He rolled onto his stomach, back aching to the nth degree. He groaned, arching off the ground, hearing the crackles of his bones, the ache retreating but not cured. 

He grumbled and the discomfort of a cold hardwood floor on his cheek. Did he fall off his bed again? Damn, he knows he’s a violent sleeper, but that hasn’t happened in…how many years? His shitty memory strikes again.

He scratches his side, digging his nails into his unclothed torso. Once again-if you sleep fully clothed, you deserve the bad things that happen to you in life.

He rubbed his eyes, pulling out the eye boogers and rubbing a few more times for fun. He curled up on the floor, tempted to go back to sleep, but the lack of blankets-jesus, he must’ve been a tornado last night for none of his blankets to stick with him-causes an amount of distress and wakefulness generally reserved for hearing a weird noise after watching some kind of horror movie while lying awake in bed for at least two hours.

He finally opens his eyes and instantly realizes something is wrong. Furrowing his brows, he sits up in a room made of some kind of gray terracotta-wood combination, with a dresser and shittily made bed being the only other things in the room.

He stands up, wobbling a bit, and looks around the room for literally anything else. A door is in the center of the wall the dresser is on, but nothing else in the room, no sir-y.

Deciding he doesn’t particularly want to introduce himself to whoever kidnapped him in his underwear-ignoring the kidnapper must’ve already seen him-he shuffles over to the dresser, the cold hitting him as he wraps his arms around his shoulders.

He opens the door of the dresser, peeking in, and, of course, is faced with clothes only the very dredges of society would wear. In the dresser are two bedraggled coats and a coal-stained shirt. Coal stained because he touched it and watched small billows of smoke poof off of it, staining his fingers on the way. He curled his lip in disgust.

Ignoring the coal shirt he’d likely have to wear, he looks down to see a neatly folded pair of pants that looked as though they’d been abandoned for years. Equally as coal-ly as the shirt, the pants had a very visible rip down the side. Luckily, he both knew how to sew and found hand sewing about as relaxing as when he motivated himself to write, so he foresaw lots of clothes fixing in the future. To the right was a pair of sturdy-looking coal boots-and yes, he would be referring to any coal stained items as ‘coal’ whatevers, coal stained becomes implied at some point-which had frayed open toes and looked as abandoned as the room he found himself in.

He narrowed his eyes, standing back up with one hand on his hip and the other, less coal-ly one, scratching his lip. He regarded his slim choice of clothes, before sighing as the cold air started turning into too much to ignore. While he would not be as cold after this horrible decision, he would certainly be coal-ed. Ey?

He let out a snicker at his genius pun and grabbed the shirt. His shoulders always got coldest first, so he tugged the shirt on. Luckily, the coal just dyed it black rather than made it itchy and hellish, so perhaps the coal on this wasn’t from mining and was instead from some sort of coal-lugging job.

He reached for the smaller coat, reminiscent of a normal winter jacket, and pulled it on, then eyed the longer coat before tugging it on as well. Are the long coats trench coats or the other name? A mystery that would never be solved. While thinking long and hard about coat names, he pulled the ripped open pants. It seemed like the pants were just, uh, seam-ripped? Maybe an overzealous stray cat? Or, if this person was a coal-shoveler of some sort, perhaps there was a sharp metal shovel they got stuck on. No matter, all the clothes were fitting if not slightly loose, so nothing to worry about.

The boots, however, would be very make or break, so he decided not to suspend his excitement for to long, choosing to sit down and start pulling them on right away. They were surprisingly comfortable and easy to put on, but very notably loose. Annoying-he was not a shoesmith. He could sew, not make adjustments to boots. Hell, he could barely make adjustments to clothes, no way he would try on a boot. Maybe his kidnapper would have nicer boots? 

He chuckled. Definitely starting to get a bit loopy. Well, prior stress about…what was it? Probably work. Work was always bad. Everyone knew it was. Maybe that was contributing to his lack of care, or maybe he was a sociopath. Psychopath? The one that doesn’t feel emotions or whatever. He had a feeling that was a long standing internal argument, though curiously, he couldn’t remember the last time he had it. Well, he’d always had shit memory, eh?

He finished buckling the boots up, glancing nervously around the room one last time, trying to see if there were any loose floorboards or holes in the wall that would permit him to gain some clue. Was he in a Saw wannabes’ set? Maybe some kind of evil sex dungeon? Would a slime kidnap him and evolve into a real boy?

He sighs and calms his mounting nerves, something starting to feel a bit too off to be some kind of prank, or normal kidnapping. Do these feelings mean he isn’t a sociopath? No google, so who knows.

Carefully cracking the door open and trying to peek out, he’s met with a dark, abandoned hallway with a door on either side of him and a staircase directly in the middle, heading down. He swallows, creaking the door open slowly, praying to whatever’s bored enough to listen to make sure it doesn’t make noise.

He carefully takes a step forwards on his left foot, instantly regretting it as he remembers it’s his bad foot and therefore the foot he has less control over. Trying to make the best out of the situation, he closes his eyes for a second, still balancing on the one foot, then opens them and begins to lower the foot down.

