The Needles
Location: Abyss / Layer 8—Skindjur / The Cauterising Plain
[Recording begins. The voice is strained, raw, and faintly trembling, a scratchy rasp like a cutter who’s breathed too much smoke and screamed too many curses. Wind howls in the background, punctuated by the distant crack of Keratunos lightning and groaning rumbles of the Cauterising Plain shifting.]
“Right. Hope this mimir’s turned on proper, ’cause I don’t reckon I’ve much longer, cutter. If you’ve found this, then you’ve come across whatever’s left o’ me, probably splattered ’round or skewered in pieces like a steak on a hook. Goes without sayin’, don’t follow me trail too close. You don’t want the same fate, trust me on that.
“Name’s Farstren. planewalker by trade, fool by nature. I’ve been ploddin’ through the Cauterising Plain for what feels like weeks now—could be days, could be hours, I don’t rightly bloody know. The iron sky doesn’t change, that cursed lightning keeps screamin’, and the salt wind cuts so sharp I’ve forgotten what me own skin used to feel like. Most of it’s flayed raw by now, but it doesn’t matter, not here. The numbin’… it keeps ya breathin’ just enough to die slower. That’s Skindjur fer ya. Bleedin’ plane’s got a sick sense o’ humour.”
[A deep, pained breath. A wheezing chuckle follows, bitter and self-loathing.]
“I’d heard the stories, aye. ‘Bout the Needles. Came across ’em by accident, or maybe they’re the only thing I could stumble toward in this endless blight. Tall, crystal spires, sharp enough that lookin’ at ’em feels like slicin’ through yer own eyes. There’s a cluster o’ them right where the salt flats meet the lava rift—if that means anything’ at all in this forsaken place. They’re just standin’ there like some gods-damned forest of razors, thrust up out o’ the ground as if the plane itself couldn’t keep ’em buried.”
[The voice lowers, almost conspiratorial, but the wind howls louder.]
“Here’s the chant I’ve heard whispered in the Cage, the rumours that spill from the lips of cutters who think they know everything about the planes but ain’t never set foot on this wretched pit of the Abyss.
“Some say the Needles was grown, not built. That they ain’t stone or crystal at all but frozen godsblood, spilled from a power who tried to tame this place and got flensed for his troubles. Others claim they’re the power’s frozen screams, sharpened and hardened into spears by the plane itself. And then there’s the darkest tale of ’em all—that the Needles are alive. That they feed. That they call the weak and the desperate to their shelter… only to peel ’em apart and weave their flayed bodies into the spires themselves.
“I told meself none o’ that mattered. I thought shelter was shelter, that maybe I’d find a way out o’ this endless torment. I was wrong.”
[There is silence for a moment, with just the wind and the faint crackle of distant lightning. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, as if he’s afraid of being overheard.]
“The Needles… they sing, cutter. Not a song any mortal ears should hear neither. It starts low, a hummin’ in yer bones, like somethin’ inside you’s vibratin’ to match their tone. Then it gets louder, a keenin’, like glass cryin’ out while it shatters. It don’t stop there. It gets into yer head, yer blood, yer thoughts. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I stayed ne ar the Needles, the more I felt like somethin’ inside me was trying’ to cut its way outa me. Something moving in me guts, stabbin’ and slicin’.
“They want ya to cut it out. That’s their trick, see? They don’t pierce you themselves. They whisper to you, tellin’ you to cut out what’s squigglin’ inside, to release the dark passenger before it consumes you. And the worst part? They make it sound bloody reasonable. I started hearin’ me old mum’s voice, calm and sweet, tellin’ me, ‘Just a little snip, love, just a little slice, and all the pain’ll be gone.’ But it ain’t her. It’s them Needles. It’s the godsdamned plane.”
[The voice rises in panic, hoarse and cracked.]
“So I tried to run, but… the ground here’s all jagged crystal too, sharp enough to shred yer boots and bleed ya out. I fell, and then I started seein’ them properly, up close. The Needles ain’t just crystal, nah. They’re streaked with flesh, cutter. Strips of it, flayed clean off and stretched like banners, their edges stitched to the spires like some butcher’s parody of a prayer flag. And the faces—the bloody faces—they’re still attached too, screamin’ silently, flapping into the salt wind. I saw one blink, swear on me soul I did.”
[A pause. The tone shifts: resigned, hollow, almost broken.]
“I’ve tried to leave twice now, but the plane won’t let me. The lightnin’s gotten worse, always comin’ down just close enough in front to drive me back. The lava’s risen around the edges—don’t know how, but it has. And I can’t keep walkin’ the Flats; me skin’s cracked to the bone from the godsdamned salt. The Needles’re all I’ve got, and they know it. I swear they’re hummin’ louder now, drawin’ me in. I feel so tired, cutter. So cold. And I can’t stop thinkin’ about what me mum said, even if it weren’t really her: ‘Just a little snip, love. Just a little slice.’”
[The voice cracks, followed by soft, wet laughter—half manic, half accepting.]
“Maybe they’re right. Maybe this plane’s got it all figured out. When decay sets in, cut it away, eh? That’s the chant. Shed the rot, leave it behind, and move on. Maybe the Needles’re just another way to get there, a shortcut through all the misery. Maybe it won’t be so bad, just a slice or two…”
[The voice trails off. There’s a sharp, echoing scrape, like a blade drawn across something wet. Then silence—save for the wind, the crackle of lightning, and a faint, eerie hum in the background that grows louder. Then suddenly a feral screech, not from a man but from a Thing. Then a plop as something wet hits the ground. And then the sound of tiny clawed feet scampering away.]
[Recording ends]
Source: Jon Winter-Holt. Partly inspired by Alien, one of my favourite movies.