They aren’t voices, not really. Voices would imply speech, and the sounds inside his head aren’t evolved enough for that. Rashomon, after all, is more beast than human, even if it’s a man who wields Its voracious habit of consumption. There’s no rhyme nor reason nor sense to be made with the garbled static that’s been there since the first time he summoned It. And yet… he understands it. Listens - and that static becomes a symphony.
Somewhere in the back of his head, hidden, tucked away, slithering in a corner, the presence of It lurks. An ever-fluctuating carnivorous aura that seeks only to… devour… destroy…
It was hungry. Always hungry. Though sometimes he wondered if it was Rashomon or himself so starved.
Even as a boy, he was never afraid of It. Even with ravenous need that dwarfed his own, there was an allure to the company of Rashomon’s presence. Violence and power, power and hunger, hunger and need - what better friend for a rabid creature like himself, than something equally as ferocious?