/meat/ Story Archive

Goddess
A Fleshwright's Tale
By Strange Lights
Mik Gardrinn

Goddess

The young man trembles slightly in his seat, his hand shaking as it reaches for the filled chalice. Under the flickering light, the milky brown liquid seems tempting. It has an unusual scent, a mixture of the exotic taste from /infinity/ and local medicine. Closing his eyes, he drinks his fill alongside his hesitation and doubts. The performance-enhancement effect of the clockwork goddess' milk will steel and sharpen his mind for days to come.

This is the moment of his life.

It has been a while since words of the fall of the goddess have spread across the /vt/ land. Not just any goddess, but purportedly one of the most powerful and affluent from the holo continent. Her domain, the land of soft rain and raging storm, has fallen into silence once the sounds of scream and anguish have subsided.

Some say a new goddess has inherited her legacy, while others say it has become a lifeless wasteland, plagued by living dead who has surrendered all hopes. Regardless, any followers of the exiled goddess will not be in any shape to blaspheme and defile the sacred ritual today.

A high-pitched, innocent voice breaks the man from his thoughts. A petite priestess has been assigned to assist him in this ritual. Despite her best attempts to remain calm, it is obvious to the man that she is at least as anxious as he was.

After all, a man of the bloody cloth has to know how to read the faintest language of the body, so that he can adapt to draw the most amount of life from the sacrifice. With his warm smile and assuring words, the priestess gradually calms down, and her newfound resolve allows her to carefully lift the heavy tray of tools. Made of metal and enhanced with the sharpest obsidian blades of the land, these tools will be his brushes, to create art out of the most sacred substance.

Donning his clothes of boiled leather and embroidered cloth, the priest walks steadily out of the preparation room to the azure sky under the shining sun. It seems the gods have seen it fit to grant the people the best weather, so that all can witness his deeds.

Before the decorated steps leading up to the altar, the sacrifice is already ready. A dainty girl below 5 feet, her short hair and buns bear the verdant colour the banished goddess is known for. Tears continue to flow from the widened red eyes, but even under the gag, her expression is rather calm. Her pale, almost ivory-toned skin is covered with tears, sweat, and all other kinds of bodily fluid, but no amount of them will wash away the inked lines covering her body. Carefully tattooed on her skin by skilled priests, every curve and hook embedded in her skin not only dedicates herself to the watchful eyes of the /meat/ pantheon, but will also guide his blades as he reveals every inch of her being to the numerous onlookers cheering on them.

The rough surface of the steps causes the bare-footed sacrifice to struggle with each step. Normally, her cries will melt into the thunderous crowd, but the gag keeping the cocktail of medicine inside her stomach turns that into an indecipherable muffle. This is done not only to ensure she does not throw out the drugs that will ensure her consciousness and sense of pain the longest, but also to ensure every cry and scream from her will be saved for the ritual proper.

Soon, they are at the top of the platform, where the marble white altar awaits. As the delicate girl is bound to the altar, until she can barely move a muscle that might ruin the ritual, the leather-clad man glances over the crowd. Virtually everywhere he can see is covered with people, their eyes all locked squarely on him and the sacrifice. Streets, rooves, even elevated scaffoldings for those who can afford them, are filled.

The ritual will last for a whole day, maybe even two if the goddesses are to be so generous.

By the end of the ritual, every inch of her body will be exposed to the numerous eyes below.

Neither a single drop of her blood, nor a scrap of flesh will be wasted.

This will be the zenith of his life.

Today, he is going to kill a goddess.

The young woman trembles slightly on her steps, her legs shaking as her feet walk on the stony ground. The hard ground would normally cut and callous her smooth skin. However, the medicine being fed to her has ensured that her body will heal in the prescribed manner. The taste is pungent to her, with the gag sealing her lips being about the only thing keeping them from evacuating her body. Still, after days of languishing, her mind is oddly clear, even tranquil, an almost alien sensation to her for a long while.

This is the moment of her life.

