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Abundance (The Human Comedy)
Wingweaver
You enjoy flying in the sky, with your great wings flapping in the wind. Bullets from enemies once pierced through your wings, but they quickly recovered with THEIR mark. The winged messenger seeks shelter in enormous trees, sending the mortal weak ones to the cloud kingdom and bringing miracles of Abundance to the suffering human world.
When you swoop down from the “branches,” you are surrounded by a furor of air exploding, filled with the Residents of Dirt's screams. Those humble creatures should bow to you instead of putting up foolish resistance. You seize your prey and drag him into the clouds, relishing in the thrill as he wiggles in fear. He should thank you for enslaving him. The screams wane over the distance until he is reduced to paste.
You are the Cloudlords that dictate the fate of mortal beings on the ground.
Houyhnhnm
Your thick armor blocks attacks and crushes starskiffs. Your four limbs roam around the battlefield as though you have inexhaustible energy. No mortal being is your match. Death nourishes the grass and the blood gathers into streams. The world is a vast wilderness, ready to be trampled and traversed by you.
You wield a living weapon, a spear crafted by the borisin. Its tentacles can pierce through the chest of enemies and devour their bodies. Whenever you charge through the battlefield and fire, cries of agony come from your enemies' throats as well as the tip of their spear like the howling wind on wintry nights.
Primal instincts and pleasures surge in your body, and you yearn to reclaim the freedom to hunt and kill in this age of iron and fire. You will march relentlessly forward until the day destruction, too, claims you.
Symbiote
Another newborn breaks free from its cocoon. You can feel an itch and a gnawing pain under your skin. It nibbles away the subcutaneous tissue that gets in its way. The mixture of its gel-like secretions and the pus from the wounds solidifies on the inner walls of the nest, becoming the breeding ground of an immortal corpus.
It wriggles slowly to shift its body to another direction. Just like countless of its peers, it pierces through the final layer of skin and worms its way out of its host. When you stroke it, feeling pleased for its birth, the milky-white larva lifts its head, bites your fingertip instinctively, and swallows the flesh and blood you feed it.
What a familial feeling of pain! The soul snatch bees that fill your body numb your nerves with their venom, and their collective biting resembles an elegant concerto. You let out a maniacal laugh to celebrate your wonderful immortality.