Alvah: Demon of Attrition (Jefferson Shindig)

It was easy, ever so easy to get distracted at a pivotal moment like this. Not least of all because Jambhala could feel a weight constantly clinging to the back of its mind, slowing down every movement, every decision. He wanted to shuck that tenuous connection, to toss it aside and simply begin the arduous task set before him. To vanquish a demon before it could cause any further loss of life or limb. But there was a voice in the back of its head, ever so subtle, that stopped it from simply reaching out and cutting loose that dead weight.
I know your desire. It is I who have nurtured it for you. I sewed this need, and I shall be the one to reap it. You need only endure.
Endure. There was something simple, pure about that phrase, something that really struck to the creature's core, and made it nod, ever so slightly. And then return to the work before it. Those feathers adorning its body continued to coalesce, now beginning to take on a familiar form. A rapier, long and nearly needle-thin. But that wasn't quite right for the purpose ahead, it felt. A rapier was meant to be wielded by a hand, and his were too clunky, too weighed down by the excess weight of this unwanted presence in its mind, constantly probing it. Almost like one applying spurs to the side of a horse. Oh, how he wanted to buck that rider and trample him underfoot...

Beneath, somewhere deeper down than anyone, even Calypso, could have detected, Yaksha lay, one hand extended upwards. He could see nothing, hear nothing, knew only what was happening as filtered through the mind of the beast he had birthed for just this moment. The creature meant to live for a span no greater than a few minutes, and then return to the realm of imagination. The creature that even now felt its impending fate, and wanted to live. And dammit, Yaksha wanted him to live as well. It broke his heart, to even think of returning to that body, and wresting back control. To be the only one allowed to live...it was a weight heavier than any other, to know that with every breath he took, he stole it from infinite other potential lives.

He was a hollow, and he was designed to be selfish, after all. But even so, it was hard not to feel a twinge of sympathy at these misbegotten ideas that crawled through his mind, constantly screaming to -be-. To feel the sun on their skin, the air brush their hairs aside.

And speaking of hairs, Yaksha's hand loosened ever so slightly, as he felt them nearby, waiting. Patiently, hungrily. A million million million other Yakshas, all like him in some way...but reflected as through a funhouse mirror, horribly distorted in some way that took close scrutiny to truly recognize. He felt their pain, and the pain of every hollow he'd ever struck down. It was weighing down his weapon, and a heavy weapon wasn't what they needed. He needed an arrow, something that could fly true, with great accuracy.

Light. Light. Light.

What that place did to them.

The ones who killed, for years immemorable.

The ones who came here today to kill.

The tortured souls who have never known the caress of a kiss.

The weight of that original sin. To know good and evil.

Light...

Moment by moment, Yaksha trimmed away every doubt, every insecurity, every worry. He quelled every fear, and put to rest those hungry, desperate mouths, all insisting they had been wronged, that they -deserved- to destroy and rampage after all that had been taken from them. And the rapier in his hand thinned, split into several smaller shapes, each without handle or markings, resembling an overly-long arrow instead.

"Your weapon, childCommander. Strike true, and we shall see how well this beast has prepared for this day."

For a single moment, it sounded like there were two voices overlaid. Like Jambhala was simultaneously judging Alistair, waiting to see whether or not he could rise to the task...and quietly, sadly acknowledging the gross injustice that had so rapidly found this boy elevated to the position of Commander. To being responsible for the lives of so many, so quickly. It wasn't a pain Yaksha wished upon others...even he could barely stand it, with centuries of preparation.

The weapons laid upon his palm, ready to pierce. Each one, looking like little more than a regular arrow. Dull, almost painful from his ordinary they looked. Could such a thing really take down a monster that even Calypso could barely damage? They were, after all, only arrows.

Arrows made of hair.

Millions upon millions of tightly woven hairs, ready to spread the moment they found purchase.

Hairs of a hollow, whose very touch was anathema to other races.

A hollow, who knew well how the art of regeneration worked.

Yes, it was sometimes the simplest tricks that worked best.

"If I may propose a name, Commander? I should think Gáe Bolg would fit the occasion."