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El’s hands were the first to go. An old ritual began here: Those clawed, clumsy fingers into which he was reborn pried gnarled plates of chitin from the back of his hand. From the leavings, a carefully chosen jagged edge levered off his index claw-nail. Soon, the first cold, sharp disc of metal replaced it, sunk into that bed of exposed skin. A mere increment of Voidlight willed his cuticle to wrap back around it, and sealed in place the first of ten tools required to truly begin his task.
This ritual was his alone. Once, he sought solace in such moments from the Rhythm of Withdrawal. Now, he attuned only to his art. Reciting a Rhythm was beyond him, but he still captured their passion in this act, did he not? Perfectly composed, in violent staccato, as the tenth metal nail healed in—so he could dig them into the tender flesh beneath the carapace plates of his chest. Snap a rectangular piece in half, vertex to vertex, then dig the resulting point into the crook of his elbow. Press up. Away ripped the sinew that held his next rejected piece. With a pleasant clatter it joined the pile at his feet.
On occasion, the wind remembered to chill his damp skin, and told him he was bleeding. He wasted more rations of Voidlight to deal with it.
Surely his best poems were conceived of in these moments. Pitiful such moments precluded him from writing one down. Perhaps… He spoke a fragment aloud, in case this rebirth might be different. The words trailed off as usual.
Alas. But he could still ferment the themes in his mind. What would compel him, once this new body was truly his?
The humans, again. He would not deny himself a nice motif.