With a signal from the escorting guards, the petite girl steps through the door and is greeted by the azure sky under the shining sun. It seems the gods have seen it fit to grant the people the best weather, so that all can witness her deeds.

A path has been cleared between the thunderous crowd to the side, where she and her guards walk towards the elevated platform in the middle of the city, where she will meet the end on the marble altar. Except, as she was told beforehand, this is not seen as simply the end, but the beginning of another step in the cycle of life. She does not claim to understand it, nor is it necessary - her flesh will perform the duty regardless of her wish.

Not to mention, her wish will be fulfilled regardless. As far as the red eyes can see, numerous pairs of eyes are squarely locked onto her, just like how the fanatical followers of the now-exiled goddess did back in her heyday. She can feel every gaze landing on her bare skin, the once immaculate, pearly skin that is now adorned with all kinds of strange tattoos, marking where the black blades will soon expose her innermost secrets to the people.

All kinds of emotions and feelings rush through her mind as she is walked closer and closer to the stairs. Tears flow uncontrollably from the widened red eyes. Her voice is muffled by the gag locked in her mouth, one that both ensures the medicine stays inside her for the fullest effect, and saves her silky voice for the bloody ritual that is to come.

She is... excited. Aroused, even.

If one thing the detractors of the now-banished goddess is right, it is that she has always been craving attention. While initially, the love from her followers was enough to sate her appetite, the addiction only sinks deeper and deeper, one that true followers were only too happy to oblige, even if they knew, deep inside their heart, that such addiction will only end in ruin.

This, perhaps, is her way to atone, after the fall of the goddess has left her mind in ruin. She has heard about the strange customs of /meat/, a place where suffering reigns supreme... perhaps even a place where the people have conquered suffering and claim it as their own. A place that can grant her salvation.

In her grief, she made her way to this tropical, verdant land, and appealed to the clergy. She will offer herself to them in exchange for... relief, absolution, attention. She did not know. Regardless, her wish was granted, and they began their macabre rituals to prepare her for one of the most sacred rituals of them. Deicide. Deiphagy. They will consume the goddess.

But first, the goddess has to be made. Her devotion to her goddess is recognised, but her body has to be modified in her image. Numerous cuts were made, fine-tuning her into the likeness of the goddess, from her height to her voice, even her hair had been changed to match the brilliant green.

And now, showered in undivided attention that the goddess must have craved, she finally understands how delicious this addiction is. For perhaps the first time in her life, she truly understands how she feels. The warmth of her tears continues to flow across her marked skin.

She is greeted by the priest and his assistant, the ones who will complete what has already begun. One that will lead her to the final apex. As her body is being bound to the marble altar, the red eyes glance over the crowd. Streets, rooves, even elevated scaffoldings for those who can afford them, are filled.

The ritual will last for a whole day, maybe even two if her devotion is strong enough to hold herself together.

By the end of the ritual, every inch of her body will be exposed to the numerous eyes below.

Neither a single drop of her blood, nor a scrap of flesh will be wasted.

This will be the zenith of her life.

Today, she is going to become a goddess.

A Fleshwright's Tale

Not every job dedicated to the goddesses is glamorous.

There are some who are the closest to the gods, the ones that flay, carve, and eat them at the top of an altar, witnessed by all eyes around. There are some who sail far across the horizon, spilling their own flesh and blood in hopes of bringing new ones back to the altars.

But of course, there is no such thing as a good meal without preparations.

It has been a while since this man has been delivered to me. His worship of a goddess made him unfit for the god-eating rituals, but his health and bone structure was quite appetising. He is quite strong, too, and the restraints on the Wheel has to be replaced with metal shackles after one too many torn leather straps.

Gruel made from bitter cassava, grounded beans and nuts is filling, if not exactly appetising for the foreigner, although admittedly, the feeder's form probably leaves even more of a bad taste than the gruel. Still, with a cocktail of herbs, medicine and drugs both native and foreign, the captive will not only live but even grow into a form to my liking.

