3. Desecrator

Desecrator


  • Blood Stained Fingertips
    Ye shall know his madness soon or syne.

    **_Birth of the White Caterpillar

    "I cut the flesh
    and make it bleed
    fresh skin
    is what I need
    I let it dry
    out in the wood
    all your crying
    did no good, yeah"
    -RZ-_

    Midara placed her hand gently on the bark of the oak, feeling its rough contours under her fingers. She breathed in the scented winds coming from the forest, sweet and foul alike. The day had been filled with ardous tasks and a heat that seemed to soak under the skin. She was glad for the darkness. Conforted by the soft pale moonlight that struck her face through the canopy.

    She looked down at her hands, cut and calloused, so much like a man's hands. So little like the hands of the girl she used to be, of the woman she imagined she would grow up to become.

    It was not her destiny it seemed, to be a woman like her mother had been. To stand in front of a mirror, worried if the dress she wore would satisfy the man she had taken for a husband. Using broken flowers to color her lips and mask the scent of her flesh with their perfume. It was not her place to know what it was to wait for a man who worked at a dock, doing his best to raise his daughter well and keep her fed.
    She had loved her parents dearly. More than anything because she knew they loved her with equal fervor.

    To this day, her greatest pain, her truest sorrow, was that the monster that had taken them from her was never found. The Peltarch guard had searched everywhere, but the creature had disappeared into the mists like a ghost. No one knew what kind of creature had crept into their home that night. It had left no tracks in its wake.

    She heard a loud flapping of dark wings from up above her. She looked up and saw a lone black raven perched on a branch, its wings spread wide, looking down at her. It turned its head, as if studying her movements.

    Midara did not know why, but she felt oddly unconfortable under the bird's scrutiny. Her mouth dried and her she began to tremble slightly. She took a step back away from it. The raven made no noise. It simply tucked its black wings back to its sides and stared at her.

    The cool conforting darkness of the night had suddenly become strange and forboding. A place of where blood ran in rivers and the smell of death covered everything. Reflexively, she placed her hand around the hilt of her sword.

    The camp was just beyond the tree where the raven silently perched. For some reason, she could not bring herself to go under that branch, as if the bird guarded some secret portal, leading to an unimaginable world of pain and torment. Instead, Midara went around, carefully making her way through the vines and roots of the trees, never taking her eyes off the large black bird. There was something wrong about it. It seemed to look at her almost hungrily.

    The raven turned, watching her go with unnatural interest. Midara breathed easier when she cleared the woods. She couldn't understand what had happened to her just then, why she had felt such a powerful sensation of danger, but she was glad to be away from it all the same.

    She walked back closer to the large campfires that were the heart of the Romni camp, glad to see a few people miling about, drinking ale and laughing loudly. The unnatural fear she had felt disipated as quickly as it had come.

    After a while, she was sitting with the other gypsies, drinking her ale and hearing their boisterous tales. She completely forgot about the raven she had seen perched above her just outside the camp's boundries. The one that seemed to guard the gate to hell itself.

    Syne watched the girl from under the branch where Epitath had perched himself. His cold green eyes flickered in the firelight. He had smelled her fear. It had seeped from her every pore. The smell was intoxicating. He felt his mouth water.**


  • Minion of the Ninth.

    "Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry
    Devil on your back, I can never die"

    -RZ-

    Syne struggled as the flames began to consume him, the pain so pure, so fierce, so unrelenting. In an instant, his mind he saw every victim that had ever fallen under his knife. They waited for him, on the other side.

    The 21 Sacraments.

    The hardest of the rituals he had completed. One after another after another. Man, woman, and child alike, falling to his single-minded devotion to his lord Asmodeus. Night after night, carefully choosing his victims, falling upon them like a shadow. A raven in the night, with one milky white eye, heralding his approach.

    Such was his life, until after he killed his fifteenth victim. The last six, would be a trial by fire.

    The Penance.

    Six souls in six nights. Syne's existence hung in the balance. The final victims of the 21 Sacraments were to be completed in record time, or the sorcerer would be doomed. Already, Epitaph, his trusted familiar, had been consumed in payment. Six with six. Syne had succeeded the trial, ending with a test of fire. His flesh had been seared, his bones blackened. Never had he known such agony, but it would not be the last time.

    The Hound of Hell

    After completing the 21 Sacraments, Syne was granted the power of the Desecrator. The hunger that had been a part of him since early youth, the hunger for human flesh which had kept him alive in an unforgiving city of merciless winters, took physical form.

