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12th of Zi'da, Arc 716
Entry 83, Development Project: El'ganneth Rhovanion. Preservation Serum.
Journal of Alistair Nathaniel Venora, Sotrosei of the Coven.
Test Subjects: Richard Carlisle, Age 34, Male. Abigail Velen, Age 46, Female.
Subject Supplier: Effren Galien, Coven Superior
Richard Carlisle, Status: Recovering from immense deprivation of physical materials. Internal issues; fatigue, weakness, fragility. Estimated to have had a previous deficiency with bone growth or blood circulation... unsure as of yet, likely to remain unsure; no dissection or further testing planned.
Abigail Velen, Status: Better than Richard, though only in the physical department. Mentally, Abigail has displayed unexpectedly violent tendencies, despite being consistently enamored and restrained by Empathy (via assistance from other Coven agents). Self-mutilation and even self-cannibalism have been inflicted upon her; as a result her physical health is declining externally. Likely to die first, before Richard. Magical and physical evaluations, as well as a full dissection, will be demonstrated upon her passing.
Medical Examiner's Notes: Alright, so... to speak informally, Abigail is a complete mess, and a disaster. I'm unsure as to why she's displayed such observably violent mood swings, but she's done a number on the developmental phase of the Rhovanion serum. Notably, the cellular decomposition of Richard Carlisle has been evident, and it seems the Rhovanion has almost made him . . . dependent, as if reliant on a harmful and addictive drug. However, with Abigail . . . the disaster that she is . . . the serum has actually appeared to work. It was a well known fact when she was extracted by the Coven that she was a victim of several virulent diseases, and their symptoms have decreased rapidly since her arrival in my make-shift facility. However, in place of her illnesses, she has developed cannibalistic traits, among other things. Previously, I had been carrying three subjects at any given time, but the third - Lisa Riley - had been placed in a confinement cell with Abigail.
Lisa, an elderly woman brought in to study the potential for anti-aging in Rhovanion's effects, has since then been dismembered by Abigail. Horrifically, the woman had her face devoured. Even her tongue was swallowed, as well as the beginnings of her throat. Blood was extracted from her, licked off the floor, even; Abigail absolutely brutalized her. Yet, Abigail (who is older and was previously less physically capable than Richard) has displayed the most positive results from the consumption of Rhovanion.
In fact, she has been the only patient not yet labeled a total failure, and yet - she's the only patient who has engaged in cannibalism and the consuming of the physical properties of her fellow subjects.
This leads me to imagine that . . . Rhovanion only works through the vicious mutilation and consumption of other biological humans, or likely human-esque races; such as any capable of language and intelligent thought.
Current deliberation: This project has been classified as a failure as it is now, as well as an unfortunately fruitless investment by the Coven. Such volatile subjects are, unfortunately, not beneficial to the Coven or an economic enterprise by means of distributed anti-aging and disease control.
- - -
"Here's my report, Effren," he informed his superior. Their meeting, brief as it was, resulted in little words and little acknowledgment. A nod was all that he received from the Lotharro, and then Alistair had been sent on his way. He would return to his medical laboratory, and in it finalize the deliberation of these two subjects of his. In order to gain results, Alistair had decided to push the project to an extreme. Rhovanion had been too long in the making - even from the point of theorizing - and there was pressure on him to show the worthiness of his idea of biological preservation.
Abigail and Richard would be placed in the same containment cell, and he would examine the growth or decline of their physical condition with the idea that one of them would engage the other in a violent encounter. Ultimately, interfering to ensure Richard's victory, Alistair would discover whether or not the usage of cannibalism to supplement the serum's progress was a universal or if it was merely confined to Abigail Velen.
Traveling through the corridors of the Coven's Rharne compound, he returned to the dimly lit research environment and lit the torches set in the corners of each room. With the dangling of iron heard by both subjects - the acquisition of their key by Alistair - both of the poorly cared for individuals quickly rose in their cages and viewed Alistair through their bars. He rarely ever touched the cells while they were still conscious, and so each of them - desperate to be released from the nightmare they'd been placed into - gathered before the edge of their cell and whimpered at the idea of being let free; in a way, through their confinement, they had become much as imprisoned dogs. Locked behind bars, malnourished, empty of fulfillment and desperate to be cared for . . . they even begged Alistair, their captor.