I take pride in my skills and duty as a fleshwright... but it would be a lie if I say I do not have my own desires towards my material. The side effect of this foreign milk does not help either, even if our recipe dampens it enough to keep the strange sensation from interfering with my work. Downing another bowl of the milky brown mixture, I ready myself for the daily ritual once more. Every layer of hemp and leather straps on my hands protect them from unwanted injuries, and the filling between them ensures the flesh will feel the full force of every blow.

Oh, he will feel it. The sound of his every muffled scream the moment I cast my shadow upon him on the Wheel is like music to my ear.

Undoing the weave of leather, metal and ropes wrapped around his limbs, it does not take long for me to reaffirm that his flesh and bones have been growing with the right curvatures. That femur will do well in a cuirass. Of course, they are still not hardened enough for that purpose yet. With that, I tighten my fist around the metal handle and begins delivering my blows towards him. Shins, thighs, forearms, upper arms. They are my canvas, and I like my paint purple and red. The best sounds, though, come from his stomach. I tell my disciples that it helps soften the meat and organs later, but truth be told, I see it more as an instrument, providing the background music for my work.

It is nice to break some sweat breaking bones, and the exertion let me focus my mind on my task rather than my own desire, as much as such desire drives my devotion to the goddesses in the first place.

Once I completed my painting, I have just a bit of time to marvel at my work before having to put the straps back onto him. The mixture of drugs and nutrition makes his bones regrow faster than what most foreigners could imagine, but it also means the moulds have to be secure and put on quickly to ensure they grow back at the right curvatures. Of course, it never hurts to tighten them just a bit more, if only to squeeze another moan from him. The drugs are enough to keep his mind from missing the rituals, but some varieties are always necessary to spice it up.

I will miss the time with him once he is fully prepared for the abattoir. Maybe I can squeeze in some extra moulding sessions in between. I am sure he will appreciate it too...

By Strange Lights

I received my first assignment as a scribe a few days before the cold equinox, where I was to accompany my superior to a small settlement somewhere in Matiriki. On paper, it was nothing out of the ordinary - the great cathedral in the capital regularly sent out its faithful to the rest of the realm, both to assist the local clergy in conducting some of the more complicated rituals, and to document recent happenings to keep the great cathedral up to date. Of course, sometimes the clergy would also be tasked to... correct local practices that were deemed incompatible with our great faith. At the time, I thought that was the case, as we were accompanied by a small contingent of blessed warriors.

Our destination was a stone's throw away from the plastered road between Matiriki and Geroberg, near a small mountain in the rainforest. The locals called the place Vorduhaugr, or the Watchers' Cairn. Instead of taking the plastered main road, we were told to use one of the mountain roads that should lead directly to the area. At the time, I simply thought that the abbot simply wished to restore orthodoxy to the remote settlement before it could spread to the more important cities nearby.

The first hint that it was not a usual visit came from the priestess. A priestess of the plant goddess, I was her first student ever since she had completed the pilgrimage to some faraway country. Apparently, one of the countries less judgmental of our faith knew of rituals to transform others into some kind of humanoid plant life, something that many devotees to the goddess had been trying to undergo. Despite that, she did not look anything different - a petite, feminine human made in the image of her goddess.

"Why did you decide to become a scribe?"

It was the first question she asked when I was just an acolyte assigned to her. Not exactly something I was expecting when we were about to rest for the night. Back then, I prepared my answer in advance, something by the book to ensure she would agree to be my mentor. It worked well enough back then, but now, she seemed more interested in my real answer.

I want to see the wider world. To see where all those exotic goods unloading in Atoyavik came from. To see where all the strange people from far away lands act in their homeland. Then, write down all of them, so that others similarly curious may learn about it all.

It was my genuine answer... or so I thought. As it seems, she might know me better than I did myself.

"It would be better to be a reader than a writer in that case."

... and she was right. The job of an archivist was not the most glamorous, but they would have better access to all the writings preserved from the past, not to mention a lot of time dedicated to copying, refining, and printing them. The job of a scribe, on the other hand, would be to write what they would access later.