    In those dark years, an enormous black wolf with pale green, pupiless, eyes roamed the lands of Narfell, rending flesh with claw and fang alike. Rage, hunger, hatred, he prowled the night, moonlight glistening off bloodstained jaws.

    The Rise of the Nine

    The final ritual Syne would complete as a mortal. Nine ritualistic suicides, and the offering of an innocent soul. The ritual was a complex one, requiring utter privacy, time, and careful manipulation. In the end, the deal Syne had made with…her...had gone as planned. The trial, had gone as expected, and now here he was, for the second time, suffering the trial of fire.

    He felt his flesh as it melted off his body, blinded by the flames and the pain he howled his misery, and his body responded. From the depths of him came the Desecrator. Rage, fury, he pulled at the chains that held him. They groaned in protest but did not give. He felt hell's fury wash over him, he felt his mortal form go limp as it died, and for a moment, there was nothingness.

    Then Syne's eyes opened.


  • Syne sat with the small red book in his lap and glanced over at Abiie, who lay sprawled on his sofa, face down with her legs moving rhythmically in the air, and reading one of his old tomes. She was absorbing them at an alarming rate. Her hunger for all things dark and occult was impressive. The whole room smelled like vanilla pipeweed. Between the two of them they could cause quite the cloud of smoke.

    They had been many such afternoons together. Syne's workload, although still steady, allowed him more time to spend with the girl. It seemed for the past few years it was all he had known. Work, and Abigale Uramessy. He had already perfected one. Perhaps it was time he worked more on the other.

    He closed the book and walked over to her, running a pale hand through her blazing red hair. He smiled at her when she looked up at him.

    "I am restless today Abiie. Go get dressed, we can catch a play at the theater and then have a nice dinner. I'll pay one of the street performers to juggle and breath fire for us."

    As an afterthought, "Wear those gloves that smell like flowers. I like the softness they impart on your hands."


  • Syne sat at the window, the milky white light of the high moon caressing his form and bathing him in silky shadow. His pale green eyes glowed with eerie inner light, cold and pupiless, as he stared at the delicate form laying in the bed before him.

    Her smooth skin, her flame red hair, so much like the eyes he had found such peace in, so very long ago. Syne sat in perfect silence, admiring the little girl that was so very quickly becoming a mature woman.

    He had sat like this many times in the past, watching his victims sleep peacefully before making his decision to end their wretched lives with the dagger at his belt. That was before his ascension, during the twenty one sacrifices. That also, was so very long ago.

    Now he sat, not in preperation, but simple enjoyment. He was glad she had disobeyed her father and returned here. He had become quite used to her company. In a time of hatred and mistrust, it was good to have someone to care for, to nurture, to protect and guide.

    He had worked his whole life to be in the position he was now, and the job absorbed him as fully as he hoped it would, but he was glad for his moments with her. He wondered how her flesh would respond to his warm touch.

    Years of butchering women had made him an expert in the female anatomy. Points of pleasure and pain had become his artform. Many would find this little bit of morbid knowledge disturbing, but Lina always enjoyed it. He wondered if the child would as well…when the time came.

    Syne sat entangled in moonlight and shadow, wondering what the future would bring.


  • The inferno blazed around him with seemingly undying intensity. The portal roared in outrage from beneath him. His massive claws swiped at the wooden stakes that held the sacrificial nexus. His will alone holding back the flames that sought to consume him.

    At his right stood Anakore, his hair and face drenched in sweat, his blazing eyes and clenched teeth caught in an expression of battle lust, pain, and determination. He was not having as much luck fighting off the fires that licked at their bodies, but he stood strong regardless, his sword crashing against the stakes in swift clean strokes.

    Syne was lost in the rapture, his mind caught in the body of a creature far more powerful than his own. His physical strength overwhelming, his talons deadly as they broke the cross that served as a hellish catapult from the abyss.

    The ground began to tremble, and the world began to explode. Syne could hear the cries of anguish and hatred at their success. He heard himself roar, elated by the victory he had again won over his enemies.

    "SENATOR! It is over!" Anakore shouted.

    Yes…indeed it was. His magic was beginning to fade and he could feel the flames begin to singe his thick flesh.

    He left the devastated plain, seeking higher ground with the Cerulian captain. As they stood there, watching the fires roar, captivated by the dancing flames that spread out as far as the eye could see, Syne could only think of one word to say, hissing it through his awkwardly shaped jaw and bloated black tounge.

