, his head throwing itself forward so quickly that it would not be surprising for him to get whiplash. Scars began to fester and bleed, as if their wounds were fresh. Filthy sap leaked into the lake, staining the azure water around him with a cloud of sanguine murk. Parting his lips as if giving an oration, his eyes remained closed even as the wounds burned off of him in a glorious purgation. Such trials meant little to the sleeping abnormality.
In the end, mused the ancient life-form, it was not about maintaining peace or world domination. In such realities, there was no strife. No motive. No emotion. Raid had to be the man to keep the wars running, to keep the men dying, to keep the beautiful chaos churning and rolling. There was no great solution. No great plan. There was only death. He would sew it, reap it, birth it. He would raise death from the ground up, plant death in every waking being, dance with death in the early hours of the morning and rest with it in the sighing hours of the night. He would ferment death and please death and ripen death and serve only death.
And when death grew too strong, he would serve life.
Keep the cycle of violence going.
Burn the world and rebuild it and burn it again.
Play God.
Kill. Rape.
ASCEND
Eyes wide with the tantric pleasure of the moment, the entire grotto quaked as the rebirth ended. A few black crows soared away from the branches of the lone acacia, running for their life. Globes of gold-bronze stared at the empty, bloody lake around them. No scars remained on the freshly minted flesh. Purity of body. Filthiness of soul. Floating up like a bubble of air, Raid broke the surface membrane of the water and gasped despite the futility of the motion. As he left the warm embrace of the Mother water, he didn't turn around to watch the entire lake slowly change to a dull, rust-red color. Instead, he watched the water drops on his toned body slowly convert to the scarlet fluid that filled the grotto behind him. Bringing his hand to his lip, he took a taste.
Metallic tang.
Not even in this spectacular display of power did he find any overt pleasure. He was a new man.
As the moon dawned over the bloody mirror and thousands of small fires lit the black sky, Raid set out for home. Things would be different.
Etched in perfect grayscale, the alleyways and recesses of his sacred mind were explored. From an observer's point of view, he watched every single moment of his life with wonderful clarity, analyzing and inspecting as if he expected to draw something from the review of the rest of his life. The looming epiphany did not dawn on him, however, from gazing upon the foundation material that made him what he was. No number of alleyway beatings, or holocausts, or genocides, or gods, or vendettas would resolve his introspection. Resigning such meditation for another time, he instead focused his mind onto the present.
Twitching and pulsing like an insect, Raid didn't feel his body start to rebel. Without even realizing it, his arm flung quite suddenly to the left, floating in absentia even though his eyes remained shut. Stuck in a trance he could not quite find his way out of, the pool of cyan water he slept in shuddered once before quieting itself. A nearby tree shook a few leaves loose, but that was the end of all the activity in that particular instant. Fronds at the bottom of the lake gently flowed back and forth, just as fluid as the rest of the environment.
The cerebrate now looked through the eyes of his supplicants. Each one had, once upon a time, been a human being with its own free will. Sympathy, though an emotion that had at times evoked great wellsprings of power within him, refused to find its way to him. Thousands of souls, shackled. Chained to the bones that had once held their bodies together. The firmament of the body, taking Raid's every order and carrying it out to the letter. They were constructed, atom by atom, to serve him, and the scarlet luminescence that pumped through their marrow like oh so much blood was Raid's to command. With but a thought, he could end them. Perhaps this was where the answers lay. With one person in charge of all, there was no conflict. With one God, there was no war. A part of him told him that this was not the path to enlightenment which he sought.
Trembling from some internal strife, his body underwent one massive seizure, his head throwing itself forward so quickly that it would not be surprising for him to get whiplash. Scars began to fester and bleed, as if their wounds were fresh. Filthy sap leaked into the lake, staining the azure water around him with a cloud of sanguine murk. Parting his lips as if giving an oration, his eyes remained closed even as the wounds burned off of him in a glorious purgation. Such trials meant little to the sleeping abnormality.
In the end, mused the ancient life-form, it was not about maintaining peace or world domination. In such realities, there was no strife. No motive. No emotion. Raid had to be the man to keep the wars running, to keep the men dying, to keep the beautiful chaos churning and rolling. There was no great solution. No great plan. There was only death. He would sew it, reap it, birth it. He would raise death from the ground up, plant death in every waking being, dance with death in the early hours of the morning and rest with it in the sighing hours of the night. He would ferment death and please death and ripen death and serve only death.
And when death grew too strong, he would serve life.
Keep the cycle of violence going.
Burn the world and rebuild it and burn it again.
Play God.
Kill. Rape.
ASCEND
Eyes wide with the tantric pleasure of the moment, the entire grotto quaked as the rebirth ended. A few black crows soared away from the branches of the lone acacia, running for their life. Globes of gold-bronze stared at the empty, bloody lake around them. No scars remained on the freshly minted flesh. Purity of body. Filthiness of soul. Floating up like a bubble of air, Raid broke the surface membrane of the water and gasped despite the futility of the motion. As he left the warm embrace of the Mother water, he didn't turn around to watch the entire lake slowly change to a dull, rust-red color. Instead, he watched the water drops on his toned body slowly convert to the scarlet fluid that filled the grotto behind him. Bringing his hand to his lip, he took a taste.
Metallic tang.
Not even in this spectacular display of power did he find any overt pleasure. He was a new man.
As the moon dawned over the bloody mirror and thousands of small fires lit the black sky, Raid set out for home. Things would be different.
![[Raid]](https://a1cdn.gaiaonline.com/dress-up/avatar/ava/e7/34/571f5a551d34e7.png?t=1548701915_6.00_00 "[Raid]")