At the time, I did not know my answer, and the late night soon put us to sleep - we would arrive at our destination tomorrow, and sufficient rest was mandatory to prepare ourselves for whatever awaited us.

I did not sleep well that night. The unspoken question continued to linger in my mind until the drying sun dawned upon us.

The sun was shining above us when we arrived at Vorduhaugr. The forest was still dense enough in this area, but the ground was thankfully dry enough for our wagon to survive the short journey off the exalted roads.

It was a small village - probably no more than 200 souls - at the foot of the bald mountain. The wooden palisade had seen better days, and most of the houses were built with stones and wood. Like all settlements ruled by our faith, the biggest building was located at the centre of the village, a shrine dedicated to our pantheon. A paved road extended from the church towards the bald mountain until it ended at the summit among the naked rocks.

The locals gave us a hearty welcome - as they would be, welcoming an envoy from the capital. Of course, that was not what I was expecting, still believing that our mission was to correct improper beliefs. Indeed, our escorts soon joined the carousal of the local levy - apparently, the wife of the village elder was a skilled brewer.

While my superior met with the village elder, I was tasked to set our wagon in the clearing near the village. While it was a mundane task, hampered only by our intoxicated guards, my attention soon turned towards something else unusual. For a small settlement like Vorduhaugr, it sure had a lot of wagons and boats. Furthermore, most of them appeared to be already loaded - with tools, lumber, and what few valuables the locals had. Naturally, I took out my quill and ink, and spent my time documenting this strange occurrence.

By the time I finished my writing, the priestess had already returned - alongside dozens of men and women. While most of them were armed with axes, their lack of armour showed a lack of hostility. Instead, their next course of action was even more inexplicable, as they began dismantling the old palisade under the guidance of the elder. Soon after the perimeter disappear, the armed men turned their axes to their homes as well, carefully but swiftly chopping down the planks and walls to reveal the mostly-empty interior. It appeared that most of their furniture had already been moved to the wagons beside me, leaving behind only old ones that were soon turned into wooden scraps. It was a most unusual sight, and one that made me wonder why exactly were we sent here.

Just as I was about to reach for my quill, though, I felt the small hand of the priestess stopping me. The priestess, as it turned out, had other plans for me.

"You didn't have a good sleep yesterday, did you?"

Her question did keep me up at night, although either I had more confidence in my vigour than I should have, or she was even more perceptive than I gave her credit for. While I should be able to soldier on for another night, she recommended against it, as my presence might be needed in the early morning.

We strolled across the working villagers as they pull down their houses and walls, leaving behind only scraps of wood on the stone foundation. The scrap lumber was loaded on carts alongside some large cloth bags, seemingly ready to be transported elsewhere. The main shrine, of course, was spared from the deconstruction, and would be where we stay for the time being.

Before the stained glass window, a stone statue of our goddess was proudly on display, its base covered with molten wax no doubt left by numerous sermons and rituals. Before her laid a simple smooth stone slab, its rusting shackles likely seeing few uses - not that a small, landlocked village like this would see many sacrifices. The pews had seen better days, but they worked sufficiently well as makeshift beds once we laid the sheets on them. The strange, yet friendly behaviour of the locals still troubled me, but perhaps the narrowed gaze of my goddess would comfort me for whatever that would come later.

Regardless, I was quite thankful that the locals had prepared a tub of water for us to cleanse ourselves. I offered to bathe later - she was my superior, after all - but she insisted otherwise. The soap we were given smelled fat and wood ash - a common, if somewhat antiquated, formula used by our ancestors, although the faint alcoholic touch was also nice. Through the stained window, It appeared most of the village had been demolished, with piles of wood and junk waiting to be loaded onto carts. Lights from the wagon-filled clearing suggested the locals were now living among them.