    "Beeeauutifuul."

    That was two of their portals he had helped destroy. Two victories that would weigh greatly in his favor when the time came. He had been promised this years ago. Finally he could show his mettle to those who he knew were closely watching. He was sure they were pleased.


  • As Syne prepared to leave for another day at City Hall, his gaze fell on the soft red cushioned sofa Abiie favored when reading her books. She was a quiet child, a very pleasant guest indeed. He sat on the large sofa and took a deep breath through his nostrils. He could still make out her scent even through the soft lingering aroma of vanilla she had left for him.

    He ran his hand over the cushion thoughtfully. He felt no malice towards the child. Her inner turmoil, the darkness in her heart, appealed to him. He had not noticed how atuned he was to the vibrations of "the dark".

    He knew then he would miss her. He only wished he could have spent a bit more time with her before she left, but his new position took precedence.

    The corners of Syne's thin pale lips became a small genuine smile as he ran his hand under his powerful nose.

    "Stay safe…little Abiie."


  • The Orchestrator

    "Dead I am the knife, dig into the skin
    Knuckle crack the bone, 21 to win"

    -RZ-

    Ulin….what an odd name.

    Syne watched her for the longest time. Her long blond hair lay limply over her pretty face. He had not noticed her glowing hair when he had stalked her out in the Pass until he was almost upon her because of her obscuring blue cowl. He doubted anyone else ever had...and they called him a monster.

    No one would ever miss young Ulin...just another fallen among the hordes of dead marauders. He loved how the self righteous cut through their own people with utter disregard because of a conflict of interests. Because of a political mandate. Kill on sight was the order given on both sides...and so they do.

    He smiled at her motionless form. "You will not be like them Ulin." he told her. "Your death will have meaning."

    Syne looked at his fresh, blood stained hand and ran it over his face slowly. He knelt there, before the altar, shirtless and drenched in blood, like he would do, so many years ago. Somewhere along the line, the passion for the sacraments had faded.

    "Twenty-one." he whispered. "I have commited to you twenty-one souls as is written in the Scriptures of Ascension. I paid your penance, I gave you my will. In return...you have given me power...and for that I am eternally grateful. I know you have not abandoned me...I see now that this minion you have sent is not an ally...but a test. I should have listened when he spoke of power. I should have realized what he was hinting at."

    Syne drew a single rune on the altar in thick blood. "I see my path once more. I know now what you wish of me. I offer you this sacrifice as proof of loyalty in the face of adversity. I swore never again to waver, and I will stand true to this until the end of my long days."

    Syne carefully placed the body on the altar, a small moan escaping the girl's lips. Syne pulled out a knife...a new knife for a new beginning. With one quick movement the blade came down, splinting bone and tearing soft flesh. The woman's blue eyes shot open in shock and pain. A bust of blood from her mouth covered her lips and stained Syne's cheek.

    Syne only stared at the single rune he had written, his pale green eyes blazing with inner malice and power. He was oblivious to the woman's final gasps of pain filled air and agonizing flails. "I will not disappoint you...my lord."


  • Syne stood at the window of his office, staring out at the icy black waters of the Icelake. His ink black hair flowed gently in the cool breeze, the silver light of the moon caressed his pale face, revealing the satisfied grin on his white lips. His unnaturally pale green eyes glowed viciously in the night as his naturally keen elven sight absorbed every particle of light available.

    He took his thin wooden pipe to his lips, the sweet aroma of vanilla smoke rising lazily into his nostrils, the burning embers reflecting in his eyes like malignant little flames.

    "Zyphlin." He whispered into the night air, savoring the word. "If only you knew how succulent this victory has tasted." He paused, letting the smooth smoke enter his lungs, fill them, and then exit slowly through his throat and out his mouth. "If only you knew the true reason for your suffering."

    Syne's grin became a pleased and genuine smile as he leaned against the windowsill. "Perhaps one day…I will find you, old and decrepit...lying on your death bed, hoping for the peace your god promised you. On that day, you will see the pale green fire of my eyes upon you. On that day, you will know... and your rage will fill my soul with the utmost joy...Zyphlin."

    Syne returned to his desk. There was much to do before the election, but tonight, he would have a toast, in honor of his broken enemy.


  • Awakening of the Sleeper

    _Red rain, no pain
    Fallin down over you yeah
    Wicked man, yes I can, a walkin all over you yeah

    Hunger! Inside you
    Hunger!
    Hunger! Destroy you
    Hunger!

    Bright glove, mad love
    A movin all over you yeah
    Psycho man, yes I can, do it all over for you yeah_

    -RZ-

    Syne stood in the middle of the pass with his head pulled back and his arms out wide. The city of Peltarch was behind him, it’s buildings outlined by sporadic bursts of forked lightning. The rain, it was so cleansing, so pure, so terrible. His pale green eyes glowed with silent malice as he stared into the storm brewing above him. He watched the raindrops fall, he watched the lightning arch through the clouds. His soaking ink black hair covered his face.

    It had been years since he had practiced the art of murder. He had taken what was given to him and used it to his benefit, but the sacrifices had ended. He had occasionally fed on the women that would attack him on the Nars, just to stop the cravings, but his terrible spree of death he had commenced had ended. Why?

    As he stood there, staring off into the bleak black sky, his mind raced for an answer. Where had his path been halted?

    It was then that he saw, where he had stopped. It was her. He had stopped for her. How ever willing and determined she seemed, he knew this was not in her nature. It did not come as naturally as it did to him. He had been tempted to dive into her mind, to force her to reveal the truth, but his feelings for her had kept him at bay. Now she had begun to doubt, her faith was faltering, and her disposition was different. She smelled differently to him, she felt different under his touch. He had not noticed it before, but her presence, her feelings for him, had filled the void that only his nights bathed in the blood of strangers ever could. He no longer felt the deep seeded need to kill. He had found refuge in her arms, in her eyes, in her scent and her taste.

    He smiled as he realized, that this terrible fey had nearly defeated him in a way no champion of light ever could. She had doused the flame within him, giving him something he never believed he could ever have. Things however, had now changed. There was something in her eyes, something behind them. Syne mused that he might like to tear them free of the skull that held them, sink his claws into the pupils and open them like fresh fruit, forcing them to reveal their secrets to him.

    Never before this moment had Syne thought about hurting her, it had never seemed like an option. As he stood there in the cold rain, he wondered how the blood running through her veins would taste. Would it be as sweet as her skin? Would her heart, that thundered as he lay his head on her chest, thunder with equal fervor in his talon armed grasp?

    Syne’s grin became large and pointy. His pupils retreated into the soft glowing green of his irises. He had been asleep too long. The anchor that held him was faltering. The beast that was held was struggling for release. He didn’t want to hurt her, but her hold on him was slipping, and as it did, another wilder, fiercer presence was pulling him forward, down the path he had chosen. His ears began to elongate, his teeth became sharp and vicious.

    In the cold dark downpour the Desecrator became aware. He imagined himself, bathing in the blood of the fallen. He could almost taste it.

    In the overwhelming sensations that flooded him during his transformation, Syne felt the hollow in his soul. A hollow he could only fill by rending, tearing, and breaking those who stood before him. He had fought off the beast for a very long time now. Slowly the creature had begun to change him. His manurisms were different, his perspective was skewed. At this moment, he let himself be consumed by it. He wanted to see how far it would go. He wanted to see the full potential of the thing sleeping inside him.

    He would continue his maddening decent. He would not linger here anymore. Death would once again become his artform.


  • Part II: Redemption

    "Six souls in six nights."

    Syne watched the women writhe in the flames of their eternal sentance. Their spirits hovered in a circle around the intriquite diagram painted on the floor. They had been damned like the others. He had completed his task as requested. It was now time for his judgement.

    "Step into the circle." the vile creature before him spoke with a voice that echoed from the deep. It stood tall over the frail elf, deadly and menacing, and emenating an unbelievable amount of energy.

    Syne hesitated. He looked at the creature with open mistrust. However loyal he was, he understood the mechanations of the order he was a part of. Manipulation and subterfuge were treated as commandments by these beings.

    "You will not so easily make a sacrifice of me minion!" Syne stated, fully aware of the predicament he would be in if he was correct in his assumption.

    The minion simply laughed the comment off and turned towards the captured spirits. Syne watched as the servant viciously mutilated the very essence of those within the circle. A soul's final death cry was a very unique thing. Syne had never forgotten the sound. Once he was finished, a small, beautifully crafted relic lay within the glowing confines of the circle.

    "That is your reward, if you dare take it."

    "No." Syne said. "I accept this trial, as I have all others."

    With that Syne stepped within the circle and felt a white hot agony that he had never before imagined possible. His pale skin was sheared from his body and the flames that consumed him caused his flesh to spasm. He felt his eyes boil and his tongue melt. Then…with terrible slowness...it passed.