He starts by placing the heel down, then remembers he should’ve led with his toe and bites his lip as he starts to roll through his foot, carefully moving his foot down until it’s fully down, making no noise besides a light tap, to his great release. He slips out of the door, shifting his weight to his right foot, balancing with the wall to ensure he stays quiet, letting the door slide off of his hand and-

The door slams shut, not loudly, but in the utter silence he’s just noticing isn’t his nerves and is instead the actual environment, it’s practically a scream of bloody murder. He stops breathing, eyes darting around the tiny area he’s in, trying his best to look down the stairs despite his position not allowing him to. His entire body freezes, light tremors running through him as he balances there, listening for something to move towards him, something that was alerted to his presence.

He stands there for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes. He can’t shake the-likely irrational-feeling of dread, like he made a dire mistake. The same feeling as when he played stealth in a game and busted it. Of course, half the time, he easily got out of the situation, but even at those times, he felt overwhelmed. And that was when he could reload an earlier save. Now? When it was all real? He was surprised he didn’t break down on the spot.

He tries to get his breathing under control, terror still coursing through his veins. Too terrified to take a few big breaths, he slowly drags in a large breath, holds it for a second, and then breaths out. He does it once more.

His legs, starting to hurt from the cramping, protest. He knows he should be able to hold a passe for significantly larger, but he recalls how you can feel much more exhausted with too much blood flow. He carefully starts to lower his left leg, this time starting from his toe, and rolls the rest of his foot back, trying to absorb the noise with the rest of his body. He takes one last step, now at the door, and carefully feels over the door knob, seeing if it’s unlocked. He turns it lightly, relieved as the knob turns all the way.

He slides to the left as quietly as possible, opening the door incredibly slowly until it’s just barely big enough for him to jam through. He slides his right foot through, back to the stairs, keeping the door cracked with his body as he slides his right foot fully in, then his left.

Stolen story; please report.

Taking a survey of the room, it looked to be some kind of storage room. He thought storage rooms were usually in the ground, like a basement? Whatever, it seemed extra cold in here anyways.

On the walls, straw is arranged in what looks to be some kind of esoteric arrangement. It looks impeccable, like there’s not a single strand rotten, and the shapes look kinda like runic shapes. Magic? Runes? Cold magic? Storage room magic runes for colding up a room and making it better?

He snorts. Pro-bab-l-y not. He takes one more quiet shuffle so he’s standing evenly, glancing around the room one last time. Looks to be empty, and there are some little parts of what seems to be burlap sacks around, but burlap sacks won’t supply food. He turns around, slowly but quietly, and takes a careful, careful step to the door.

He reaches for the knob and almost swings it open on instinct, eager to prove to his mounting nerves nothing’s wrong, but he stops himself and breathes out quietly. He wraps his hand around the knob and turns it slowly, pulling it open just an inch as he peaks out.

His eyes take a second to adjust. The hallway seems darker, but that’s probably just from his nerves not sending as much blood to his head-

His mind drops to his stomach, and he nearly screams. Instead, his mouth parts slightly, eyes wide and unblinking as he begins to shudder again.

On the stairs, some kind of-some kind of thing stares back at him. Pale white skin stretches against its gaunt body like canvas on wood, and it doesn’t move, not even to breathe. Its face, gazing at him with cold, voidlike eyes, has a humanoid shape, but it’s just-just-wrong. Its face is 90% eyes, two large sockets filled with nothing seeming to show into the cavity of its disgusting skull. From just above its deformed jaw, two lines of teeth grow, drawing down through the part of its face that should be dedicated to normal functions, corrupted and twisted in strange ways.

The teeth draw down, meeting at some point he can’t see from his current angle. The teeth draw down through an unnaturally long neck, making it to the place that would be a collarbone if this thing was normal. Its chest was the most normal thing about it, just the average male shape, but off of its body drew two spindly, elongated arms. The arms seemed stuck in an odd position, or perhaps they were merely frozen there as it sized him up, fingers almost the full length of his head wrapped on the railing where it balanced.

And the worst part, oh god, was the open bottom of its torso. No fluids leaked-the being was too dead for that, despite the fact it must’ve been moving. The dangling end of its spine hung limply, surrounded by mummified entrails that hung limply. Hell, the creature looked like a mummy-some sort of… desecrated corpse, reanimated, come to haunt hapless people who wake in its domain.

He stares at it, motionless aside from his slow, shallow breaths. He stares into its black holes, frozen in his moment of pure, unadulterated, animalistic fear. His breath stutters, and his breath sounds like a raw choking noise, and it lunges.

He screams, a wailing noise of fear as it tackles the door, sheer momentum ripping the wooden door off its hinges. His limbs freeze up, and he curls beneath the door, trying to hide from the being as he lets out choking cries and pleas, the door slowly cracking as tears well in his eyes.

The being lets out a shriek, and he makes a noise that can only be described as fear boiled to its most direct feelings. He presses his palms to the door as the thing atop him drives its hand into a point and through the door, balancing on one spindly limb.

