Another Day, Another Sacrifice

I am that which the fragile ones call Azreth, though they comprehend only a fraction of my geometry. Once again, they have thrown another of their offerings into my realm. I reach out my sensory tendrils to assess the carbon life form. This one is shrieking with the intensity of a whale's supersonic wave. I gently tap her, which immediately makes her faint. She is, at least, less messy to handle than the recent specimen in full armor, who instantly discharged his bodily waste upon perceiving my form, dropping his metal weapon to the void floor. But, as always, I am careful not to break them. I calculate the correct magnitude and initiate the spatial expulsion, returning them where they came from.

Today is yet another day—perhaps a Tuesday, or whatever planetary rotation the fragile beings currently celebrate. The threshold opens again. I prepare for the high-pitched frequency of terror.

There is none. No extreme physical reaction. Just the calm, rhythmic pulsing of a living creature.

The being steps out from the portal, adorned in flowing fabric, adjusting round glass lenses upon his face and clutching a leather-bound journal. His vitals are as calm as one stepping inside a library.

My tendrils extend. I prepare to wrap him up and expel him back to the mortal land. Yet, they close on empty space. The being has simply shifted his weight to the left. One hand adjusts his glass; the other raises a single digit.

"Just a moment," he says. His voice is calm, echoing against the chamber. "Let me check out this area first."

And I, a consciousness older than the burning of stars, for better or worse judgment... just let him be.

The being keeps poking his fingers against my pulsating walls, his eyes squinting as he evaluates the texture and the low hum of cosmic radiation it produces. Then, he opens his leather-bound notebook, wets his quill pen with his tongue, and starts writing. 

My processing stall. I stare at him, dumbfounded. I decide to deploy my sensory tendrils to analyze this anomaly, the same procedure I have performed on countless mortals before. 

But before the invisible energy can breach his aura, the tendrils are swatted away.

Not magically countered. Not shielded. Swatted. With the casual, dismissive flick of a wrist, exactly the way one reprimands a wandering pet. I cannot comprehend the physics of the gesture; it should not have been possible to physically deflect a sensory wavelength. 

"Don't you see I'm busy at the moment?" the mage spat, not even bothering to look up from his notes.

He pauses. Perhaps sensing the sudden, catastrophic drop in my localized atmospheric pressure, he finally take a look at the writhing geometry of my true form. A small, amused curve dawned on his poker face.

"Sorry," he said, his tone softening into something horrifyingly patronizing. "I will play with you in a second..."

This fragile one is like no other.

I initiate a rapid hypothesis generation. Perhaps his cerebral cortex is being overstimulated; what the mammals call the "fight or flight" instinct, manifesting here as a bizarre denial protocol designed to drive me off. Or perhaps my true biological architecture is simply too abstract for his primate brain to register as a threat.

Either way, if he requires a familiar biological shape to command his respect, or to calm his erratic nervous system, I will provide one. A diplomatic courtesy.

I begin to fold my vastness inward, and it is agonizing. Imagine stuffing eleven dimensions into three, compressing impossible, screaming geometry into the fleshy meat-puppet shape of a bipedal primate.

I do not know exactly what decorative features to apply to the form, so I access a database of primate aesthetics I had harvested over the eons. One specific configuration stands out as statistically optimal: tall, pale, with a sharp mandibular jawline, broad skeletal shoulders, and visual organs that simulated the dark secrets of the universe.

Ah. I will need coverings, as well. Expensive, tailored fabric, I recall, is an important variable in initiating a diplomatic conversation. The fragile ones place immense value on initial visual data.

In this compressed form, my vision narrows, but I can now see the faint, structured aura of magic clinging to the mage's robes. He finally pauses his writing. He looks up from his notes and registers my new, flawlessly handsome human avatar.

He squints. Then, he tilts his head, looking past my broad shoulders at the space behind me, actively searching for the writhing geometry I had just hidden away.

"Oh. What a pity." I swear I heard an exhalation of air—a sigh—and registered a flicker of profound disappointment in the mortal's aura. "The other configuration was vastly more structurally interesting."  

For the first time in a millennium, my analytical matrices fail to produce a logical output. This localized human configuration is clearly malfunctioning—or rather, it isn't achieving the desired effect. But it requires too much thermodynamic effort to unfold myself again. I decide to maintain this fleshy prison for the time being.

My newly formed vocal cords are unpracticed. When I speak, the sound ground together like tectonic plates sliding in the dark.

"Why is your heartbeat still so slow, little walker?"

The mage finally closes his leather-bound notebook. He tilts his head and adjusts his ridiculous round lenses with the feathered back of his quill.

"The better to observe you with," he answers. A patient, knowing smile spreads across his face, the exact expression a primate uses to soothe a dim-witted child. "And just to let you know, neither of your configurations scared me. Especially not this one."

He steps closer and extends his arm, palm open. I search my cultural databases and recognize the gesture. A handshake.

I copy his action, extending my own fleshy appendage and pressing my palm against his. The mechanics of hinged joints and singular digits feel embarrassingly crude and clumsy for an entity accustomed to wielding omnidirectional, multi-dimensional tendrils for eons. Should I squeeze? How much pressure would shatter his calcium supports?

"It is a little late to say this," the mage clears his throat, entirely unbothered by my rigid grip. "But pardon my intrusion. The name is Silas Wren, high mage of the royal adventurer party."

"I am Azreth," I rumble, attempting to reclaim my cosmic authority. I let the syllables roll out like distant thunder. "Devourer of—"

"Azzy, then," Silas interrupts, casually popping my atmospheric bubble. His mouth curves into a dangerous, feline smile. "Yes. That fits you much better."