    Syne lay on the ground, a small, charred, miserable looking thing, with his gift held tightly in his flame deformed grasp.

    "Leave me now, chosen, you shall be summoned."

    Syne left the chamber quietly. He felt a great elation and relief to be away from the foul thing, despite the overpowering pain that now vibrated through him. This was but the beginning of the path…he had to be strong...he had to endure.

    Syne's pale eyes seemed brighter in contrast to his blackened flesh. His mind was already plotting, looking for the right stones to tred while on this wicked road.


  • Memories in Reverie:

    In the mouth of madness
    down in the darkness
    no more tomorrow
    down in the hollow
    -RZ-

    Part I: The Penance

    Syne's pale eyes were focused and clear. All around him, the spiteful, painfilled wails of those he had damned echoed through the nothing, terribly augmented by the very darkness that fed off their pain. He saw them…every single man, woman, and child he had brought under his sacrificial knife. He had not realized there had been so many. Over the years...he had apparently slain dozens.

    Each and every one of them had been stripped of their destiny by his own hand. Each now stood here, caught in an ever spinning wheel of agony. They were caught in webs of flame soaked steel chains. Their flesh was seared, punctured and flayed. Their teeth were slowly removed and their eyes were violently gouged out. Their muscles were pulled and torn, one by one. Their bones were scraped and drilled into by massive barbed chains with spear-like tips. Every wound inflicted quickly healed only to be torn again.

    The physical perpetual torture seemed gruesome and unbearable. Syne however knew that it was, as all things of the physical realm, only the tip of a gargantuan system of sadism. He had risked a peek into one of their minds...one of the children. What he saw there made him pull back with such force it had made him nauseous.

    The absolute despair the child was feeling was indescribable. Every goal he had not achieved had been dangled before him. Every risk he had not taken was beaten into his mind with brute tenacity. Every moment he had not used the time given to him in life to the fullest extent, due to fear or insecurity, were constantly and forcibly demonstrated to him. He reached for it, tried to change it, claim it, but before he could, the moment was taken from him. Every single mistake he had made was augmented by an infinite exponent.

    This was but a child that had yet to make the horrible mistakes a man would make in his directionless life. He could not perceive of the despair the others were experiencing. He did not even dare a glimpse.

    Before him, in the middle of this chamber of torment, was a raven. It was large with a perfect ink black plumage and a pair of haunting glowing red eyes. Beneath him, like a ravaged, unwilling lover, sprawled and decimated, was his former familiar, Epitath.

    The raven looked back at him, one eye milky white, with what could only be defined as an expression of maddening anguish. The red eyed raven stared back at Syne, its expression cold and mocking, and with one quick thrust, pierced Epitath with its beak and began to devour him. Epitath put up no resistance. His beak opened in a silent scream as he looked back at his master.

    The red eyed raven continued to feed without bothering to look up at the infuriated yet helpless elf. Syne however could here the creature's thoughts as clearly as speech itself.

    "Never forget the price of failure."

    Syne opened his eyes. His skin felt warm and sticky, his eyes heavy and throbbing. He looked at the deeply scarred panther that sat by keeping watch. He rubbed behind his ears tenderly hearing him purr with delight.

    "I will never forget." he whispered into the night, knowing full well someone was listening.


  • Sygil

    What is lurking?
    What is here?
    What is lurking?
    What you fear!

    -RZ-

    The creatures muscles trembled as it fed. Its dark tanned fur stained in patches of blood from its recent kill. The lioness was wary of its surroundings, knowing full well that a moment's distraction could lead to its death by some other predator looking to take her kill from her. It fed while keepings its eyes and ears focused on any strange movements.

    Despite its weary stance and accute senses, she never saw him coming. A large black claw raked savegly across her neck opening an artery. She turned and saw him, a black shadow of murderous fury closing in for a kill. The lioness roared and retaliated, throwing its powerful body at the panther, enormous jaws and sharp claws fully extended.

    They rolled on the ground, clawing and biting, slashing and raking violently with their hind quarters. The lioness was clearly stronger than the sleek panther. Her claws left terrible wounds in the panther's flanks. She swatted at his face, tearing three vicious cuts across his head and muzzle. His blood flew and stained the grass around them and blinded his right eye. He roared in pain, realizing quickly that he was losing the upper hand in this battle.

    With a ravenous fury born of desperation he tore at the larger feline. It was then that he felt him…his master...deep within the confines of his mind, feeling through him, the joy of the bloodshed. He could not let him down.

