#soreas

“Come here.”

Soreas shuddered at the sudden command in his head, so much louder than the usual whispers scratching away at his psyche. No, this was an authoritative thunderclap, a sonic boom that scattered and shattered any thoughts that might have been going through his head at the time.

…Not that that was a common occurrence nowadays.

Ever since the day the lalafell caught the attention of a primal, he found himself under his sway, the signature tempering of those creatures slowly tightening around his mind like a noose. At first, it was simply a penchant towards listening to his orders, his body flowing into motion before his brain could even consider not following them. Then came the whispers, quiet mental hisses encouraging him to obey and give in, commands circling round and round his head, occasionally dipping in to take a nibble like those sharks he used to be wary of on the open ocean, back when he was a pirate.

…Back when he was a free man.

Oh, he might be able to play pretend at being free nowadays, but it was nothing more than a ruse, for both others and himself. All just a play, far more elaborate than those bawdy productions his crew used to put on when boredom and one too many flagons of ale took them. The primal took him, staffed him as the star of the show and made him sing and dance to his whims.

“Soreas … ”

Impatience, irritation bleeding through whatever mental link had been forged between the two of them. The primal was ever a fickle beast, quick to anger if he didn't get his way.

Best not to tempt fate any further, even though he desperately needed a break from tending to him.

With a weary sigh, Soreas ran a hand through his silver hair, making sure not to ruin the tight braid he had it in. He then pushed himself away from his goldsmithing supplies; that long overdue commission would have to wait a while longer. Head pounding, he headed from his work area on the second floor down the stairs and through the glamoured door leading to the basement… which doubled as the primal's lair.

The wooden stairs gave way to a sleek marble floor, softened only by a long carpet that trailed the length of the cavernous basement until ending at a crystal throne set into the far wall. Light fell in through the magicked windows, glinting off the surface of the throne and shattering out into every shade of blue imaginable. As if that weren't enough, a carved pair of golden wings spreading out from the throne marked this as belonging to divinity.

Not that there was any doubt in his mind, not with the primal currently seated on it.

Even stuck in the Raen host he had claimed, Overmind was imposing, lounging on the throne in a way that spoke of an easy familiarity with the action. Shoulder-length white hair framed a face that was always hard and unyielding, just like his eyes… Ones that were the brilliant blue shade of the ocean on a clear, cloudless day.

Soreas knew him to be just as volatile and quick to anger as the sea itself.

All-too aware of that weighty gaze on him, he shuffled the long way to the throne before he knelt in front of it, bowing his head down in a show of servitude. This close to the primal, the whispers jumped in volume, becoming a background murmur that was impossible for him to tune out.

“Master.” He greeted obediently as he lifted his head back up.

“Slave.” Overmind greeted in kind, a song and dance almost as old as his enthrallment. “What kept you?”

An almost imperceptible tremor ran through him, knowing that he had to tread lightly here. “Was just getting to a good stopping spot on my goldsmithing’s all. That client's getting a bit antsy to have their necklace and it has been a while since I took it on…”

“They can continue waiting.” He said with a derisive snort. “I have need of you.”

Of course you do , the lalafell couldn't help the stray thought that defiantly slipped its way into the forefront of his mind. You always need me, no matter what else I need to do. You always have to come first…

Even in the split-second it took for him to register it, he knew it was a mistake. The primal narrowed his eyes, searing blue slits that pinned him to the spot, piercing through flesh and bone to the traitorous thoughts that churned beneath. He felt as though his skull was being pried open, the top of his cranium lifted so the primal could see what lay within. Those whispers grew quiet once more, a hush falling over his mind as if even they were anticipating what came next. Soreas' former tremor grew, a fullbody shake as he tried to silence the thoughts that came unbidden to his mind, the bits of rebellion that came to him in his brief moments of lucidity.

But why do they have to be brief? It's my mind, not this childish primal's.

The effect was immediate, Overmind roaring as he surged forwards off the throne, arm snapping out to grab the collar of Soreas' shirt. Easily, as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of groceries, he was hauled up into the air, eyes now level with the primal's. The lalafell squirmed ineffectually, his own hands desperately grasping at the one holding him up as if he might be able to pry the grip off of him. Pleas sprang to his lips, insistent promises that he didn't mean it and he’d never think anything like that ever again before,

“Enough.”

