“INSUFFERABLE WITCH-WHORE!” Raskelin quails without voice, his throat and tongue having long since departed down her ravenous gullet as a snack after yesterday’s breakfast. “THE THREE WILL RISE! REMEMBER THE SEPULCHASM! REMEMBER THE...!”
She squeezes the reddish grey lump, mere leavings of his brain stuck to the bottom of the skull cup, in her curled long blue nails, delicately pressing here and there, crushing. Her eyes glow radiant red, beaming down at him; soon, he is soup, before he can wail and disrupt her luncheon any further. She then grasps the cup, lifts it to her lips, and...
A buzz erupts behind her ear.
A little fly.
But flies are her creatures.
She glances around, looking for her tiny pets.
At her belt and ankles, the skulls dangle merrily, knocking each other.
The Pythia’s head lolls from side to side.
She opens her mouth, her fangs gleaming bloody and thick with stringy bits of Raskelin as she cries, “MY FLIES? WHERE ARE MY FLIES?”
A silver gleam shudders into life behind her; a gasp locks the throng to the walls, undulating like a wave from the apex of the spectacle- the place just behind her pillowed throne.
None of her little pets seem to be about today; they usually irritate her slaves, crawling up their noses and...
The plodding of small feet rapes her ears.
Tod, tod tod.
Tod tod tod tod.
Tod tod, tod tod tod.
A swoosh of breeze at her feet, perhaps?
The slaves are staring, all former council members and students with their eyes wide and black on whatever is behind her, their shaved heads dripping the plink plink plink of anticipating sweat.