The Captive

The Captive
Based on Role Play Events of Furcadia
And the Malfeasance Continuity



By: William Zoeller




“The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.”John Milton


We live in worlds where our mind holds no virtuous qualities. We manifest our own demons and we hurt those we covet most.

Ourselves.
























"Where is this place, I now reside? Hidden form view; in darkness I hide. Where is this place, where is this place...." A ragged Furre rocks himself in a corner of a damp, cold prison cell. The cell is barren of any furniture besides a stone bench which conveniently is located on the other side of the room, which this prisoner can not reach due to the ankle shackles anchoring him to the floor on the opposite side. The prisoner continues to ramble continuously, his lullaby, but will it lull his pain? "Where is this place...? Where is this place..." The prisoner thinks of how long he has sat in this darkness, was it day, or was it night? Winter? Summer? The temperature within the darkness remained steady and constant mild temperaments; at least that was the only pleasing part of this purgatories hell. The creature within the darkness, at once, would have known, but he had long given up counting the days when the numbers began to roll and jumble in his head. Only the tiniest dripping sound is his friend in the drowning sea of darkness. Eternity, sitting there, hearing nothing. No one... Not even a guard. "Where is this place...? Where is this place...?” The prisoner would continue to sing. The only company in the cell besides the tiniest dripping noise was his own mind, the thoughts and memories of something magnificent and great. What was that? What was he? It was so long ago, the prisoner, now cornering and singing, rocking to and fro in an infantile manner wouldn't and couldn't recall. Wouldn't matter to him anyways, probably was only one of those dreams. Besides, if it were true, what's the principle? It's in the past... he lives here now singing with the drip. Sometimes in his dreams, the prisoner can see his own face or was it his own, it's been so long since he had seen his own complexion. Though, even if he was given a mirror as well as light, the prisoner still wouldn't know. A sudden chuckle, loud and obnoxious, a slithering sound of leather sliding against dirty wet granite. The echo of the scratch quickly vanishing in the background, "Where is this place...." The prisoner begs for an answer to his question. His answer comes in the sound of a drip.


"What day is it now? I don't know where it's gone, the time, I've lost it all over the ink dribbles over my eyes like powder capable of exploding cannon fodder and meats from a butcher bleeding on my face of fear I have seen the seashore of tranquility, It's day light there, so it must be day light now, probably noon, doesn't matter which day it is so long as it is day. Day Light... Strange, I hate light...." The rambling continues from the damp cell. The tipper tapper of tiny feet, rats scurrying like vultures would, soaring over head to a man unable to find water, "No no no no!" He giggles to himself and then yells out, "BAR WENCH?! ALE, NOW!" The voice again echoes. He hasn't eaten in days. The water is running low. Have they forgotten him? Perhaps they have. "You know who I am, Don't YOU?!" Was the question out of arrogance or was it sincere, "DAMN YOU! LET ME OUT OF THIS CAGE!" The rustic smell of ionized metals. The smell of mold and soiled linens and urine, in the corner of the caged prison. Pssst! The crazed lunatic looks around, in the darkness, his eyes are wild and large, ear flicking about before jumping to his feet, "Who is there? Have you Brought me FOOOD???" -PSSST!- The sound came from a different origin now, the shackles pound against the wrought iron and stones, echoing to through out the empty black halls. The prisoner grunts to himself, "Where are you?!" Demanding there to be light! Anything, Curses - There is nothing; he can't even manage to see his paw in front of his face. -OVER HERE- The voice erupts from behind him, in frantic feats, the deranged starving victim, leaps and slips on the damp floor, probably the simple river from urine and ceiling drip drops. That sound no longer annoyed him, growing accustom to the sound which flicks the ground every second and three quarters. The prisoner yells again, this time, clenching his teeth, "WHERE ARE YOU?!" -YOUR HEAD- The isolated prisoner falls to the ground, unconscious. Drip... Drop... the patter of the water dripping increases in sound, liable to roll louder than thunder from the darkest of storms.


"Lord! I return with great news! The Kingdoms of the Light Alliance have fallen! They offer unconditional surrender and laid down their arms! We are Victorious Sire!" A feline clad in historical armor of the 1st age of Furre would revere upon the image of the scouring villages, the castle itself tumbling to ruins. The smoke rising high into the heavens, inking out the sun and turning day into night. A creature sitting upon a magnificent steed reels back the reigns of his horse's muzzle, throwing the stallions head to the side, shifting the body of the massive animal about. He looks down at the knight who has brought the great fortune of his final victorious hour and in a lowly voice, full of bitterness, he would growl the words which would forever change the lands of Kasuria and the grand village of Meovanni, "Kill them. Kill them all..." "As you command my Lord." The soldier throws his arm about his chest, smashing metal to metal, the sound which erupted was echoed at the final battle of freedom, the smoke raising higher, a storm begins to brew, a clash of lightning and a roll of thunder as a nearby bard trumpets the final melody. The melody of Alura's calming. A lullaby which was sung to the children of these savages. The sounds of the horns’ trumpet are only followed by the roaring balls of fire catapulting into the heavens. The meteors trail a thick black smoke, offering a rainbow of grey hues before reflecting from them the explosions that turn this night into day. Thousands of screaming bodies shuffle about, and from the view of the notorious leader, they looked like an ant pile that has been stepped upon. "Valiant!" The victorious king looks down at a squire, "Prepare my throne. Tonight, we feast upon the flesh of the imperfect." The squire bows lowly, "By your command, Milord." The Squire dashes off, even as lowly of a rank as he, high officials dodged the young one, evidently on a mission for the Master. That very night, the demand was met, upon piles of the men slain that day, a table was erected, golden chairs were placed, and the food was the most delicious in all the lands. The Emperor sat quietly at one end, to either side, his champions and highest confidants to the other end of the table, at it's head sat Lord Tanis, beaten and disgraced, shackled at the ankles to the golden seat that was set for him. The king raises a silver goblet high to the air and announces his final victory, "Together, we form a more perfect union. