Bathic
!!Z9LmIhi3uII
(ID: lfZF6n4Y)
9/29/2025, 2:35:54 AM
No.6312313
>HORRIFIC BETRAYAL
Hopefully that wards Gil off: not that he isn't your best friend and retainer and so on, but you don't want him here to see this. Richard said, if you wanted to be a really big lizard, you'd need to appease the Wyrm. How to appease the Wyrm? Kill somebody you like, the more blood the better. Probably, the more you like them, the better it works. You loved your father and forgot: sacrificing him lodged some Wyrm in you forever, but not enough. You could try again. Do it to Richard. Ha-ha.
«Good luck.»
No. You can't pretend he's your father, and you don't like him enough when he isn't. You mean, you don't— you don't know. It's so complicated. You get the impression the Wyrm doesn't like 'complicated'.
If you could do it to Horse Face, it wouldn't be complicated. You don't like him. But you saved him already. Lucky? Pat? Would Ellery do it willingly? It wouldn't count if he did it willingly. A betrayal. You could call Gil back and give him a hug and tell him he helped you so much with everything, then slip a knife through his ribs and hold him as he sags, and you could lap his blood, and— you mean, you couldn't. He's made of goo. And even if you were God and you squeezed him in your hand and gave him flesh and blood again, you couldn't do the rest.
You flash him a reassuring smile (fewer teeth) and wave him off vigorously, this time, so he actually backs away. Of course he wouldn't leave without you asking. Then you turn your back and pick through the rubble, back toward the remnants of the temple— though not before weaving around one of Ramsey's staggering legs. She hasn't moved yet. Because she's not sure how to? Because she can't think any longer? Or because she doesn't need to: there's no knocking the Crown off her head now?
It's a good thing Ramsey isn't very smart. You duck behind a chunk of wall and plunge your fingers into the sand. A few moments later, the head of your beloved worm pokes out before you. (You may have indicated that food was available.) Oh, Annie, so beautiful, so innocent: she's never done anything wrong in her life, except eating Lucky that one time. Never done anything wrong to you. And she harbors no complexities, no conspiracies, nothing to untangle or struggle to understand. She's just a worm. A worm you like a great deal.
"Sorry, pretty girl," you whisper, even though Annie doesn't understand speech or apologies. "I'm so sorry. I'll— when I'm God, I'll—"
She doesn't understand what gods are. Doesn't understand what betrayal is. She won't know fear or anger or recrimination— won't stare you in the eyes as you twist the knife. She has no eyes. She will know pain, pain, pain, pain, then nothing, then something again, if you revive her, and she will go on her wormy way untouched and untroubled.
(1/3?)
Hopefully that wards Gil off: not that he isn't your best friend and retainer and so on, but you don't want him here to see this. Richard said, if you wanted to be a really big lizard, you'd need to appease the Wyrm. How to appease the Wyrm? Kill somebody you like, the more blood the better. Probably, the more you like them, the better it works. You loved your father and forgot: sacrificing him lodged some Wyrm in you forever, but not enough. You could try again. Do it to Richard. Ha-ha.
«Good luck.»
No. You can't pretend he's your father, and you don't like him enough when he isn't. You mean, you don't— you don't know. It's so complicated. You get the impression the Wyrm doesn't like 'complicated'.
If you could do it to Horse Face, it wouldn't be complicated. You don't like him. But you saved him already. Lucky? Pat? Would Ellery do it willingly? It wouldn't count if he did it willingly. A betrayal. You could call Gil back and give him a hug and tell him he helped you so much with everything, then slip a knife through his ribs and hold him as he sags, and you could lap his blood, and— you mean, you couldn't. He's made of goo. And even if you were God and you squeezed him in your hand and gave him flesh and blood again, you couldn't do the rest.
You flash him a reassuring smile (fewer teeth) and wave him off vigorously, this time, so he actually backs away. Of course he wouldn't leave without you asking. Then you turn your back and pick through the rubble, back toward the remnants of the temple— though not before weaving around one of Ramsey's staggering legs. She hasn't moved yet. Because she's not sure how to? Because she can't think any longer? Or because she doesn't need to: there's no knocking the Crown off her head now?
It's a good thing Ramsey isn't very smart. You duck behind a chunk of wall and plunge your fingers into the sand. A few moments later, the head of your beloved worm pokes out before you. (You may have indicated that food was available.) Oh, Annie, so beautiful, so innocent: she's never done anything wrong in her life, except eating Lucky that one time. Never done anything wrong to you. And she harbors no complexities, no conspiracies, nothing to untangle or struggle to understand. She's just a worm. A worm you like a great deal.
"Sorry, pretty girl," you whisper, even though Annie doesn't understand speech or apologies. "I'm so sorry. I'll— when I'm God, I'll—"
She doesn't understand what gods are. Doesn't understand what betrayal is. She won't know fear or anger or recrimination— won't stare you in the eyes as you twist the knife. She has no eyes. She will know pain, pain, pain, pain, then nothing, then something again, if you revive her, and she will go on her wormy way untouched and untroubled.
(1/3?)