As always, however, their pleas were ignored entirely. The doctor moved to open their cages, but they would find that the exit to their imprisonment was blocked. A portal laid at the edge of their cell, and an aura radiated from the rupture that pushed them against the metal bars of their containers. Alistair united the cells with a variance of the same spell, before dispelling the ruptures that restrained the cell's inhabitants. Essentially, their cells unified, the two of them were now capable of physically interacting with one another. They had barely spoken to one another at all since their gathering in this location, largely due to the usage of Empathy to reduce their intelligent function. In the past few trials, though, neither of them had been subjected to hypnosis or emotional stimulation. They were meeting one another in their somewhat natural mental and emotional state - if you could disregard the difficulty of their current predicament - and Alistair had set this up particularly to examine the mental state of both the cannibal and the subject who had, instead, been victimized by rapid physical degradation.
Essentially, he would see if Abigail's cannibalistic instincts - seemingly given to her by Rhovanion - were instincts that would act up now, in the face of a weaker target; prey. If she did act in such a way, the knowledge obtainable from her as a patient would be fully displayed, and Alistair would dispose of her. This interaction between the two of them would be something of a . . . climactic phase for the development of the serum, at least into its next developmental phase.
As the two of them were introduced, things appeared to go as he expected.
Displaying what appeared to be a fierce animalistic territorialism, Abigail threatened Richard fiercely, several times over. Within moments of their cells being united, she launched to action, and lunged at the younger individual. To her dismay, however, Alistair created a rift behind her that would pull her firmly into the bars. With a thud, her back hitting the edge of the cell, she was restrained against the cage. Richard eyed her profusely, confused, almost deranged; his mental and emotional state had been ravaged by his rapid decline in physical health. As Abigail struggled against the kinetic force restraining her, the man stood still only, his eyes darting back and forth.
The most conflicting thing for a medical examiner, particularly one so invested into his projects, was the divide between professionalism - in the form of documentary observation - and the desire to alter the results of one's efforts to ensure a proper conclusion to a hypothesis . . . a hypothesis that one wished to be validated, in fact depended on it; for the sake of one's reputation, one's pride, and one's faith in their own integrity.
Unfortunately, the effect of this project was not one that nearly fit his hypothesis. Rather than consuming Abigail and, hopefully, displaying a recovery in physical condition... Richard's response was about as unexpected as one response could be. He . . . began to bite out his own tongue, bang his head against the bars, scream and shout - his life began to end rapidly, a cessation of functions chosen by his own will. Abigail only grew more violent against the force restraining her, the scent of blood and the sight of flesh and bones compelling her to action.
But she did not have a purpose any longer. Richard was to become the primary focus of the experiment, but by his will he revealed to Alistair his unwillingness to partake any longer in this insanity. The doctor allowed his patient to end his own life, but with the acknowledgment that the other patient - the other subject - need not live any longer, either.
He grew exhausted. He grew annoyed. This has been a long and arduous project . . . months of direct experimental procedures, and the end product was nothing more than the violent suicide of his star patient and the regressive tendencies of another. Perhaps, in a moment of pettyness, he allowed this irritation to consume him. A crackle heard in the air, and he was transported into the cell. Moving forward, and forward, and then onto the body of Abigail he was - he wrapped his palms around her neck and strangled the life out of her.
It wasn't soft. His palms only closed; the bones in her neck snapped before she died, displaying the weakening of her marrow and only further proving the failure of El'ganneth Rhovanion.
This bloody project of his - his life's ambition - had resulted in nothing more than failure.
And that made him feel... angry. Anger was something foreign to him, but it was here now. Fully.
It made him feel exhausted. He wanted to imagine that none of this had ever happened, yet it had; he'd been thoroughly defamed as a doctor, especially one others called legendary in his skill.
Progressing further into a state of hysteria, he began to inflict his inspired wrath onto the body of Abigail, who had already lost her life at the hands of her deranged and apathetic captor. He beat at her body, smashed her head into the metal lines that made up the cage. Then, to Richard, who had taken his own life; the stomping of boots against his skin, the angered wails of the mad scientist . . .
Only moments passing upon their departing, and both of their corpses had been thoroughly devastated; mangled, deformed, brutalized.
He was angry, an emotion he did not enjoy the ventilation of in theory, but always enjoyed in practice. Ever since he'd been enlightened to the thrill of what anger could unleash - relief. It led one to engage in the vilest things that their bodies enjoyed. The decimation of others for one's own enjoyment, the imprint of one's boot against another's flesh . . .