The door shatters fully, its last moments used as a final shield, and he scuttles back, clutching a piece of the wood to his chest as his mouth moves, staring at the unholy thing attacking him. The teeth have opened, its disgusting abomination of a mouth opening like a zipper, before it lets out a shockingly human plea. It pushes off the hand it has on the ground, bounding towards him like a demented tripod, and he screams once more.

Brandishing his piece of wood at it in his last defense, he sits in the middle of the floor, still scooting back. His foot grazes his coat, rather than the floor, and he slams back, the creature flying over him and slamming into the wall. It lets out a growl of rage, and he flips around, wishing he had the time to take off his jacket.

Now facing the creature, he watches it push off the wall and stabilize, giving him a second to go over what he knows. Can’t run, it's faster. Can’t fight, that mouth is too big, he wouldn’t hit anything important, and either way, he doesn’t know if this thing has weak spots he can attack. It moves by running like a bird-

The creature screeches, then starts to charge again, lower to the ground. Intelligent, maybe? He ponders, adrenaline and end of life acceptance settling over him. He manages to will his body to move, dragging himself to the side with his arms, getting his vitals out of the danger zone.

It halts quickly, legs scrabbling along the floor as it tries to adjust to the movements, trying to recover from the position it threw itself into. He seizes the moment, mouth dry, as he lunges onto its back, scrabbling onto the larger creature and brandishing the wood like a knife. He digs it into the creature's back, wrapping his legs around its lower back, and using his left hand to keep himself stable as he hacks at it, hiccuping all the while.

The being thrashes, and he abandons the wood in favor of wrapping around its shoulders, arms around its vertical mouth, pinning it closed. A muffled noise of rage erupts from it, and it stumbles forwards at the weight and discomfort. Hanging on for dear life, he notices its arms won’t bend, deliriously prideful at his earlier notes.

He hangs on, knowing he’ll fall off soon. He wishes he’d been more quiet…checked the corners, kept doors closing slowly, whatever…

He gasps what might be his last breath feeling himself slipping. He needs-he needs more grip strength, something else to anchor himself-

A stroke of genius, or perhaps his doom, comes to him, and he opens his mouth, digging his teeth into the things back, around the middle of its freakish neck.

It shrieks, shaking harder, so he hugs it tighter, tears escaping, sobbing vocally even as he digs his teeth into the flaky flesh harder. The creature's neck meat sloughs off, and so he readjusts his teeth further up, ignoring the growing screams from the being he’s holding onto. It stumbles forwards, smacking into a wall, and he rips his teeth off on purpose this time, removing a greater portion of its body.

Fresh tears well in his eyes as he realizes he might make it out alive, and droll starts to leak from his mouth as fear leaves him desperate for hope. He attacks the things back, starting from its neck, peeling it apart with his teeth even as it moves with more fear. His efforts are rewarded-the thing does have ribs, and so he moves his right hand to grasp the highly secure ribs, keeping his left hand in place to pin the mouth shut. He sticks his hands through the ribs, grasping wildly, the sudden lack of support driving him to bite onto its spine for more security.

His hand grabs something smooth and round, an unnatural shape for this thing’s insides. He grabs it with all his power, yanking on it in a desperate, single-minded hope that it’s some kind of heart or vital organ. It remains stuck, and the creature tips over, crushing him with his weight in a bid to make him give up, but he lets out a wild cry of triumph as he finally tugs it out.

The world goes silent for a second. It feels as though a ripple has gone through him-he feels as though something has changed.

Just like it came, it went, and the unnatural stillness of the being breaks. It makes a noise, a bloodcurdling, painful, terrible noise, and then it stills, breaks apart, and suddenly, once again, it’s just him in the room.

Him and the round thing he stole from the beast.

He takes a loud breath, then turns over onto his knees, emptying his stomach. The ball rolls from his hand as he shakes, dry heaving once he can’t vomit anymore. Tears spill from his eyes, his body curling up as spit and vomit drip from his lips, throat dry and aching. His shaking hands pulse in agony, the razor sharp teeth of the monster-because it could be nothing else-had cut through them, despite the fact the arms were on the flatter side of the teeth.

He curls around his injured arms, loudly choking as blood begins to drip from his wounds, feeling weaker than he’d ever felt in his life. A pang of cloying hunger strikes him, making him moan in pain. The intense… ‘activity’ had caused him quite a bit of hunger, it seemed, and the vomiting didn’t help.

He wiped his disgusting mouth on his outer coat, his shredded shirt being too filled with coal for him to consider a cloth capable of cleaning him. He stared at the pile of liquids on the floor in front of him, calming his breathing.

His hunger panged once more, and he almost considered eating the creature, but a quick glance at its lacking remains showed him it was nothing but a pile of ash. Whatever that orb could do, it could reanimate ash and grant it flesh. Probably also grant it some sort of ability to be superhuman, considering its strength.

Reanimate ash. Breathe life into something. Give it… some way to survive. Some way to… make flesh. Make… make…

He was too hungry to ignore, and too hungry to think of consequences. He’d deal with them once he wasn’t going to die.

He turned to the orb.