After I had cleansed myself, it was the priestess' turn. She was not concerned with exposing herself to my eyes - perhaps it was a sign of trust? Or simply that a woman of the bloody cloth like her was used to flesh being exposed in more than one way. Still, I must admit that she was quite pleasing to the eyes, her petite and seemingly human form tempting my desire of the flesh. Still, common etiquette and my position beneath her forbade me from peeking, and time felt awfully slow as she took her time cleaning herself. She eventually returned from the impromptu bathroom, moonlight from the stained window painting her flesh in a myriad of colours. There was no doubt that she was aware of my attention and desire, and she moved onto the wooden bed after wiping herself clean.

Her flesh felt colder than mine, but her skin was as lively and soft as it looked. Perhaps it was a side effect of her transformation into plant? The ritual was developed deep beneath the frozen land far south, after all. Still, the sensation only made my mind wander further into my imagination, until her voice summoned my mind back to this world.

"So, have you found your answer? Why you've decided to be a scribe?"

It was... not exactly a moment for deep contemplation. Fortunately, she did not seem to mind that. As we enjoyed the colourful moonlight seeping into the empty church, she began talking about her mission here. Befitting for a priestess to the plant goddess, she was here to conduct a fertility ritual. Definitely not a conventional one, though, as we would need a lot more chuubanite-enriched fertiliser for that, and that luxury was usually reserved for more fertile grounds. As I questioned the idea, she produced from herself a long piece of thorny vine.

At least, that part of the mystery had been solved. While the question of deconstruction still loomed outside the window, my body and mind did not have the luxury to focus on that, as the priestess parted her lips and extended her crimson tongue. As her assistant, it was my duty to help her in rituals, including this one. Even with her blessing, it was still a delicate ritual, but her form and voice were more than enough to encourage me as my shaking hands approached her exposed flesh with the vine.

My shallow sleep was disturbed by the priestess. Outside the window, the moon was still travelling through the cloak of the night... but something unusual was happening. The villagers and their loaded carts form a procession along the whitened road, leading from the village square towards the bald mountain. Strange lights were glowing beyond the mountain, something that I had never seen before - but the locals definitely had, as they continued their convoy towards it without fear.

It would take a while for her to be able to talk again, but she was apparently aware of what was going on. We quickly donned our clothes and joined the succession, with my quill and ink in hand. The elder greeted us and, despite the ailing eyes, my ignorance was quickly noticed by him. Fortunately, he did not consider this offensive to whatever ritual that was about to take place, and he informed us that we would be joining the journey towards the summit. I was allowed - requested, in fact - to document my sighting, although he also warned us to not linger longer than we had to, and we must not gaze directly at the source of the strange lights.

We accompanied what was presumably his own cart as we travelled the uphill road. Like other carts, it was filled with broken planks, presumably for his own house, as well as an assortment of pots and bags. A faint scent of alcohol and preserved meat emanated from them. The scent was familiar, but part of me was unsure if I should have asked about them. As the chance fled, we were soon upon the final slope before the summit. Locals preceding us stopped their track at a boulder shielding them from the source of light, where they unloaded their carts to a pile exposed to it. While most of them appeared mundane, some trinkets and leather were sparkling under the light - almost as if they were some heavenly chippings of the starry firmament above us, whose lights had been obscured by the odd glow.

Soon, it was our turn. We parked the cart by the rock as we helped the elder unload the content to the growing pile. It took a bit of practice to toss the goods to the pile without exposing myself to the alien glow, but soon enough the difficult part became suppressing my growing curiosity - the elder warned me again, in no uncertain terms, that gazing at whatever emitting the light would sever my fate in an untimely manner. Not wishing to test the warning personally, I commit myself to the task at hand. The pots were all filled with some kind of liquid, while the bags seemed to be home to some kind of carcass. The sensation of interweaving flesh and bone was unmistakable.

Once the cart had been emptied, the elder pulled it away from the boulder to make space for others. The priestess, though, stayed behind for a bit longer. Her lithe arm extended into the light, casting a strange shadow on the exposed land as she cast the bloody thorns to the pile. Under the dancing lights, the blood lustred brightly, almost as if it was coated in pure silver... in fact, words could not describe this otherworldly light. Even the most skilled poet would no doubt struggle with their words.