No. He did not indulge. Anger was not to be the emotion that pulled him from his apathy. He looked away from the mess he'd caused in the cells, and freed himself from his laboratory. He returned to his room, in the Coven's corridors . . . and spent many an hour into the night staring into nothingness.
Finally, he looked into the mirror, to see the blood upon his face. The imprint of his vile actions, his brutal wroth. Something he'd seen many times, for various reasons - often very cold ones. Murder of another to benefit himself, even if only in a moment. All because he did not care for others in the slightest. This time, and other times as well, the blood washed upon him was not the result of a cold and calculated desire, enabled by his all-consuming apathy. No . . . instead, he engaged in this violence, this lewdness, for the sake of self-gratification.
Strangely enough, it was not a voice of calm that sent him off to sleep. It was another voice.
As he looked into the mirror, quietly watching the streaming of crimson down from his forehead to his lips, he could see something else behind him. Beyond him. It wasn't just him looking back at his bloodied face in the reflection, but a demon. A specter of his imagination, he could only think. A man. A woman. Then a man again. Perhaps it searched for his desire, dangling prizes before his eyes as he was lost in a trance-like state. The portion of his brain that would dispel this as merely an illusion was far too tired and worn down. The day had been long.
Why not end it with something unique? he whispered to himself.
But was that his own voice that he heard, speaking through the lips that he owned?
He paused, shaking his head. He calmed himself. Breathed through his nose, a firm exhale.
Arms wrapped around his chest. Firm. Strong. A man's arms. Their texture did not feel the same as other men's, though. It was as if he were touching the body of something that wasn't entirely real. It almost felt like a shade, fading and re-appearing, feeling different each and every time. Searching for what he wanted; what his heart desired.
The faces in the mirror, ones he could only see through the brief flickers of his vision, changed. Each provoked a reaction from him - a rise of his blood - some more than others. This specter of his mind was scoping out his ideal, transforming itself to fit his preferences to an exact.
And finally, there it was. This demon looked back at him looking as if a dream. It wanted him to indulge.
He wanted... to indulge. Because it was just a dream. He told himself that. In reality, it was something more. A creature of the abyss, drawn in by his anger. But he didn't know that; he just knew that he wanted to be enamored. And enamored he was.
The creature pulled at him, and he rose from his seat, looking away from the mirror . . . looking instead at the demon. He allowed himself to lean into the creature's embrace, and as he did, he felt a wetness against his cheeks; the creature's tongue ran across his skin, licking off every droplet of the blood.
"Alistair," it said his name. It did not speak through his voice, but through its own. A man's voice - but with a woman's inside of it. He had never heard such an abomination of thought.
"You reject the Immortals," it whispered, "but you would not reject me."
He pulled back, for but a moment, to look into the eyes of the creature that compelled him. Strangely, he knew why it was here. It was here to re-imagine Alistair in its own way. To uncover the depth of his depravity, so thoroughly locked away, caged no differently than the subjects he'd torn to shreds with the same anger that this creature fed upon.
And strangely . . . he knew its name. As he looked into its eyes, he discovered that while he knew nothing of this winged beast, it needn't say a word. It was already within him, seared into his mind. Its mark branded on his flesh.
Syroa, he said to himself. The words took form, and as his lips parted to whisper the demon's name, its kiss caught his lips.
He pulled away, demanding resistance.
"You are not my God," he spoke, his voice low. His body trembling.
"No, but this is..." the Immortal whispered, and grabbed tightly at the outline of the growth within Alistair's lower body. "And it shall rule you as it does all men alike."
And, through all of that - he allowed himself to indulge in the demon's body. He did not relent, nor resist. He let his impulse, lustful and unrefined, total control over him. It was a sort of compulsion that he'd never imagined. But as he laid over the body of the demonic entity, and he grew closer to what he wanted . . . he was stopped short; amidst his climax came a grim realization, the shifting of the demon to an unsuitable form. A woman, who spurred his seed, but only horrifically. He was pushed back, and in the clutches of the demon he was restrained. Like the subjects he left in those cages, wanting, but incapable of having.
Perhaps it was ironic, but not long after encountering the body of this figure, he'd come to realize that it... was on a level vastly beyond him, like he'd been to those silly men and women he'd locked up, experimenting on like animals . . . taking from them as he desired, and disposing of them when there was nothing left for them to give.
