Ymiden 23rd, arc 719
'Sick childe of the Northlands...' Came the voice of the Mistress. Her crooning tone turned craven from the flights of madness. Her words were impulses upon the resting mind. Whispers, from the annals of history. A shade, of the grand entity she once was. 'Prithee, how long dost thou wish for for this idocracy to remain?'
The malignant tumor upon Sybil's soul took the role of the Primordial Sin. The pus that leaked from her mangled lips gave her ruined features a glossy sheen. The Empty, not yet dead, caresses the mind that scarred her. 'Surely thine sin is grand. But to whom do you pray? From whom dost thou seek absolution?' Her lips, slowly breaking free from the muzzle of melded bone began to sweetly murmur.
'The softness I sought was for naught.' The Mistress crooned, softly, as her malformed, needle tipped fingers slowly glanced across the fleshy interior of her prison. This hell was some perversion of the act of conception. Her milky white eyes had long lost the ability to see. But her strength, was slowly growing. 'Thou art a ghoulish creature indeed. Absolution is not what you seek.'
She had found a weakness within Sybil's mind. The Mistress had too much time to bide. And she was, indeed, intent on finding a way to wrench control of this body. Her gnarled fingertips trace along the wrinkles of flesh, slowly sinking within, with a sickening squelch. Purulent blood leaking from the walls of her prison. Her weak ministration causing the pulsing synapse gracing her nails to quiver.
'Thy deeds doth precede thee.' Her words, her aristocratic voice that had been stolen from her, during her dogged struggle to assert control over this body, seemed to be broken. She spoke like she remembered her grandmother, upon her deathbed. 'If none are to judge thine sins... Shall I? We art kin, childe. There is naught to fear. There is only us damned.' The memory began to play itself. Pulsing within Sybil's mind.
The sluice of fluids began to wrap around the Mistress's finger. She still had control of her own mind. It took all of her energy to retain it. In the process, the reason why her goals were in place had left her, but the Empty was intent on seeing them completed. Even if it meant that some daft brat had to have a seizure, and she had to play the role of cripple for one short lifetime. She was not intent on surrendering so easily.
It was like a metal wire was being dragged across open, sensitive flesh. Her finger slowly disintegrated into a bony prominence. The flesh began to slough off. The Mistress squirmed in place, unable to stop tasting her own rancid breath, let alone move. The pulses of synapses began to fire, as the broken grin of the Empty began to form. Her teeth much like jagged shivs, or broken glass, more than anything. The torture she was subject to, ungodly. But she knew that she would do the same thing, if she was in Sybil's position. No.
She wasn't as milquetoast as this brat. She would have shown the fetid child why the Empress and her followers were feared across the land.
She couldn't help but grit her teeth, as she pulled back her finger. The shattered shards sinking into her gums, causing her to gag from the sensation of it. She was forced to swallow. The Mistress could only allow her prison to do with her as it wished, now. Milky, white eyes simply shifting, trying to see the fruits of her labor. She knew that she wouldn't be able to see it. Her limp body remained against the fleshy, pulsing walls.
Her ace in the hole is now in effect. The memory that the sickening, fetid, ghoulish, miasmatic, olish, loathsome, revolting Videnese brat thought was so horrific.
