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Ch. 1 Day of Destiny by Jotam TorresSUMMARY: The beginning of my Fantasy tale project.
"The Day of Destiny"
The Man of Sorrows
"Mother!" There was no response.
"MOTHER! Are you there?" his voice echoed in his mind.
"Are you there...?"
There was a long pause in the Prisoner's thoughts, his mind was a jumbled mess of feelings and yearnings. It was small and weak as if it was being used for the very first time. He could not remember who he was, or for that matter where he was. His surroundings seemed to close in on him as he strained his eyes in the lightless void where he lay.
He searched around with his hands, they were slow to move and seemed small and difficult to control. He could feel the cold stone walls that enclosed him. He was in pitch darkness, alone, so desolate was his mind, the Prisoner could do nothing more than slumber...
The core was still warm. After so many decades, after so much time that the age could not be counted, the core of the planet was still warm. Its once smoldering heat was nearly gone.
The Beast slowly opened his eyes and yawned, heaving a cloud of foul breath into the confined space. Morning had come, if you could call it that. The days always stayed dark, there was hardly any light left here. The demon's red, bloodshot eyes scrolled over the carved runes on the walls. Each morning, before he rose he read them, making sure they stayed fresh in his mind throughout the ages. They told of events that he could never allow himself to forget, and a story the he hoped some day would shape his destiny. He had dug them into the stone with his own claws until they bled.
Gradually, the creature pulled himself out of his lair, a hole in a forest clearing cut deep into the ground. He yawned again, showing all of his ancient and yet needle sharp teeth. He shifted his muscles, what was left of the rotting masses, and stretched as much as he could. His wings creaked as he spread them apart, so monstrous they were and yet full of scars, rips and tears, none of which had ever healed. He twisted his head back and forth popping the fleshless bones that made up his neck, dirt and dust from the cracks in them drifted down towards the ground and disappeared through his dark hole. Finally he cocked his head back and let out a somewhat weak roar, more like a whimper. He grunted with irritation, he was growing weaker.
He began to flap his wings. The muscles and tendons that he would've used to fly no longer worked, and in some areas they were completely decayed. He rolled his eyes in annoyance.
Whispering a few dark mutters under his foul breath, an invisible force, much like the wind, collected below his outstretched wings. He was quickly tossed into the air. He flapped his wings in a slow rhythm out of habit really, for it was the magic that lifted him higher and higher. He then stretched them out to their full extent. From there he began a slow glide across the dark skies.
His red eyes grew darker as he remembered all the creatures, beasts and men alike, that he had murdered to feed his belly. He could clearly remember their faces. They writhed and twisted under his terrifying gaze as he slowly sucked the life out of them.