The elder's soaked grasp pulled me from the brief enthrallment, though, and we quickly made haste back towards the emptied settlement, somewhere that was presumably safe from what was to follow. By the time we returned to the church, the only building still standing in this clearing, the precession had ended, and the villagers soon return to the wagons or the surrounding woods as the wavering lights grew brighter - there was no doubt that something that bright would have been seen across the realm... but no one seemed to have written anything about it. Why was that?

The priestess ushered me back into the church, before closing the door behind us. Lights were now flashing through the small windows facing the mountain directly, illuminating the smile on the statue of our goddess. We laid on the beds beneath her, the back of the pews sheltering us from the lights. Soon enough, the back wall of the church had become the site of this strange shadow play. The rough shape of the mountain was infested by shapes defying description, interrupted by sudden flashes seemingly coming from the summit. I tried my best to write down what was happening before the gaze of our goddess, but my words failed to capture the sheer scale of whatever was happening there. It was almost as if the mountain was but an anthill, being kicked and punched by children before their interest finally faded, leaving behind the barren landscape we saw earlier.

It was... frightening, to be honest. If what the elder said was true, a mere gaze at their true form would be sufficient to shatter my mind, if not my body. Let alone having to face the wrath of whatever those beings were. The only comfort I had was the gaze of our goddess, and the embrace of my priestess. Her lithe fingers guided my hands as I struggled to write, and her drenched whisper encouraged my mind to soldier on, until the light began to fade, and so did my consciousness at her cold, but comfortable embrace.

By the time sunlight purged the darkness of the night, the event had ended. As we emerged from the church, the bald mountain seemed to have grown balder, and the pile of discarded material was all gone, as if it was picked clean by some kind of vultures. As the air began to warm up by the sun, the locals emerged from their wagons as well. This time, armed with axes, hammers, and shaves, the villagers began pulling carts filled with fresh lumber as they began building their houses, on the same foundation they left before. Some of the locals also loaded their carts with pots and tubs - including the empty one in the church - towards the bald mountain, scraping the oddly charred soil and loading them into the containers.

"A strange sight, isn't it?"

The priestess spoke, her words still a bit slurred as she was still healing from the ritual. I could not help but agree. By now, it was clear that this was all part of the fertility ritual she was here to conduct... or rather, facilitate. My mind had the urge to escape whenever I try to remember what happened to the bald hill last night, the ones who were truly responsible for this ritual. Of course, it was not exactly something our faith practised either.

"Would you... write it down?"

As her words seep into my mind, all the pieces bothering me fell into their place automatically. I nodded to her with a smile. I was still unsure why something like this was not commonly seen, let alone being recorded. It was something that defied being written, only experienced despite the great danger. I... want to witness them all. To write them down. Written words may never capture the essence of the events transpiring, but they might, with hope, inspire others to pursue it just like I did. As bizarre as my words might sound, the priestess was nonetheless satisfied with my answer, as a bright red smile appeared on her face, inviting me to taste it once again.

With her by my side, even the strange entities were not so terrifying after all.

—Excerpt from "Compilation of Sightings of the Jannies"

Mik Gardrinn

Izhuatl og xochitl svei;
Fidrildin flju;
Zolin syngja;
Acuahatlgardrinn

Vind lykt sotr ok thurr;
Mik Kaerrtzin;
Kalla nafn minn;
Ahiyoagardrinn

Acaxitl vit koma;
Tlasnjoryotl;
Mauhcayotl;
Akhwoagardrinn

Mik izti um quech;
That cotoctic;
Cuacotoctic;
Amkaerrtzingardrinn

rough translation

"My garden"

Leaves and flowers sway;
Butterflies flew;
Quails sang;
Avocado garden

Wind like sweet and dry;
My beloved;
Calls my name;
Not a lonely garden

Pool we came;
Chilly;
Scary;
A watery garden

My claws on her neck;
That is gone;
Beheaded;
My lover garden