The primal's voice was layered now, a deep, otherworldly tone that rang in his mind as much as his ears. Much like the mental command from earlier, he had no chance in all the seven hells of disobeying this one, his jaws clicking shut more on their own accord than any conscious action on his part. All he could do now was shiver and tremble and wait for the primal's judgment.

…Something that was swift and merciless.

“I grow weary of your stubborn will.” He continued on in that voice, though it grew ragged at the edges—a consequence of forcing a primal's voice through mortal vocal chords. “In fact, I believe it to be more trouble than it is worth…”

Whether through a show of that exact will or just raw, animal terror, Soreas opened his mouth again, pleas much more desperate and incoherent this time, half-finished sentences begging him to stay his hand, let him keep his place at his side, please, he’ll be good—

But, even as those desperate supplications escaped him, he could feel the primal at work.

There was a sickening, wrenching sensation, the primal's mental fingers yanking his skull open all the way, letting his essence, letting him flow inside to fill the hollow of his head like the waters of the ocean he used to sail upon. His presence was overwhelming, smothering as it settled within, crashing against his disobedient thoughts and crushing them beneath hadopelagic pressure. Soreas could barely choke out a whimper while those whispers swelled back up to their proper volume, as if settling in to replace those pesky ideas of his after successfully drowning out the competition.

Admire…

Worship…

Obey…

As that cacophonous echo crashed against his mind like waves breaking against the shore, Soreas' struggles began to die down, all feelings, all thoughts ceding to them. Pieces of his identity tried bobbing up to the surface only to flounder before the might of the mental storm.

Goldsmithing? Irrelevant.

Being part of a little guild of crafters? Not necessary.

Soreas Lennart? A meaningless name that fell to the inky depths of his mind like everything else.

As his new, clean identity settled into place, he fell limp in the primal's grip, looking at him with blue eyes glazed-over.

Smirking, the primal reached out with his free hand, caressing his thrall’s cheek with a deceptively-soft touch. “Is that not better, my slave?”

Soreas, or rather, the nameless thrall that Soreas used to be, leaned into that touch, offering him a slow, stupored smile and a monotone,

Soreas Lennart still wasn't used to the hunger pains.

Oh yes, there was the simple, basal hunger for food—he still needed sustenance like any normal lalafell. But, ever since being irrevocably corrupted by a primal’s energies, he found that food and drink didn't entirely satisfy, leaving him wanting for something more . Sure, meals had aether, but it wasn't nearly enough to satiate his new, otherworldly hunger for the stuff. No, the cravings had a nasty way of creeping up on him, chipping away at his usual cheery demeanor until he was irritable and snappish. Until all he could think of was satisfying it in any way he could, no matter how he had to go about it.

It was then, mood tanked and stomach roiling, he finally gave in.

While he might not be quite as practiced at it as he used to be, his shinobi training ensured he could sneak up on most people if he really tried. Even moreso if they happened to be travelling by themselves on one of the lesser-walked roads leading into Ul’dah. Tight silver braid bobbing with his movements, he flitted between rocks and the sparse shrubbery as he approached his mark for the night; a lone female miqo’te making her way towards the jewel of the desert.

She wasn't going to make it to her destination, not if he had anything to say about it.

Unfortunately for him, the already-sparse vegetation thinned out even further as he drew nearer. Fortunately, however, he knew just the trick to deal with that. He drew one of his many knives and made a quick gesture with it. At the cost of his already-low aether, the air seemed to shimmer in front of him, momentarily breaking into multicolored prisms before dissipating.

An illusion that would mask the remainder of his approach.

Moving quickly, he rolled on his feet to keep his steps silent as he ducked out from cover. As soon as he was close enough, he shoved at the back of the miqo'te’s knees, knocking her forwards with nothing more than a startled gasp… a noise that was cut off by a shocked gurgle as he cleanly slid his knife across her throat. As she proceeded to bleed out onto the desert sands, whimpering and clutching at the gash in her neck, Soreas coldly watched with brilliant blue eyes. He even withdrew a small towel to casually wipe his blade clean while he waited.

This wasn't the lalafell's first kill, nor would it be the last.

When her struggles died down and she laid motionless against the ground, he moved forwards once more. After rolling her over onto her back, he paused, looking her over with a discerning… and slightly wild gaze.

He could carve out some choice bits and bring them back to his best mate to cook up for him. Glitchy was a fantastic chef and he could make spoken flesh look obscenely mouthwatering even if you were privy to its seedy origins. Hells, under normal circumstances, that was what he would do, prying out just enough meat to sustain himself.

But that was when he wasn't already starving . When the coppery stink of blood wasn't so thick in the air he could practically taste it.

He poked his tongue out to wet lips suddenly gone too dry, his hand tightening around his blade. His stomach growled fiercely, hunger, sheer animal need gnawing at the sides.

Too strong to ignore for any longer.

Without thinking, his knife struck down and across, using both hands to stab into the miqo'te's abdomen. It was far sloppier than his usual work—hunger making his motions desperate and messy, sawing open a ragged gash until it encompassed the width of her body. When he was done with that, it took another couple of painstakingly slow downward cuts to either side of the slice to give him access to the treasures that lay within. Finally, he set his knife to the side and used his bare fingers to pry the flap of skin down, baring her glistening innards to the air.

A sight that only served to stir the hunger in his own gut even further.

Ripping through a gauzy layer of yellow flesh, he finally got to the literal meat of the matter—all the proper organs nestled in the abdominal cavity, just waiting for the taking. He wasn't one to know all the ins and outs of anatomy; he left all that to Glitchy and his quite frankly concerning knowledge on cuts of meat. Still, he knew well enough to leave the intestines alone, his fingers idly drifting over their slippery lengths as he considered his options. Not the stomach either. Kidneys would hardly be a snack for him in his current state; not worth the effort of digging them out. No, what he ended up reaching for was a large hunk of an organ nestled in beside the stomach, probably the liver by his reckoning. Wrapping both hands around it, he pulled on it, grip slipping from the blood and yellowy globs of fat coating it. Grunting in frustration, he did his best to wipe it off before trying again. It took him several attempts, but he eventually succeeded in ripping the organ from its home, sending sprays of blood splattering all over as veins and arteries snapped under the strain. Not caring about his outfit being ruined, he brought his prize up to his lips and sank his teeth into it.

In that moment, it was perhaps the best piece of meat he had ever tasted.

He let out an obscene moan as the metallic taste of blood washed over his tongue, his mouth flooding with saliva as his body recognized what it needed . Strengthened by his primal’s energies, he easily bit clean through the raw flesh, chewing it up just enough to swallow it without choking. He barely waited for it to go down before he went to tear off another chunk, ripping it off with the same animalistic ferocity as before. Every bite was accompanied by little animal noises of satisfaction, muffled by his mouthfuls of organ meat. Surges of pleasure lanced up his spine, endorphins rushing through his body as it finally, finally got what it had been craving.

Pure, sheer bliss.

He went on like that until, far too soon, he was slurping down the last bit of liver. Once it had been fully devoured, he licked at the palms of his scarlet hands, more to get every last drop of precious lifeblood than to clean them off. As of that moment, he was still far too gone to care about minor things like his appearance.

But not for long.

As the flesh and blood settled in his stomach, it calmed the unnatural hunger raging through him and sent strength unfurling through his body; fresh aether being absorbed. His racing, feral thoughts slowed to a trickle, giving way to a more rational, reasonable mindset. Without that horrid need clouding his mind in bloodlust, he could properly look to see what he had done.

Much as he wished he couldn't.

Guilt and shame flooded his body just as surely as that addictive surge of aether as he beheld his handiwork. The way he had torn into the miqo'te's body, literally gutting her… it threatened to send his all-too recent meal travelling right back up. Sure, it was bad enough that he partook of spoken flesh prepared and cooked, but to rip into a fresh corpse and eat it raw like some wild beast…?

He had to leave. Had to get away from this macabre scene to wallow in his feelings on the matter.

Still… the body was right there and it wasn't like it was going to be used for anything else. Hells, it would probably be eaten by some animal before anyone came across it to give it a proper burial. Besides, a mere liver wouldn't be enough to sustain himself; he’d have to go hunting for another target sooner rather than later if he left with just that.

Waste not, want not.

He flicked his tongue over his lips, picking up flakes of drying blood, took up his knife again.