*
Where am I? The glade? The pod room? The mountain? The sea? The burning sands? I cannot tell. There is darkness here, but also light. However, the light here is like nothing I have ever seen before. It shimmers, in and out of existence. It has a deep, violet hue, which seems to suck in the surrounding darkness. It gives no warmth, but somehow, it feels comforting, as if the light is touching my soul directly.
The landscape around me is in chaos, with broken buildings and rampant swathes of plants chocking the land. Death has walked here, though the marks left by the reaper have long since faded. Blood and oil, mixed together, provide a noxious yet sweet scent. The streets are lined with crumbling bones, many of which are covered in bullet sized holes. This is a place of destruction and anguish, though the planet has already started to erase all traces of the bloodshed that once occurred here. I am standing in a plaza of some sort, though it is impossible to know for sure. Before me lies a hollowed out fountain, atop which lies the ruins of a great fresco, which apparently once depicted a scene of men hunting wolves. The picture is painted in a way so as to create an illusion, and the scene changes to one of wolves hunting the men if the angle is changed by a fraction.
Beneath the headache inducing work of art lies a bronzed plaque, which reads, “The Eternal Cycle of Predator and Prey.” Beside the fountain, a child's toy lies broken, it's once emerald surface stained with age-old blood. To my eyes, it is but a remnant of a violent past, but I know that it was once cherished and loved. Suddenly, a blood-curdling howl pierces the night. It awakens something that has been long buried by years of hardship and difficulty: fear. In my hand, bidden my memories of violence, is a blade of darkness and destruction. The last time I used it to slay a living beast, I almost lost myself to the rage. My hand trembles with the effort of holding such a despicable thing.
However, in my heart of hearts, I know that the blade is not the source of my anger. Buried deep within, past the fear and self-disgust, lies a beast of my own. Whenever the blood-letting begins, it rears its ugly head and roars with blood-lust. It is then, when the fear of death and the fear of life have reached an equilibrium, the beast strikes. It takes hold of my limbs, and forces me to scream in unison as it carves a path through my soul. It saves me from the fear, but at the same time it destroys my mind.
And when the red mist clears, and the fear recedes, the beast leaves. Always peacefully, always patient. I can feel it's excitement, it's wanting. It knows, that one day I will ask it to stay, and when I do, It will say, “Now, the violence becomes you.” Back in the plaza, if that is what it is, the howl has grown closer. Lanista is heavy in my hand, as it pleads with me to let the killing begin. I throw it to the floor, self-hatred my most powerful weapon against the temptation of violence. I run, in fear and despair, as the beast and the howl chase me into the cold darkness.
Awakening Page 134