Two people.
That’s how it starts.
Pregnancy, that is.
They’re each committed to reaching the finish line. But only one of them will be giving birth.
The other…well, like Drexl, he shot his load and may only come back to try and reclaim the result.
Like the weak, he screams out “Me. Me. Me.”
And as time goes on, the impregnated begins to learn the price they must pay.
You see, pregnancy mutilates your body in preparation, blinding you to anything that does not serve its vision.
Cravings begin to overtake you, desire for the forbidden, be it sugary confections or flesh, meant to deaden the misery.
Walking a hard road, you scream out for someone, anyone, to guide you to the next plane. Whether man or beast, you’ll take the next hand that reaches out in hope the pain eases.
It doesn’t. In fact: as time grows, so does the pain.
Split in half by the suffering, you vacillate between light and dark, striving to purge the monster inside.
Red lights flash around you as you’re beset with all of the burdens at once, each of them toying with you, burning your flesh with woe.
Laid out on a cold table, blood paints a horrible canvas beneath you.
At your fingertips is a great power, but under the watchful eye of frightening nurse, you sing your weakness into a funeral dirge.
“O’Death! Free me… me…. me… from this nightmare!”
Death always hears your plea.
Drawn from your body, a twisted creature is laid upon your chest.
Dead.
To end your bad dream, its life was snuffed out, aborted…
…all because you could not endure the pain.
Many wish to become pregnant, but how many are able to finish the process?
It’s much like stepping into the ring at Pandemonium.
Two to start, walking as lambs to slaughter. Your titanic clash is the impregnation, the seed that will grow into a ring of dreams.
But with each passing minute, you perceive the price you must pay.
Your flesh will be torn asunder, given as sacrifice to the growing beast within you. It plays you like a puppet, crying its war cry.
“Me. Me. Me.”
It comforts you with Teddy Bars and beautiful clothes. You think like a Little Eagle, always believing you are doing the right thing.
But you’re not.
You’ve blinded yourself to the truth before you, letting your vision overtake the magic at your grasp.
You chose to endure the pain, to take all that you can bear, and then abort its corpse in the three seconds it takes to end your dream.
Because just like childbirth, Pandemonium will bring you to the brink of who you are. In a writhing ball of misery, you have a choice.
Abort the child, leave the ring, and say you endured all you could.
“Me. Me. Me.”
Or embrace the pain and find the power within it.
It’s a power that cannot be broken, a strength that does not yield.
At Pandemonium, I’ve been impregnated with purpose.
And I will give birth.
My child is destiny.
My destiny.
My Ring of Dreams.
Mine. Mine. Mine.