Thread: Anti-Heroes - The Volumes

Originally Posted by Siиdяed

ANTI-HEROES
VOLUME Ț̴̡͓͍̗̩̜ͣ͛ͩ̈́̈́͆̔̄͑͋ͤ̈́̿͛̀͢H̸̡̩̼͍̬̪̗͉̤̳͐̅̉̊̽̏̓̊͌̒́̚͢ ̳͔̩͔̼̝̬Ṙ́͛̆̊E̷͋̽̈ͥ̽́̒҉̞̜̺̞̫̜͇̰̰͇̗̲̮̼͙̟ͅE̸̵ͧ͌̓͗̈́̾ͫ͑̒̊̈́̍̎ͦ̐ͭ̒ͮ̂͠ ̤͎͇̜͖̤̼̹ͅ

In the Deep Darkness where nothing lives three figures swirled and blurred as they drifted listlessly on a breeze that wasn't - and couldn't - be there. Interlopers in the incomprehensible, migrant vagrants in the impossible void of nothingness that ought not exist but does, because somewhere we know there to be a vaccuum to rival all other vaccuums, a deep, dark emptiness that is as unending as it is unbeginning. It is the place we fear as we cloak ourselves in shrouds of religion and ritual, the dark blackness that is without colour (and thus cannot be blackness) and without space or being or canny of reasonable mind. It is the place we delude ourselves with visions of paradise (or even eternal torment pits of fire and ice) for.

It is the netherland, the hinterland of non-being.

And yet here three beings are, drifting slow and lazy on impossible currents.

The one is blood-red, and came first. It is maybe an angel, or some mediaeval knight, or a super-hero or maybe just a swirling mass of frantic idea and need to create. Once, long back, it had form, and was comprehensible. Now it is lost to obscurity in tangents upon tangents, creation added to creation until the skeletal frame could not hold it coherent.
For a time it struggled to reassert simple (though derivative) structure, being a deserted isle, or a mess of steampunk doggerel. As flimsy constructs each new outer shell it fashioned for itself collapses inwards, only serving to make the thing bleed more fiercely.
It drifts and is silent, save for the drip drip of dried out spluttering veins that leave crimson snakes twisting as trail marker to where it floats.

The second is More gaudily clad in colour, and is more mechanical than the first, a thing of numerical statistics and maps and attributes. It is a thing of science fiction, maybe, full of promised back-story never delivered. It is maybe more beautiful than the first, a more coherent thing not given sway to delirium and over-reaching in its tangental webbing.
But it is bloated now, a decadent and lazy bug of a creation, cocooned inexplicably in silvery grey cobwebs and layered thickly with a bedsheet of dust.
It drifts and is silent, save for the gentle throbbing of the one gossamar-engorged fat arachnid that scuttles about it, layered on the webs of inactive decay and leaving spiked point prints in the dust.

The third is shapeless, and all colours. It is not a thing of memory and legacy, as the other two are, but a thing of potential. It is raw, untamed, uncommanded. If it is at fault - for who can fault that which is not yet given shape and meaning - then it is ignored. A blank board without player. A canvas without artist or audience.
It flickers and spasms and roars and rages and sings songs not yet composed all at once with mouths undefined and limbs unimagined.
It does not drift silently. It screams without form or fashion or style for creator and for player.

In the Deep Darkness that cannot be Dark and cannot have content, these three roll on. Unwatched.

fff