I'm Actually Quite Selfish

[Tearen Wover]

As Tearen stalked down the dark streets of Azgradurg, he tucked his hood low over his obsidian face to avoid drawing undo attention to himself. Granted, having a pair of brightly glowing eyes was not exactly an oddity in the Underverse. Despite this, demons that he seemed to walk past still stared at him with some suspicion. Perhaps it was the fact he was wearing colors other than black, or perhaps it was because he lacked the hunched, almost crippled gait of many of the demons who hobbled around them. Indeed, it seemed as though nearly all of these nameless wretches had some form of disfigurement or another. There were so many questions that swirled around in Tearen's head that he found it hard to focus on where he was going. It wasn't as though he had set out with a specific destination in mind, but the haphazard layout of this infernal city made it hard to keep track of a path he could retrace.

It didn't help that none of the buildings had any sort of signage or identifiers to distinguish them. Each ramshackle structure seemed to be constructed half out of ancient stone and half out of dark, corroded scrap metal that was simply bolted onto the walls and windows. How was this society structured, after all? Were there families living in these dank abodes? Did these demons have jobs they did? As far as Tearen could tell they simply went about their lives scuttling from shadow to shadow, with only the matches in the arena to break the monotony. It was almost as if they had been created as an afterthought; as if some great Prime had summoned the whole of Azgradurg without remembering to give it an actual purpose. Given what he'd seen of Grooota, the Shadow was sure that some Demon Lord or another claimed this city as theirs. Allegedly, certain nefarious Primes had been banished here for a great time, and had risen to heights of distinguishing power. Yet, Tearen had heard no specific mention of them either in the babbling thoughts of the demonic chattel or in the passing talk of Colosseum officiators. It led him to believe that these Prime sergeants may not be as closely associated with Diablo as the rumors of the Omniverse may have suggested.

All at once, Tearen felt a great presence, in and around him. It was heavy and hot, like drowning in a pit of tar. Tearen clutched at his head and staggered up against a crumbling stone wall, bracing himself with a weak hand. Fire and blood consumed this thoughts. Fire and blood pouring from an eye that never blinked, and a mind so preoccupied with destruction, violation and domination it almost overcame Tearen's significant mental barriers. It was all the Prime could do to fend of the oppressive scrutiny, at least saving his most secret and sensitive thoughts from being observed. As for the rest of his mind, well, there was no telling how much this other presence had seen or taken. The blanketing sensation persisted for another few agonizing minutes before gradually receding from his mind.

Tearen, with wobbly movements, rose back to his full height and shook his head slowly, trying to disperse the last tendrils of intrigue that tugged at his ego. It occurred to him that his entire body was heated to the point that gentle wisps of smoke drifted up from his outstretched fingers. Gradually the burning ebbed into the cool blackness of Azgradurg's golgothan night.

What...in all of the Infinities...had that been?

A deep sense of violation still caused Tearen to shudder as he swiftly began trudging back towards the relative brightness of the Colosseum district. His spine was stiff, and despite lacking an oral orifice, it felt as if his whole hypothetical mouth was dry. Steady pacing became a light job, which further progressed into a frantic dash. Tearen couldn't completely rationalize the piercing fear that now enveloped him, save for the fact that he had briefly been reminded by someone what the power of a true deity could do. By the time Tearen broke back into the gloaming torchlight of the arena's gothic bulk, he sank to the cracked and dusty flagstones underfoot. It felt as if his body craved oxygen, but he had no means to take it in. A moment of desperation seized the Shadow, and in the span of a few seconds, had summoned a shard of barely shaped metal into his smooth hand. Grabbing hold of the fractured region on his face, Tearen proceeded to chisel and weave the razor into his flesh.

His memories of that moment before he had banished himself flooded his mind's eye. He had managed to tear open some form of mouth once before, why not do it again? Air! He needed air! Thick ropes of sticky black blood oozed from the fresh wound, but Tearen continued, unimpeded by the pain. Before long, the wound in his face was deep enough that he was able to grip both of his hands inside the improvised orifice and tear it open. In all the insanity of the Omniverse, there was apparently a fully functioning mouth and jaw inside of his face. Had it been there this whole time? Tearen swallowed great lung-fulls of air (did he have lungs now too?), sputtering intermittently, spitting shards of his own glassy black skin out of his mouth. There Tearen knelt in a slick pool of his own blood and tilted his head back, simply focusing on the sensation of breathing. Such a simple function, and yet for some reason it dominated all memories of sensation that had filled him when he was at the peak of his power.

Did he have a voice too?

Wheezing, Tearen ventured a small note, trying to remember what it felt like to speak. Nothing came but adroit chuffing and gasping. Was there some aspect he was forgetting? He forced more air out through this new mouth, but again, no humming resonance came from within his neck. Feeling a sense of defeat, for whatever reason, Tearen let out a sigh and attempted to gather his sensibilities. These things should be of no concern to him. Out of all the problems he was currently presented with, a lack of a voice box hardly managed to make a rank. As his mind became more settled, and the fear and desperation ceded, the Shadow became more aware of the minds around him. Feeling vulnerable, the ex-enigma rocketed upright from his kneeling position and soared into the ebon sky overhead. There, he took his place among the grotesque gargoyles that leered down on Azgradurg, sitting on a cold ledge.

Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as he had anticipated.