In relation to that, his left eye was furious. Not in the sort of sense that it felt an angry emotion, but that it was ravaging, ready to gorge itself, demanding effectuation of the Spirit Contract.
For every time he used Lark's ability, its 'devouring' that allowed him to consume the powers of others, he had to allow Lark to eat something large. Preferably drenched in the stench of the once-living, or even better, something that was still alive.
"Artemis? What's wrong?" Her voice was urgent, it began to call out to him. He rushed away, as fast as he could. He knew what monster he would become, what this person he had thought of so endearingly would think of him.
What she would be forced to witness when he found his prey.
Or that she herself might become it.
He could feel himself, how his bones molded themselves monstrously, twisting, terrible amorphism.
So he left her behind, ran from whatever alcove she had spirited them away to. Into the nightmares of the ruined city, wherever he ended up. As long as it was far away from her, it was alright.
The world spun around him. He felt that he was at the center of it, its cruel disposition, and that he would soon become lost in it. He could not see, his flesh had obscured his vision. He could not picture himself, not when he grew like this, because he could not gaze into any surface that would display his horrid reflection.
But with his hands, he could feel his gnarled expression. How his nose had become a spiral, limpid and weak, how where his eyes once were, they had abandoned him, and replaced themselves with knots of bone and sinew.
How his jaw had lengthened, how his teeth had grown jagged and thick.
How he had become a monster.
He tore into his own flesh with fingers that had grown long and spindly, wrapped in thick layers of pulsating muscle. His nails clawed at the skin where his eyes should be, where they still were. He wanted to see, he wanted to know what was around him. In the darkness, he felt afraid.
Blood pooled on the surface of his body, his form still emaciating itself, molding itself into a sculpture of horror, but he persevered in his own harm. And soon past the sanguine haze he could see.
A large tree with a trunk of alabaster, leaves a hue of silver burst out from the distant ruins, stretching high into the air above them. Periodically, along with the eerie and lonely breeze, these leaves would drip down in droves from the heavens like rainfall, glistening under the night's light.
Descended stars within the air, they seemed like.
He was back in the courtyard, which sat against the shadowy form of the ancient towering spire.
And in the center of the flooded courtyard, the remnant pieces of the Hollow Armour rested, devoid of the life that had filled it with violence.
But there was no living creature to be found.
The wolf-like beasts— even the skeletal creature, where have they gone!?
Their corpses, were they scavenged by other monsters!?
Motherf-cker!
He then looked over towards the Hollow Armour, grimacing.
"H-how about these, you bastard…?" He muttered, his voice weary, speaking through panting breaths. "If they were home to a Daemonic Spirit, then they were certainly once living. Doesn't this fit into your insane contract? Do it. Eat it!"
His screams echoed off of the stone around him, carrying themselves far into the distance. But he did not fear calling out to whatever beasts lurked within the city's otherworld.
Remaining human was all that mattered, even if he died because of it.
He trudged over towards the fallen armour and the remains of the skeletal beasts, what little flesh they had clinging to their rotten bones.
Strangely, he noticed that the large greatsword the hollow armour had wielded had entirely disappeared. The indent where it had fallen and the cuts in the stone were still present, but the onyx blade had vanished.
Suddenly, Artemis's lower jaw unconsciously unhinged, his body turning as he lunged towards the hollow armour.
In a single motion, his form wrapped around the onyx armour, biting down on it with an inhuman extension of his jaw.
In the instance after he had use Lark's power, his body would be handed over to the Demon to fulfill the terms of the contract. Lark would feast, and he would witness it. He would feel it. The bitterness of flesh on his tongue, its stringy texture ripped apart by his teeth. How it would slide down his throat, slicked wet by blood. The disgusting nature of an animalistic beast.
His body would gain certain daemonic traits, like the ability to unhinge his jaw to a monstrous extent, and hold whatever he devoured in his stomach for the few seconds it took to absorb it and summon it to wherever Lark resided. Not to mention that until that took place, he would resemble the worst of abominations. The sort of face that not even a monster could love.
But the Daemonic Spirit was quick to act. It was already finished.
Lark had already devoured the hollow armour, including the knife that had been embedded in its side. It had only taken two massive bites to chew through the steel. This strength was another characteristic of Lark's Daemonic influence.
