Amun, well-prepared by his Mistress's teachings, did not exhaust himself on his journey into the wilderness. He noted the fair day and the wind's presence, elements crucial for their meticulously rehearsed plan. Along his path, he discreetly gathered supplies, including a neck purse stealthily acquired from a merchant. His training under his raven-haired Mistress had attuned him to nature's bounty, making the task at hand almost effortless. Yet, Amun harbored no arrogance, only a deep yearning to embrace the insights awaiting him on this long, winding journey, a path he felt he had traversed in some past life.
He chose an elevated outcropping for his camp, a place wreathed in timber and vine, with standing stones like the jagged teeth of a slumbering beast. This haunted site, known to some as pagan grounds, held the crucial element he sought: an open sky, a natural amphitheater for the unseen observers above. Here, he would perform an act misconstrued as a sacrifice, its aftermath unpredictable and swift.
Scaling the rise with calculated disarray, Amun's skin bore the marks of his climb. His state – sweat-mixed with road grime – served as an effective lure for the predators he intended to attract. He constructed his camp meticulously, laying stone circles at strategic intervals to contain the fire and ward off primal forces.
Humming a mantra, Amun fortified his spiritual center, his focus unwavering even as time pressed upon him. From his neck pouch, he retrieved the primleaf, a plant known to him through extensive study. Its leaves, stripped on the sunlit side of the hill, curled away from the light, a detail only a trained eye like his could spot.
Chewing the leaf released its potent toxin, sending his body into a perilous dance with death. The subsequent ingestion of a jade-colored root countered the poison, heightening his senses and expanding his awareness. He became a beacon in the wilderness, his energy radiating outwards, calling to the wild creatures with a siren's allure.
The ritual Amun embarked upon was dark and profane, a psychic cannibalism known as Tlamacazqui. It involved the violent separation of a soul from its vessel, an act condemned as a sin of the highest order. This atrocity was not just physical but deeply personal, tailored to the specific sins of the intended victim.
To those unaware, the act was invisible, a savage encounter occurring on a plane beyond normal perception. It drained the very essence of life, leaving its victims hollow and haunted by the trauma inflicted upon them.
Amun, with solemn determination, drew his blade and made a deep cut in his arm, setting the stage for the dark incantation. He was about to engage in an act that would consume the life force of another, a potent element of the continuum itself. The act, though not necessarily fatal, often left its victims shattered, forever scarred by the memory of the violation they endured.
What was taken within Amun through the atrocious act would suffer still by surviving within him - restrained to strolling the halls, horrors, and prison wards of his very mind. The encumbrance of having multiple minds harbored against their wills (strong, old and evil ones at that) was a miserable fate for captor and captive alike. Someone mayhaps could consider this a curse for one to hold so many souls under so much glass, to be tempted in their raptures, befouled my embedding a scourge under tender flesh and whispers…the constant chittering, crying and bemoaning of their vile intent into their warden, the host. The ordinary mind would never hold against a threat as this. It would normally become mad and quite fractured, having multiple consciousness at work within a single mind, alas this was exactly what Amun had intended all along .
Amun hadn’t been in his meditations for very long when he felt it’s approach, the cautious toe-heel step of a veteran hunter tread on soft terra, evading crunch of leaf or snap of twig. Amun was amused by how very simple this all was. He reached forth and identified the predator with a mental projection that was still tethered to his body, but could act as a sonar; crossing the threshold of the physical self into a dulled mind. This entire act was a most ideal tribute to the night sky’s audience, the gods be praised (how foul they art!) and Amun felt renewed ardor that they were in full attendance to witness this old practice in their most sinister of ways. Amun’s tether was drinking its full of the surrounding energies, the foliage swayed from their natural inclinations, the leaves would temporarily wilt and the berry and seed would sour….the foci was himself but this was a sinister sort of spell-smithery and there was a rush within him that was indescribable. This shallow and base sensation was in of itself a common temptation upon mage-folk to gluttonously seek, there was an arousal and his blood sang. Amun noted to avoid such temptations and dependancies, there was a greater conquest at hand, yet he knew he would pay a terrible price for the evocation taking place. Even with the life-saving jade root in his system, every nerve ending within was spiking at full attention. He would need to rut with a local maiden afterwards, he mused absently - rut and rut until they were raw from it and sweaty. The moment drew close as the predator crossed the chalky perimeter, paying it no attention.
Morgan the pedophile, greeted Amun gently and slithered closer and closer - may as well come in on his belly. His very aura and presence was most repugnant in appearance as was his greasy voice. This blighted, twisted, remnant of a being was someone that humanity could simply do without and it was a mystery that the Choir hadn’t resolved this repulsive issue. The elusive (rumored to be a definite danger) monster upon the Corpus path, and Laconian children would sleep at ease knowing this one had met it’s just deserved reckoning in a poetic fashion. The rumors in temple and tavern were rife indeed - the mysterious loss of his partner, the questionable safety and ultimate removal by local tribunal of his own children…Amun’s intentions were equitable in his mind and he’d happily defend his actions to any court - mortal or not, the Jarro’s were historically known for their swift alignments in such regards. Amun had no decision to decrypt, no hesitation in the act that was to transpire, he was committed to his task at hand. Amun had to simply play his part, that of a vulnerable and injured child, beaten by the wilds and desiring the comfort of an elder.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Amun simply presented to Morgan as a child beaten and overwhelmed by their path, weakened and in need of aid, wanting to succumb to an adult’s natural role to help and to be trusted. Amun was to give in, yield to a dominant figure, to accept and trust it’s authority in aid and open an opportunity to a most vulgar intrusion. He acted fearful and submissive, though he was quite the opposite.
