"Rapis praedam!"
What is the speed of sound? Some arbitrary number than scientists come up with to measure things they understand. If they were inclined, they'd have much to learn about something like the speed of words; a much stronger, older discipline of study, nearly as old as time and humanity itself. Not the kind of study you would conduct in a science-driven laboratory, but in a world of long, established nature, under a full moon, in the dead of night where more things come alive than the untrained eye would ever notice. It is such as the Hallowed Eve's tradition goes.
Wolves and canines howl, wandering cats hiss and prowl, crickets chirp, owls hoot, bats screech. But sometimes the most dangerous sounds are hardest to hear, barely above a whisper. In the right context, they would be sounds you would want to hear, words spoken in a cadence, a confidence, a tone of irresistible sensuality that leaves one's mind begging for additional samplings of its sweetness. As with any Hallowed Eve's, such words dipped in honey, and into the ears of the unsuspecting, produce almost completely new beings, birthing new creatures in the dead of night.
Truthfully, it's more of a rebirth, where what they were gets transformed into forms of magnificence, fueled by purpose and passion. It's a destiny most wouldn't know they would crave until they are shown the light. Sometimes moonlight, sometimes candle light, sometimes a bonfire that inspires a dance of freedom and power. But the destiny isn't for everyone; that's what some believe as they reject the offer bestowed upon them.
One such who rejects would be a man, sprinting down a dark street, and off into the woods. You'd think he had come across a vicious wild animal, or a vampire looking for a wandering snack. At his speed, he may have been able to outrun even those, motivated by the fear of death, shining in the whites of his eyes. Unfortunately for him, the speed of sound is faster, with the ability to decimate things quite viciously. The speed of words is faster in its own way, hunting eagerly, specifically, and will fundamentally change its intended target.
He doesn't stop to take a breath, unsure of how far he needs to go. He gives a wonderful chase, better than most could, but that only excites me as I stalk him in the darkness, with eyes that see everything in the dark. It's exhilarating, closing the distance, nipping at his heels, until I properly seize them. He finds himself leaning near a tree, not yet out of exhaustion, but out of the sensation I cause, creeping into the muscles of his feet. He's stopped, breathing heavily, questioning why he has stopped. Cobras strike as quickly, leaving their victims confused in the first few seconds, but he never feels the sting of the bite, only the venom that spreads into his bloodstream, and then deeper into his essence. There's a tinge of numbness that is my brand of poison, telling the muscles up to his calves not to tense up, but to rest, to soften, and he must come to a halt for that to happen. He looks down, wondering what's wrong with his legs, screaming quietly at them to produce feeling again, unaware of the symbolic quicksand he's found himself in.
That tingle doesn't stop as he slaps his legs; it continues in spite of him. Ascending to his knee, assisting him with catching his breath by loosening the joints of his legs; he leans weakly against a tree for support. The amount of venom increases as I attack more of him. His thighs hesitate and jump, the nerves loosing connection to commands handed down by the brain. The only energy left in his legs kept him upright. Before the idea of pushing himself off the tree to escape a few more inches by crawling and pulling himself away, I struck at his arms. He felt a new dose of venom in each of his palms, quickly spreading to each finger and up his arms, wilting to the point of uselessness while his shoulders sagged. From his shoulders, the venom poured into his torso like two faucets into a sink. A slow, steady drip feed as my immaterial self coiled around him with the intimacy of a friendly python. Venom coating his lungs produced steady breathing, muscles of his chest grew soft and sensitive. His nipples perked, filled with venom, brushed against by me as I wrapped him up.
His neck lolled as his shoulders gave him little foundation to move on. Head against the bark, he heard a deep whisper in his ears.
"Ssslow, easssy breathing."
It seemed like a redundant statement as he'd almost fully achieved that. The possibility of it being his own consciousness shrank considerably as my voice grew more insistent.
"You sssshouldn't run. Your fate liesss behind you."
He tried to whisper in protest, knowing he was being assaulted by something he couldn't see. Those whispers died as his throat became gently constricted, a squeeze that didn't harm him, but provided pressure enough to only leave him room to breath.
"You can't run. Your dessstiny callsss to you."
"What are you?" he tried to ask. He only produced gasps, but I understood what he tried asking, one of several all too-common phrases I've heard.
"Messssenger. Harbinger. Persssuader."
He couldn't understand why his muscles went from tense to limp to being massaged. It also evaded him how the venom animated his fingers while my energies coiled around his arms, working in junction to help him unzip himself, and gradually begin stroking man's biggest vulnerability. It wasn't long before he was cocooned in a rather lusty haze, similar to one he'd run from that same night. The next voice he heard was of the one who'd sent me.
"Like I said, this was bound to be. As bound as you are now. My chattel, so adorably impudent, so sedentary and lacking of purpose, until you met me. We could have met anywhere, at the laundromat, in the park, passing by each other on a busy street, stuck in-place with my gaze binding you until I allowed you to look away. Fate, in its infinite wisdom decided that Halloween party would be the perfect place for us to meet."
"We were so honest in representing ourselves. You coming, looking like a sloth-like creature, reflecting your nature so well. My favorite day of the year, I was myself, free to bear my natural self, and unleash my magic to those who respond to it well. You had no idea why you carried two drinks all over the party until you found me. Then you did. Then you found my eyes, and your life path became set."
The man took a raspy breath as he stroked faster, clearly remembering the voice he heard, and the enchanting face to go with it.
"You found yourself so eager to speak privately with me, more enthusiasm than you've shown anything in a long time. I stripped you of your sloth costume, and nature. I bore my body to you, letting you drool while informing you of how you'd be serving me. Taking your face in my hands, I nearly completed the rite, but something deep in you became afraid, afraid of what I offered. You took off deep into the night, practically at olympic speeds, the last gasping breath of resistance. It was amusing to see how far you would get; you seem to have gotten pretty far. But now it's time to come back. You know where you belong."
The stroking hand paused and gave himself a painful squeeze. The only sound he could produce was a labored, croaking one.