    Sygil felt a surge of power rise. This was his trial..this was his test. Using what power he had left he dug his claws into the lioness' paws and used his weight to hold them down and made a quick lunge for her already bleeding neck. His jaws dug deep and with a quick jerk, her neck snapped clean.

    Sygil limped back towards his master, nearly broken but victorious. Syne rubbed his hands across Sygil's blood matted fur. His touch was warm and soothing.

    "You will heal well....and you will keep these marks she gave you as a reminder of the path you walk. You have done well my friend....now go and feed so you can regain your strength. Feed with no worry...for I am watching."

    With that Sigil slowly went back to his kill and began to devour her. He had shown his master the extent of his ability. He had been genuinely pleased.


  • Syne walked with slow measured steps, his black robes making no noise as he walked, his cowl pulled well over his head, holding a small child's hand with delicate fingers. She walked by him, her long golden locks blowing in the cool night wind and her small white nightdress clinging to her pink skin. She stared straight ahead, a slightly glazed look in her sleepy eyes.

    He turned into a blind alley and placed the child before him. She stared up at him with the same thoughtless expression, waiting patiently. One pale hand appeared from the thick sleeve of his robe making a horizontal arc over her blond head. He began to chant, slowly and rythmically.

    "How dare he?" His mind seemed to ask. "What gives him the right?"

    Syne's hand stopped, he gathered himself a moment and began the ritual again.

    "We are supposed to be allies! What makes that bastard think he can do such a thing? Why would HE condone it?"

    Again Syne's hand was still. The child was still looking up into the darkness of his cowl, patiently waiting. Syne took a breath and began again. He tried to still his trembling hand. He had never been in such a state before. It seemed somehow…the creature within him...was filled with a ferocity he had never known. He needed to fight it....control it.

    Why? Why would such a reckless fool be placed in his path? Why were his actions allowed and not punished? Why? What were his motives?

    Syne's hand became a trembling fist over the child's head. He slowly pulled it back into the shadows of his robe. He stood there for a moment, silent and motionless. Syne felt his normally well tempered rage rise like a fever. The creature was strong. He had to fight it back.

    The girl noticed two small green glowing orbs appear within the shadows of the hood. They looked down at her strangely.

    "WHY??"

    As Syne moved from the confines of the robe and came forward, the very sight of him, snapped the girl violently out of her trance. She screamed her last high pitched scream before the claws and fangs of the rage stricken beast found her. Her soft white nightdress was quickly stained bright red.


  • The night stood still, the birds were silent, and a cold forboding wind crossed the Nars like a warning to all those near. There was something wrong in the air, something wrong in the stars, a dark omen to those sensitive to the ways of the Weave.

    The Desecrator made its way slowly up a sloping hill. Its glossy black claws sank deeply int the soft earth below, leaving large indented tracks in its wake. Every movent was fluent, its enormous muscles rippled with every step. Its pale green, pupilless eyes glowed with an eerie inner light. Beside it walked Sygil, silent, vicious, and watchful. His yellow eyes, unlike the sinister creature beside it, were sharp, rich and bright. He licked his chops, savoring the coppery blood of its most recent kill.

    They both reached the hill that overlooked the cold windy Nars. There was a moment of silence, a moment of peace. The Pass was quiet and still. The night birds dared a song, the insects dared a call…and then it came.

    A loud feral roar escaped the vicious, bloodstained jaws of both beats. A loud blast of hatred and malignance that reverberated through the Pass like an infernal horn. Flocks of birds scattered to the winds in desperation.

    Early the next morning, while the dew still lay on the blades, both creatures were long gone, but their presence, the residual wrongness of their passing....still lingered.


  • Garen rubbed the thin leather of the reins absently, his mind wandering. The wagon he sat on creaked and complained with every little nook and rock it came across. His wares clincked, clanked and swayed behind him, making a soothing little rhythm he was finding hard to stay awake to. His brother Stel sat at his right, his head leaned against the wagon's support beam, fast asleep despite the bumpy ride.

    He took a quick glance around the wagon. All the mercenaries he had hired were in place, three at his left, three at his right, walking casually alongside the wagon, sporadically looking out towards the plains, watchful of a bandit ambush.

    Garen felt his head start to bob, his eyelids heavy, when one of the mercs cried out in horrified surprise. He looked back and saw the mercs had stopped. There was an enormous black panther, pinning one of the men down, its jaws clamped tightly on the his throat, blood spraying in every direction. The other two stood in stunned silence. They hadn't seen the thing coming.

