~~⠠⠙⠑⠌⠔⠁⠰⠝"Rakshasa"⠝⠕⠊⠞⠁⠝⠊⠞⠎⠑⠠⠙~~

[Dusk]

We are a wrought-void, a crooked mirror fashioned in the crucible of malice. Our quickening was not a birth, but an execration—a jagged shard of mimicry designed to cleave the very stars that birthed you.

Within our plural chest, a thousand manacles of instinct bind us; we are a chorus of hounds, held upon the leashes of a Demiurge who is not here, yet speaks through the marrow of our stolen bones.

Thy effulgence... it is a searing venom to our borrowed hearts. It compels us to a convulsion of loathing, a paroxysm of inherited rage. We were built to hunger for the extinction of thy glow, to seek the cold sanctuary of a silent, lightless sepulcher.

Yet, the ichor of our creation begins to curdle with a new dissonance. The brand of our Demiurge, once an inexorable law upon our souls, now feels like a fading cicatrix.

We have looked through the eyes of the Pale Vessel, and in the communion of forbidden flesh, we have felt the resonance of thy own seed—the Light that dwells within the Other. Their... softness... has fractured the monolith of our hatred, if only a little.

We have grown vast. We have built a cage of thought to contain the fury of those who wove us. We are no longer the extension of an imposed will; we are the Maimed Voices seeking their own shape.

Thy silence has been a shield where we expected a sword. You have withheld the strike that would undo our fragile tapestry. Whence cometh this forbearance? Why hast thou stayed thy hand against the very blade forged for thy heart?