Morgan assessed the scene confidently, as one does who is well versed in such acts. “Child, oooh.” He cooed, “What has the road wrought upon you? It’s such a cruel fate, tragic to have you in this way while you’re so young.” He slinked closer to see Amun as though inspecting the wound. “Come closer and let me see. Gather yourself and allow me to tend to you. I can see what the road has done to your fair skin. I’ll mend you, dress it cleanly and then we’ll share a meal and rest. Rest together. It’s a fair exchange, that I will care for you and we’ll know such comfort together by your fire, is it not? Will you accept my assistance in your dire need?”
He was very close to Amun, standing over him and the wretch was truly excited, blinded by the thrill in fact. Amun could feel the flames upon his stone circle and also a filthy heat coming from the twisted being, his desire within. Amun’s mark was engulfed by the craft and had ignored his own preservation instinct. With such ease, Amun was confounded that the wretch remained so ardent, oblivious to the web he was now in.
Morgan tended to Amun’s wound skillfully enough, even going as far as applying the safflower, a clean compress, finally dressing him with a clean wrap conveniently out of his pack. The meal was sparse, a few, dried, strips of local game and fewer gozen fruit clusters. For this act, now Morgan waited expectantly for an appreciative gesture of intimacy from this timid gelding. So eager was his lusting,….he was practically offering up his throat to the real threat, and Amun’s talon was at the ready.
Amun assumed the position that Morgan would like - below him, kneeling in the warm dirt. Morgan had risen, sweat upon his brow in excitement and fervor. A favor for favor, it seemed.
In the twisted climax of their encounter, Amun's seemingly innocuous contact with Morgan's leg, maintained throughout the mending of his wound, gradually intensified. His touch crept up Morgan's thigh, eliciting an increased rate of breath and a shudder from the corrupted being. Amun's voice, distant and eerie, whispered, "This... This is so bad..."
Morgan, lost in his vile yearnings, mistook Amun's words for acquiescence, murmuring in his depravity, "No, what you are doing is soooo goooood..." Little did he realize that these would be his last moments of perverse anticipation.
With a sudden, vicious motion, Amun seized Morgan's grotesque arousal by the root, avoiding the stem altogether. In one swift movement reminiscent of wrenching the necks of Vanessa’s chickens, he severed it entirely, the knife ever-ready to execute Amun's macabre will. As Morgan's cries of shock and agony began to rise, Amun silenced them with a brutal stab to the neck, ensuring a slow, gurgling demise. The pool of blood expanded around the lifeless body, a grim testament to the atrocity committed.
In a flash, the fatal strike ended and the ritual took over. Each act of violence was a ritual in itself, a perverse communion between predator and prey. Amun ended Morgan's reign of terror with a cruelty that mirrored the depths of his own darkened soul. He then offered the severed member to the flames, entering a deep trance as he did so. The sinful flesh sizzled and popped.
In his meditative state, Amun absorbed the essence of the moment – the kill, the memories, the sensations, and the smell of death. He was entirely remote. As reality and the continuum's energies stretched and warped, Amun tapped into the ritual’s entrance; to shape and navigate alternate realms. This skill, perhaps an inheritance from a past life or a trait passed down through his lineage, allowed him to traverse and manipulate these dark reflections of reality. Morgan was not the actual prey, only a toll for the passage.
Invoking the name "Asmoedon" to the astral entities above, Amun's astral form projected from his physical vessel. The true hunt began in another dimension, a pursuit of the deeper, more sinister essence of his prey. In this otherworldly plane, Amun sought to capture and consume the very sin of Morgan, an offering to the unseen forces he had called upon, a dark ritual played out under an uncaring cosmic gaze.
*****
Abe jerked and fought to wretch, his heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat in the stillness of the dark. The book slipped from his grasp, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud, its pages fluttering like batwings. He recoiled, his mind reeling from the horrors he had just witnessed through Amun's eyes.
"It's only a story, only a dumb book!" he shouted into the quiet, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He began to pace back and forth, his steps quick and erratic, as if trying to outwalk his own thoughts. The images from the book clung to his mind, vivid and unrelenting, like shadows refusing to be dispelled by the light.
Abe glanced warily at the furnace, its sheen suffocated and consumed what was remaining of dusk outside. A creeping sense of dread washed over him. The book, the furnace, the unnamed entity he felt lurking in the corners, guiding this read along – they all seemed to be converging into a singular, malevolent presence. Yet, curiosity endured.
He stopped pacing, standing still as realization dawned on him. It wasn't just a book; it was a gateway, a conduit to something far more ancient and sinister. The entity, whatever it was, seemed to be reaching out from the pages, from the very heart of the furnace, weaving its way into his reality.
Abe felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "It's just a story," he whispered, more to convince himself than out of any belief in the words. But deep down, a gnawing suspicion took root. The story was more than mere fiction; it was a manifestation, a part of a larger, darker truth that was slowly revealing itself to him.
The face of the furnace creaked softly on its hinge, like a chuckle in the dark, and Abe shivered. He knew then that he was no longer just a reader. He was a participant, drawn into a narrative that blurred the lines between reality and fiction, between his world and the horrors of Amun's. And in that chilling moment, Abe understood that the journey he had embarked on was far from over. It was only just beginning.