Dark Earth: Nocturne (I)

CHAPTER 7: Separation

The world seemed to have spun upside down.

Or was it just him?

Layne honestly didn't know what was what anyway; not since he and his friends took down that alpha buck two days ago did he think about the world. It just didn't concern him to any high degree.

The hell?

Since when did he ever internally monologue?

And why, of all times, was he doing so now?

But nothing truly mattered when all you could think about was the worst; for Layne, the mostly-unlucky hunter, life was a weighted shackle containing only self-responsibility and self-preservation. He merely needed to survive, —nothing more.

Taking the life of an innocent creature was child's play if you only thought about your own survival. There was absolutely zero chance of guilt when you took it upon yourself to face off against all odds.

To him, everything depended on survival.

Everything.

———————————————————————————

        Thoughts rushed through Layne's head as he slipped in and out of consciousness. These were thoughts of loneliness. Of desperation. His own mind seemed to be attacking him with emptiness, if that made any sense at all. He couldn't see or sonically distinguish the world around him, but he could feel everything. In truth, he could do nothing but feel; Layne was currently hypersensitive to a degree that made it seem as if he were a near-mindless bundle of nerves.

Something stabbed him and then spread throughout his body. Violently. It was agonizing beyond any pain he could ever remember feeling. But simultaneously, —there was no emotion to associate with this pain, and yet it was there. And then it hit him, —the sensation of being assimilated into something all-consuming and terrible.

Was this hell?

No.

Hell was usually hot.

And in some instances it was said to be cold.

This...was something else.

Attempting to decipher whatever he'd been feeling was a waste of time; no matter how hard he concentrated, —it was lost in the static chaos of apparent agony.

And then the pain diminished, —as if in intermission. Something was going to happen.

Slowly, but assuredly, Layne's inability to distinguish the sounds surrounding him began to diminish, when a gravelly, seemingly hive-minded voice called out to him, —echoing into existence as if traveling from all directions towards his position. The voice spoke in an impossible number of voices, —each ringing with a different tone.

Eventually, the many voices strung together to become one, and then it dawned on him: he recognized this voice. It was him. That shapeshifting phantom, —Cauldrith the Dreadspeaker.

       "You are hopeless, young boy, and hopeless you shall remain." 

         Layne felt the Dreadspeaker's words permeate him; they were influential beyond his control, having more of an impact on his sanity than even he himself. He truly was the Master of Illusions.