Artemis cursed, running his bloodied fingers through his hair as his jaw returned to its normal size. His gnarled flesh gradually renewed itself.
It's over. I really hope you enjoyed that, you bastard. Forget flesh, I hope the metal tears your insides to pieces.
But for the first time in a long time, he heard a strange, familiar, layered voice echo through his head.
[This meal had something for you…]
[Do you want to parley, dear Host…?]
The world suddenly went dark around him again. But it wasn't because flesh had blocked his vision this time. It was like night had descended around him, that strange sky of terrifying black stars sinking into the soil, corrupting its colour and form, an empty void underneath his feet.
But he felt oddly calm, a serene grace washing over him. He was not afraid of this strange environmental change. Because he understood it, he knew it well.
He had felt this feeling once before.
When he had first met the Daemonic being two years ago, right after that figure had forced him to devour his teacher.
He was going to meet with that 'thing' once more.
If one had a proper, solid control over their Spirit, they could initiate a Parley. This was just a meeting with a Spirit, face-to-face. Of course, this was something that experienced Spirit Users could really only do. But a Daemonic Spirit was different.
While a Contract was often a means of exhibiting an equal balance of power between the Spirit and the Host, an equal exchange, this wasn't so true for Daemonic Spirits. Such a creature was by its very nature, stronger than humanity.
So there was no such existence of an equal Contract between the two.
Only when one party gained the upper hand over the other individual involved in the Contract, could a Parley be called.
And Lark had always had the upper hand in their dealings, from the very moment that he had signed their Contract.
Of course, Artemis was not sure why Lark had summoned him in such a scenario. His body was still currently in the ruined city, it was only his essence—the soul of his very being— that had been taken to meet with the Spirit.
"Good afternoon, dearest Host." A teasing, illusory voice spoke from behind him.
Artemis quickly whipped his head around, his hand balling up into a fist.
A little girl sat at an ornate wooden table littered with intricate, fanciful carvings, focused on slicing apart a thick cut of roasted meat with a silver knife. It was a bright-red colour, like liquid ruby, with flesh as tough and dark as ebony, rough and craggy on its surface.
She pierced it with her fork, dousing it in a rich, creamy sauce before placing it against her lips, biting into it. A symphony of emotions rushed through her, eventually letting out a heavy sigh.
This was the Spirit that had tormented him simply by existing, by having bound itself to him.
By ruining him.
But there was a part of Spirit Contracts that was quite similar, yet very different to physical domination over the other party. It was a battle of wills, a search for dominance by way of determination to not fall to baser instincts.
Artemis would not debase himself by growing angry in front of the Daemonic Spirit.
"How does it taste?" He asked simply, referring to her meal, which stained the corners of her lips a faint red.
"Mediocre." Lark replied. "You should have brought me better ingredients… but they do fine."
"How do you… make corpses look so…" he could not find the correct word to describe it. While the meal itself looked fine, he kept recalling its source. It was only steel, hadn't it been?
"Appetising?" Lark smiled faintly. "You're recalling the state that the armour was in It was hollow, was it not? But you've had a strange view of how this works from the very moment we met. You're the one eating corpses, I'm eating their souls, their very essence."
"How is it different?"
Lark shook her head, letting out a reprieving sigh. "Essence is Origin, little Prince. They were originally beautiful creatures, and beautiful creatures taste and present themselves pleasantly. They are wonderful ingredients no matter how ugly or unseemly they might have been at the time of their death. That hollow armour had a spirit in it, and that spirit was once alive. I eat the memory of them, I enjoy it well enough. Although, the creatures that they once were… well, this city is certainly full of interesting histories."
When she finally glanced up at Artemis, a shiver ran down his spine. She had no pupils, her eyes were as black as night, as deep as the greatest abyss, as terrifying as all that remained unknown. But he could sense another colour deep within, something that he definitely couldn't see with his own eyes, but could feel the very mood of. It was vile, disgusting, putrid even.
Artemis's eyebrow twitched, instinctively wanting to glance away from her, as if it would be dangerous to observe her further.
So, Lark took the opportunity to continue.
"The armour had an ability, do you want to keep it?"