Amun lay motionless, succumbing to an endless drift through time. Indifference, a dangerous siren, lured him into its velvety depths. The comfort was deceptively appealing, yet he knew he must resist. With a surge of determination, he shot upward, clawing for a semblance of reality amidst the Hël-Lord’s illusionary corridors. His surroundings were a devilish tapestry, crafted to deceive and disorient. Biting his tongue to taste his own blood, he sought to anchor himself in this surreal landscape.
Drawing on the raw psychic energy of the continuum, Amun challenged the alien material encasing him. He knew better than to trust his physical senses here; this pressure on his flesh was nothing but a meticulously crafted lie. With focused intent, he tore free from its grasp, the substance emitting a wet, squelching sound, only to heal into a disconcerting flesh tone. Despite this, Amun's spirit soared, unbound by gravity or physical constraints. Yet, even this liberating sensation was a snare, a seductive trap designed to blur his mind.
His training screamed a warning: his psyche was under siege, a perilous comfort aimed to paralyze his will. The urge to succumb was overwhelming, a siren call to abandon all pursuits and yield to the intoxicating illusion. But Amun resisted, recognizing the peril in this too-perfect tranquility.
The environment was unsettlingly warm and organic, reminiscent of a soft, flesh-like surface. Tendrils, hungry and invasive, sought to ensnare him, probing every vulnerability. Amun played along, allowing them to infiltrate his being, to explore the depths of his soul. Asmoedon’s assault was a dance of temptation, seeking to devour the essence of who Amun was, luring him to a standstill.
Yet, Amun remained vigilant amidst the onslaught, his focus unwavering. He allowed the tendrils to explore, to pry open the doors of his mind, yet guarded the sanctum of his true self. The experience was false, a deceptive paradise designed to ensnare and consume. He teetered on the brink of oblivion, on the cusp of losing himself to the void’s ecstatic embrace.
The moment of truth loomed as the ecstatic rapture escalated, promising unknown heights of bliss. But Amun held firm, aware that succumbing to this ecstasy was to be lost forever, absorbed into Asmoedon's infernal domain. In this battle of wills, only one could emerge victorious.
"Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here, to my realm, as we both knew it would," Asmoedon's voice echoed ominously. "The lowly minister in his parish, the addict bathing in pleasures—they all know me. They seek enslavement to their desires. Consider your journey, Amun. Ponder laying down your burden. You've achieved nothing alone here. You could spend lifetimes searching my library and never find what you seek. Yield, and be free from your desperate quest."
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The moment had come. Amun, sensing his foe's overconfidence, prepared for his counterattack. Asmoedon, bloated with triumph, failed to perceive the looming threat. Had the infernal lord become complacent, his horns reduced to nubs by his own arrogance?
Amun, now fully restored, stood amidst a shifting scene of a garden gala, a misty illusion designed to lure and distract. He walked past the headstones, each a vague marker in this dreamlike landscape. Asmoedon rested upon one, its form solid yet unremarkable—a slight, stubby creature with ashen skin and patchy black hair, its face featureless and swollen, save for its grotesquely engorged male genitalia, a vulgar display of demonic excess.
Amun knew he must deny this abomination. A single word, "No," he commanded, his voice unwavering as he passed the stone.
Asmoedon's will, sluggish and complacent, lurched into action, smoky hands and stone phallic protrusions reaching for Amun. But it was too late. Amun's denial, a simple yet powerful command, caused the nightmare to wilt, its lascivious assault faltering.
Seizing the moment, Amun unleashed his will, drawing Asmoedon in as his first conquest. "Blessed are the weak-willed," he declared, "for now you serve penance, broken and bound within me." He consumed the demon, imprisoning it within the depths of his mind, a trophy now on display in his cerebral gallery.
The forgotten sigils from ages past, echoes of his failures and past cycles erupted in a blaze of eldritch might upon his flesh, the ritual etchings on his flesh…..so that he could remember, be grounded in it. The carving, the words his own, the blood - his memory. The cycle, a snare, a curse, a dark blessing to begin again and again until he held all of their wretched skulls (or whatever entrails were left of their villainy, tentacles could writhe forever in embalming jars upon his mantle!) and placed them all on posts surrounding Lacon, dearest Lacon! He would fail and fail over and over, but not stop until he supped on them all!
The tempest, released from him devoured and scorching the dreamy mists with their bioluminescent fury as they ensnared Asmoedon's essence. Such other worldly screams mingled with Amun’s laughter and spiritus mastication, for he had to eat them, gnash at their flesh and slurp up their many, many eyes.
Nothingness remained, a in-pop fizzled in the air, a few scant body hairs, short and kinked drifted from the meager plume.
The strain of containing such power was immense, the cost greater than anticipated. Drained, Amun succumbed to darkness, retreating into his mind to recover.
In his dreams, he wandered from Asmoedon's ensnaring realm, finding solace in an empty grove bathed in the warmth of twin suns. Amidst this tranquility, he contemplated his next moves, rolling an old seed between his fingers—a symbol of plans yet to unfold, of paths to be marked and journeys to continue. The light and the dark awaited him, each a part of his destiny, as he prepared to navigate the treacherous waters of his unearthly existence.