    Garen's first reaction was to whip the horses into action. He wasn't going to die out here. The moment the horse began to get momentum, four huge raking scars appeared on its thick neck. It whinned loudly and sprinted sideways in a panicked lunge. The abrupt move brought the wagon up on two wheels. Stel woke with a start and tried to hang on for dear life as the wagon landed on its side, the weight forcing the single horse to a sudden halt.

    There was movement between them and the horse. Something was coming at terrible speeds. Garen saw his brother lifted high into the air by the nothing. A small scream escaped his lips just before his neck snapped loudly and his body fell limp beside him. Whatever it was, ran off, leaving Garen in petrified fear.

    The mercs were quick to recover from their shock. They unsheathed their blades in unision and charged the hunting cat. The panther responded fearlessly, lunging on its first attacker, its claws ripping the light leather armor, its fangs tearing through his cheeks and his hind legs ripping his thighs to shreds.

    The second reached the panther sword leading. A foot before impact, he was hit by something, sending him sprawling. The others stopped their rush, confused, not seeing what had sent the man flying. Their hesitation cost them dearly. The hunting cat lunged again, pinning a third man under its massive weight. His screams echoed loudly around them.

    The first man to the cat's left doubled over suddenly, his arms covered in blood, holding himself. The others watched in struck horror as they realized the man had been evicerated. He was holding his inards in his arms.

    The mercs ran. The panther looked up, its muzzle covered in blood, and gave chase. They were no match for the creatures speed. It caught up to them easily, leaping with its powerful hind quarters and taking one of them down, its jaws clamping down on the back of his neck. The last man kept running, just to feel something sharp run across his calf. The pain brought him down fast. He turned, his hand going for his sword. Something grabbed his arm and pulled sharply. His teeth clenched as the bone broke. He could feel it over him, large, powerful, deadly.

    "What…what the hell are ye!?" he asked the creature he knew was there but could not see. He could feel its weight on his chest, its hot breath on his face.

    "Deeeeseeecraaator." Came a terrible low rumbling voice, like something out of the very pits of a nightmare. He felt the thing's thick saliva dripping on his cheek. Before he could think to move, four deep, vicious scars appeared on his neck, his lifes blood pouring out of him.

    Garen sat huddled in the wagon, hearing the hideous death cries of the mercenaries, trembling and alone. He dared not move. He tried to wake himself up but could not seem to. It would come for him…it would come for him but he couldn't move...he couldn't run..there was no escape.......no escape.


  • _"A Drop of Hell. A Touch of Strange."

    Oh High noon, dead moon
    A hangin all over you yeah
    Devilman, yes I can, cut a little piece of you yeah

    Hunger! Inside you
    Hunger!
    Hunger! Destroy you
    Hunger!

    Swift might, dead night
    That's all right for you yeah
    Voodoo man, yes I can, tear it all down for you yeah

    -RZ-

    There are worlds within worlds…there are dark things within us all...

    Syne doubled over, clutching at his stomach as the pain rocked him, knocking him to his knees. He felt his body pulse and beat like an enormous heart as his body grew and his muscles tightened. His head pounded, his vison blurred and the world around him filled with electricity and fire.

    His fingers clawed at the wooden planks beneath him. His teeth clenched tightly together, slowly began to elongate and sharpen. His eyes became wide orbs of pale green fire. The pain was excruciating and complete. His bare fingers tore through the wooden planks with incredible force.

    Syne opened his mouth and from within him escaped an inhuman sound filled with rage and power. The white caterpillar was no more. The cocoon of stone was left behind, torn and ravaged. From the depths of bloodshed and madness, awakened and hungry, rose the Desecrator._


  • Syne began to scream…the pain was becoming unbearable.

    Like a fetus, Syne lay on the ground, holding his head as raw pain shot through him in crashing waves. The visions were growing more and more frequent, the images mixing and swirling. He was losing control, the demand was becoming too strong.

    Another trial...of this he was sure. He was taking too long, his mind would not hold out much longer. He was swimming in the sight of her, the smell of her. He could see her everywhere, the visions coming in bursts of agony.

    He had to find her. He had to end this. He was taking too long. He had to end this, before it ended him.

    Syne could not hear himself scream. All he heard was her voice in his head. His fingers curled up like talons. He had no time left.


  • Such pain…such perfect agony...

