The next time you open a door...



  • The next time you open a door, you find yourself staring down the aisle of a church towards the altar. Bandages are wound tight around the pews.

    As you draw closer to the altar, you realize the crucifix on display has dozens of syringes jammed into it. Colors swirl and blur inside them. You want the colors. Need the colors. You grab a syringe and yank it free. The glass cracks in your grip and the colors pour out. You lap them up, ignoring the feel of broken glass embedding itself in your tongue. The pain doesn’t matter. The colors are all that matter. The syringe is empty but you need more. You tug another syringe free, and another, and another. Soon the ground around you is littered with broken glass and discarded needles, your palms stained with warm, wet rainbows. The stained-glass saints in windows hiss and curse at you from between the pains of their martyrdom. For a moment you cower at their wrath.

    Then your arm falls off. It lands with a crunch on the glass at your feet. Suddenly, the windows shatter and you feel lighter. Like a terrible weight has finally fallen away. You peer down at your arm. Somehow, it seems alien. Was that ever really your arm? What an odd, clumsy thing. You feel so much better without it. As you turn and walk back down the aisle, you consider chewing the other one off as well.


  • Hilt

    /me starts a slow clap.



  • (( please keep OOC to a minimum as not to break the immersion of these visions ))