Its passage is marked by a grotesque concert, composed and performed by accursed flesh. It is a demented chorus of little noises that churns the stomach and agitates the nerves. Dry clicks, as a forest of bone labours at its joints, keep the sporadic beat with each twist and shift of its serpentine form. Wet grinding forms a constant dull bass as it slides its moist self over grit and filth. A cacophony of sharp pops punctuates the air as its ragged, membreanous skin tears with each laborious flex. Sickly slaps clap and applaud its own corrupt performance as its sloshes and churns within its interior murk. This foul music ripples back and forth in the half-dark as it drags itself through its subjugated dominion, over rooftops and behind doors nailed shut by shaking hands an age ago.
Its claws puncture stone and mortar as it seeks purchase as it traverses towers and spires long since abandoned, even by the dead for not even they are allowed respite nor comfort. These places where it dwells are marked by its stench and by its taste, for all else has been stolen away. The air is exhausted and only searing pollutant remains in its place. Not one drop of moisture remains and all material nourishment has been consumed from the lands. All that walks and all that is green upon the earth is gone from sight, dragged screaming into the sliding morass and the cold, anonymous silence that lies beyond.
The mortals that scurry and whimper far beyond the borders of its reach have leant it many names, but rarely do tongues form above stifled whispers and weaker minds learn to forget them to save themselves from the horrors born of it that lie in living memories. There is however one name that survives above all others, the one that no ear can evade for as dawn breaks each day it wails its given name. Its voice, formed from a thousand barely unified rasping screams, strikes up as the first rays of light shine out from over the horizon smothering the hope of a new day. The very word itself it grates upon the mind and pollutes the languages that have marked out a space for. A word now expunged from the vocabularies of the peoples of the world in all its myriad forms: Soup.
There is but one tale told of the Soup. It is a short and unsavoury yarn of screams and blood. It tells of a million tongues united, begging, pleading, screaming, and finally silenced. It tells of ten long scratches in the floor giving way to ten bloody trails that swim with white shards of torn nails. It tells of the doom that befalls the taken, the fate of their flesh to be stolen and their minds cast into the maw of the creature itself wherein they burn in torrid swirls till their cries join the Soup in its tormented whale song, raging against beings unknown. It wails of beautiful dreams that were once, but can never be amongst the dirt and the filth. It mourns its Utopias beyond this waking world, paradises to which it can never return. It envies those of meat and water, who drift so casually twixt waking and slumber. It lays down the fault upon the innocent and takes from them what it desires so. Flesh to rest and eyes to close.