    Syne stumbled through his rooms, holding his head tightly in his hands. The visions were getting worse, more painful, more demanding. They came in blurs and hideous whispers, mixing the timelines in a swirl of macabre images. He saw past victims, he saw present pains, and finally came what the expectations of his future. A sharp throbbing, like a deep red flame in his mind, making him groan and desperately clutch at his head, trying to bore his fingers into his skull to relieve the pressure. His eyes wide and madness stricken, his teeth clenched tightly.

    The pain resided as quickly as it had come, leaving him shuddering and in shock, his pale eyes wide, his mouth tasting lightly of blood. How unforgivable…how vicious..how perfect these visions were becoming. Syne sat, holding his head that still throbbed lightly. He balled his hands into fists and bowed his head, his eyes gleaming with fierce determination behind his raven black hair.

    Syne opened his hand, conjuring the flaming sigil once again, finding strength in its form and power in its meaning. He stared at it, letting his mind recover from the deadly assault.


  • Syne sat in the cool breeze of the western foothills with his eyes closed, letting the wind catch his raven black hair. He sat in the center of a large circular symbol, burned into the grass around him. He held his hands before him, a small flame in the shape of an ancient sigil hovering powerfully between his fingers. He focused, the last rights of the ceremony having been completed. The time had come.

    Epitath had been a loyal companion for what seemed like an eternity. His blood had put him on the path. His sacrifice was an important stepping stone, one he would not forget.

    Now Syne focused, summoning his power from deep within, feeling it swim through him in currents. He felt it extend from his body in waves.

    A low growl made him slowly open his eyes. Before him stood an enormous creature. Sleek, muscular, and powerful. Its chiseled black face regarded him impassively, its deep yellow eyes absorbed him like a vacuum.

    Syne's pale gaze became intense. The glyph between his hands glowed brilliantly before vanishing. For an instant, the large predator's eyes glowed green and red. It padded quietly towards him, regarding him one last time before nuzzling the side of his face.

    Syne's smile was genuine. It was an appropriate choice, he thought. He ran his pale hand down the iron muscles and smooth fur, admiring the creature's silent power.

    "Sygil." He whispered to him. "We have much work to do."


  • _Ascension of the Beast

    "Hell on Earth
    For What It's Worth
    Dead on Dreaming
    You started screaming
    The wizard of how
    The king of the now
    Cry like a banshee
    And die like you want me"_

    -RZ-

    Luriel had a bright smile lighting her face as she watched her daughter Alsa try to be as precise as possible, concentrating completely as she cut the vegetables for the night's dinner. She had been asking for days to be taught how to properly cut the celery and bell peppers for a proper stew. Now she stood, her freckled face locked in a comical stare of determination, as she slowly sliced the long celery sticks on the cutting board.

    Luriel looked back down, hesitating slightly before cutting the skin of the ripe, vengeful onion she would need to suffer through in the name of flavor. She had become used to kitchen tears, but she did not look forward to them.

    With an air of abandonment Luriel began slicing the onion, her speed and accuracy a result of years of dedicated practice, cooking for her beloved husband and little Alsa. She watched the onion become thin slices and then deftly turned it, beggining to create tiny squares, suitable for mixing. Halfway through the onion she realized something strange. The knife was cutting cleanly, hitting the cutting board beneath the large white vegetable, but as it struck, it was making no noise.

    She kept cutting, purposefully leaning into the stroke a bit more, but again no sound came. She looked at the knife, tapped it against the cutting board, but heard no loud ringing or clanking. She looked over to Alsa who still stood fixed and nearly done with her celery. Suspiciously she brought the knife up to inspect it. At that instant she felt something grab her forearm.

    Alsa finished her celery sticks, smiling proudly at her work, she looked up to announce her victory just in time to see her mother take the long wet knife in her hand and run it quickly across her own neck. Blood flowed like a nightmare river down her dress. Alsa paled, the knife in her hand dropping in a loud clanking.

    "MOOOMMEEEE!!" She ran for her as the woman dropped to the ground, knife still held tightly in her grip. Alsa dove, he hands going for her mother's deep wound, trying desperately to stop the current with her small hands. She saw the fear in her mother's eyes, a mixture of terror and shock. Then her hand came up, fast and unnaturally, her body jerked as if pulled by a tight string.

    Alsa looked down, five inches of crudely forged iron sheathed deep within her chest, her dress beginning to stain. She looked at her mother's face, a cold pale, horror stricken face devoid of all life. She knew in that look, that the knife that now drank in her chest, was the last thing her mother had seen.

    Alsa's head hit the kithcen floor, making no noise.