Ymiden 51st, arc 719
The Mistress' eyes opened. Her mind enveloped by darkness, after she committed the unspeakable deed. She couldn't help but stare down at her hands. She couldn't even notice the world around her. The Mistress was confused, in this moment. She felt corporeal, but she knew that she wasn't. It was a trick of the light. But something swelled within her. She had shattered, something within her had fell out of place like a cog churning to a stop, and snapping off. Her thoughts stalled, as she desperately searched her thoughts. Blood was on her hands, trickling down. Yet, there was no body that she could see. She couldn't avert her eyes, all she could see was her bloodied hands, dripping with the remains of the innocent. She had done something unspeakable, out of her unbridled rage. Her breath was visible, as the temperature dived so low. She could feel her body shaking, quivering, as her mind struggled to register it all.
Her voice hitched in the back of her throat. She had done the unspeakable. She had almost committed suicide by rage alone. The reality of just how close she could've possibly come to death lingered in her mind. The feral, primal section of her mind struggled against it all. It hurt. Adrenaline was rushing, but there was no threat. She was her own threat. But it was impossible to run from herself. Not when she was trapped in Sybil's mind, torturing her.
Slowly, she could hear the creaking of wood behind her. She froze in place. It was as though she was caught in the act of murder itself. Something metallic scraped against the surface. Her spine began to stiffen from the sheer chill that it experienced. Her stammering breath caught in the back of her throat, as her eyes strained to the side. She wasn't where she was, at the start of this madness. She was... Somewhere else. She was within the confines of some sort of room. It was akin to her manor, made of wood paneling and stone pillars. Yet something was undeniably different about it. The walls were deeply scratched. The floors bore upon them the signs that things had been moved, dragged even, their claws pulling against the wood in sheer desperation to get away. Slowly, her vision made its way towards the source of the cutting noise. It was near the open doorway, just to her left side. Her heart beat within her chest.
Before her, was a figure. No older than a teenager in its appearance. Its height appeared to be just below her chin, if they stood right in front of one another. It was clearly human, yet its outlines flecked off, as though it were actively being ripped apart by the air itself, oxidizing where it stood. It bore clothes that were plain, something that a peasant's son would wear, spun from rough needlecloth. Yet... Its face. Its face was covered by some sort of mask. It was made of wood, and was smoothed to a harsh polish in some areas, while the area near the right eye had been chipped off to the point in which the eye beneath the mask was visible. But aside from that, it was entirely featureless. "Mother." It said, emotions not shifting from a single octave. Monotonous and entirely without passion. "I know what I am." Its hand gripped the hilt of the shoddy knife, nothing more than a broken piece of iron tied to the end of a rotten haft.
The words themselves were something that sent a fear down her spine. Surely this was another one of Sybil's tricks. Surely this was simply the damnable student trying to do something, to release her grip from the mind that she sought to take control of. She grit her teeth, as she barked out, "Enough... Haven't you done enough? I know it's you. I see through your disguise. You aren't as clever as you think you are, you petulant child." She hisses.
The figure tilts its head, as it jitters with the knife. It wasn't a sign of anxiety. It was a sign of barely restrained energy. The adolescent was practically being forcibly held back from doing what it wanted to do. Jumping the blade in its hand, the featureless figure simply stared at the Mistress. It spared her no other comments. As she rose to a shaky stand, however, its pupils began to dilate. Seeing her in such a state seemed to bring it some level of twitchy excitement. The Mistress couldn't help but retain her stare upon it, sidelong, as she pulled herself off of the floor, wiping her hands on her lap. Even she would begin to notice that this creature wasn't the same Sybil as before. Something about it was different. It was ruled by pent up emotion, that practically radiated off of its form. Its knuckles going stark white against the hilt of the blade itself. The Mistress didn't know how to respond to this, freezing.
"You smell like freshly cooked meat, Mother. Salted and spiced. Dripping with juices. ... I no longer crave your milk, Mother. I crave the food that you eat." Finally, the figure spoke. Its eye going wide, as the intent of its approach was finally made clear. The adolescent looked half starved. Certainly this wasn't one of the children she had brought with her. They were... Younger. Sweeter. Yet, the frenzied look in his eyes... Who was this? The chill running down her spine threatened to freeze her where she stood. "Which part of you, Mother, would taste the best? The haunch, the rump? I saw meat, through your eyes, Mother... I saw our host eat it. I want to eat it, Mother. Tell me. I want it. You said you would give us all that we could ever want... Let me have it, Mother. I'm the eldest, Mother. I deserve it. Let me have it, Mother." Its voice was starting to repeat, conveying its base desires only.
The knife so dull, that it didn't even glisten in its grasp. Everything about this figure, was hasty. Something wasn't right. "I learned it from you, Mother. You fed from our Host... I fed from you. I deserve this, Mother. I've been good." Its pupils dilate further, as it slowly begins to approach. The Mistress wasn't speaking. The impatience of youth was beginning to take over the adolescent's thoughts, "I deserve this. I want this. Give it to me."
