Pound of Flesh

Deep within the illustrious walls of the Embalming Palace, amongst the Catacomb family's many secrets, is a private chamber used not for holding any of their numerous artifacts but creatures. Many beasts roaming the Spirit World held great value, whether it be due to the materials they provided, their unique properties, or simply because nobles found the taste of their flesh most exquisite.

None of those quite fit the reason for the chamber's current sole occupant.

The massive doors, covered from top to bottom with paper talismans, groan as something beats against them from within. A cacophony of flesh slapping against flesh, gnashing teeth, and unintelligible cries escape through the cracks. All that manages to escape physically is the blood seeping into the talismans, smudging the ink, and causing the paper to weaken. They are finely crafted, though, and it would take an agonizingly long amount of time for them to degrade to a point that the creature inside could free itself in this way. And that was assuming that no pesky exorcists intervened. Luckily, its captors weren't interested in keeping it bound here for long. Time is money, and the sooner it starts making a return, the better.

The moment the talismans fly from the doors, they burst open, and the sea of gore pooling behind is free to flood the room. A giant hand constructed of numerous incongruous parts smashes into one of the mercenaries with a sickening crack only made worse by the crunching and wet squelches that follow as they're consumed. The sea stretches out to devour the rest, savagely tearing them apart and melting them down to be absorbed into itself. What vocalization of their distress they can make is drowned out by the creature's own wailing.

Its attention turns to a robed figure, its many limbs desperately reaching towards them. A barrage of paper pierces and slices into its flesh, the talismans attempting to embed themselves, but it now tears at them with all the strength it can muster. They're nothing but annoyances better ignored. Yet, its thrashing about loses power, and it finds its approach slowed. With no mind, it's helpless to understand why. Not why it had been summoned, nor why it was being sapped of strength. All that the hateful mass can do is act on instinct and tear itself apart like an animal chewing off its own limb in a desperate bid to escape.

But the onslaught of talismans slows it down. Overwhelmed, it eventually becomes nothing more than a weakly flailing lump, its rage rendered impotent. More talismans are applied, and an outside force compels the creature to condense, molding it into something new. The pain of its own existence doesn't leave it, but the multitude of wails is quieted to a single voice's sobs and wretches that seem to intensify to compensate. It realizes how truly unfamiliar its surroundings are, how cold it is. Among these new thoughts are commands to submit and strange ideas that seem to answer its questions.

Where am I? Home.

What am I? Daughter.

Why am I? Serve.

Too much. It's far too much. The creature begins to bludgeon itself to make the constant flow cease, and eventually, it frees the source of its woes from its neck altogether. Its head splatters against the wall, vision blurring with an eruption of pain. As it slides down and rolls along the floor, something most curious comes into view. As its consciousness fades into nothing, it watches a pale, feminine figure convulsing. Flesh bubbles into strange growths as if trying to escape from the body but has nowhere to run to. What emerges from the neck is the only addition that doesn't look out of place. One mouth, one nose, two eyes, and hair that falls to the figure's shoulders. For a moment, they lock eyes.

Who is that?

Another private chamber, just as lavish, but not as lonely. It Xinlin is a regular. The brothels affiliated with the House of Catacomb are off limits, so her cravings had to be satisfied elsewhere. Fortunately, the Redlight was always willing to accommodate peculiar tastes. As long as an adequate price was paid, she would be provided with new parts to try on and the adoration she desired for her work.

"You finished early. Were they not to your liking?" asked the proprietor, Xana Redsilk. Her voice was smooth and breathy, spreading like a fog to envelope Xinlin's mind. Her vocal chords would be exquisite.

"There was nothing I wanted, but you know that." Of course, she keeps a close watch on her girls, especially with less stable customers.

Xana shakes her head. "Oh, poor thing. Leaving loyal customers unsatisfied isn't our policy. Perhaps there's a way for me to... compensate you?"

Beneath the heavy tint of her glasses, Xinlin's eyes scanned the woman with a hunger in them. The curl of her horns, the plumpness of her lips, the way her sharp brows rest above her eyes. Her eyes. Her body is a bountiful feast, but if only one thing could be taken, then it would have to be the gem-like orbs that watch her with the amusement of knowing something others don't.

Her whole body seemed to growl with desire. "Your eyes would look so much nicer on me."

Xana's dark chuckle taunts her. "I'm afraid even their temporary loss would affect business too much for that. Are you sure there's nothing else you want?"

"Nothing you can give me."

Nothing she would be any more willing to give up, and nothing Xinlin was willing to sour their relationship over. Most people didn't take kindly to having their bodies treated as buffets to be pilfered. If she did try to take them, then she'd have to kill her. Otherwise, she could cause problems for her enslavers family. Something in her says that wouldn't be so bad. That she could take it all. The flood of chemicals in her brain don't quiet them, but they do dampen her growing hunger to a tolerable level. Treating those who had done her kindness so callously was wrong, so she was told.

Xana frowns for a brief moment. "Hmm. I doubt that."

Xinlin turns away and walks towards the door. "We'll settle this another time. I've other matters to attend to." As she opened the door, a tendril of flesh and bone expanded from her thigh and whipped at something on the back of her dress. The spider clinging to the fabric is impaled on the sharpened bone. "Private matters."