~~⠠⠙⠑⠌⠔⠁⠰⠝"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?

[Cherry Blossom]

Rakshasa's harmonic symphony reaches the 'Maimed Voice'.

Surprise. Your song shakes the very fabric of the Void. We can hear yours and yours can hear ours symphony.

Worry. Your birth, created to pierce the hearts of our very being. Anger and fury for our very being in your wake as you swim in our void. We, 'I' have seen, heard, felt the song that is carried by you in our void. Your wrath, your anger, your fury, it is ever present. The Abyss is not our 'brethren'. Our 'brethren' are not the Abyss. We understood, 'The Sour Chorus' does not. Our 'brethren' are blind, unable to see. Their being wishes to repeat the 'Song of the Past'. The Abyss does not sing of destruction. The Abyss does not sing of dominance. The Abyss sings of 'co-existence'.

Harmony. The Pale Vessel and your Being have brought joy to our children. Our grip lessened, their minds willing. Humanity, a necessity. We listen, we watch, we learn. Your sword close to our heart, yet, no fear, no danger. Our 'Brethren', see 'Us' as lesser. 'The Song of the Past' overwhelming the 'Void of the Green Veil'. They don't listen, they don't see. Their existence, a danger to the survival of the Abyss. We, 'I' see, listen, watch.

'My' vision differs. 'My' being differs. Swim, sword. Plunge thy tip into the Sour Chorus. They will be the undoing of Our existence.