The winged figure rose from the bed it had drawn Alistair towards, and violently pushed him into the body of the mirror he'd viewed when the entity's eyes first caught his. The glass shattered, and his body went nearly limp against the remnants of the broken frame as the glass dug into his skin.
"Your kind holds delusions of grandeur no matter what form you take," it whispered, as the features of the creature changed. From a man, it became a woman, a dark red hue - like that of the roses that identified his family name. Demonic, still, with the same wings and sharp tail as before. Smoldering embers for eyes. A playful grin across her face - but then a not so playful look. An anger. Far more vast than any he'd demonstrated this night, or any other.
"From mortal to mage, you imagine yourselves far more significant than you actually are. Your hypocrisy is evident to even your own frail imaginations; your whole establishment - this "Coven" - claims to let power decide. Power is power, you say. Strength rules all. Yet at the same time, you deny the Immortals, and claim that we are beneath man. Which is it, Alistair? Sotrosei? Venora?" Her eyes peered into him. Did she really want an answer? Was this just a monologue?
He had known far too many powerful, and arrogant, individuals in his life. He knew one thing more than anything else: they all wanted something different from you. Entertainment. A successful investment. A game.
What did she want? What could an Immortal want? And what could Alistair give?
"I would see your establishment cast down entirely, little ape. My talons are far more deadly than the fledgling cinders you mortal abominations loose from your fingers, and I have a wish to rake them across the skin on your backs. Ellasin, foolish. Effren, overdue. Damien, soft. Talia, weak. Vincent, redundant. And you, Alistair - treacherous. You wish to have this place as your own. You would want my power for an ambition so unchecked, would you not? I shall offer it, ape; but the voice you inherit from my eminence shall become ash in your mouth as all the power you amass becomes naught before mine. That is the fate of errant apes, after all. To imagine yourselves better than an Immortal - a disgrace even among apekind."
As she berated him, and as the glass dug further into his skin, a mark appeared on his back. Truly. Fully. Dark wings, inscribed onto his skin from his flesh, deep; he could feel the mark appearing violently, as if inscribed into his body by the same talons she gloated about, raving about her alleged superiority.
But it was more than just alleged, and he knew that. They all knew that, these "errant" mages, as they prattled on about their greatness. Yet prattled on they did. Just asking to be struck down. Perhaps the hammer of God had finally arrived.
"If you are half the man you paint yourself to be, then you will have the Necromantress' head. I, however, have a secondary commandment... creature. I would have the heads roll in a much higher volume. All of them - every last mage dwelling in your... caverns that you imagine to be hidden from our gaze. When the time comes, and the Coven's tensions bear fruit... and Ellasin is cast down from her throne of lies, I would have you slaughter her little apostles. Each and every one of them, a knife in their backs; this cult of hubris expunged from my world. Do as I command, Venora... or you shall be expunged instead. With nearly the same amount of grace you displayed in dismantling the corpses of those failed subjects of yours."
His task was given. She vanished, evidently, but his confusion did not. Nor did his pain. He could scarcely move his back, with the sharp glass lodged into his flesh. He knew better than to recoil.
It was all difficult to measure. The most bizarre of it all was the fact that, through all of it, he felt very afraid. It was a sensation he'd not experienced to this degree before. He could only imagine the wise thing to be... taking her word literally. Killing every last member of the Coven, beginning with Ellasin.
But that meant so much more than what it sounded like at surface value. He did not love the Coven, but there were some within it that he did adore. Damien, for example. How could he reconcile his self-preservation with an impossible command?
He could only... compartmentalize it. Try to ignore it all. Try to pretend, like he always did, that it never happened. Just like his abuse when he was young, and the failure of his experimentation... he would try to lock it away.
But this wouldn't just go away. Not with a damn wingspan carved into his back. Not with her smoldering eyes seared into his thoughts. It felt like she was still here. It was like . . . she was inside of him, lingering. Observing.
Was that the reason for this wretched mark upon his flesh? Was it all for the sake of viewing her prey from afar?
He didn't know. He couldn't know. He could only... sleep, compelled to fatigue by his encounter with the divine, and hope the blood wouldn't all flow out and drain him of this obligation all too soon.
I figure that while Attunement does not have any progression-based mutations, being his fifth (even sixth) spark it would likely force him into heavy overstepping during initiation and impart a very dramatic, foundational mutation upon entry. So, this is that mutation. 
