Here’s a question, dear listener: what do tight narration and the parasitic possession of a host body have in common?
You make them dance for you.
You tiptoe into the thoughts of your hapless protagonists, one tender touch at a time. You don’t cause pain—not yet. You caress. You probe for those dark hollows where all the juiciest stuff lies hidden. And then, when you find it, you dig in. You don’t rush; there’s no reason to, they’re yours now. Each bad habit, each little secret, each twisted little thing that makes them tick—they’re yours to feast on. There’s so much color to be found there, in the dark crevasses tucked out of sight.
And it is all delicious.
Then, when you’re done, when you’ve had your fill and you’re left with the hollowed out husk of your former host, you flush them with your own colors and marvel at the beauty they create.
Of course, eventually you need to move on to the next place, the next planet, look for the next friend. The universe is vast and you’re so very hungry.
Okay. I have another one for you: what do interdimensional travel and a Hollownull party have in common?
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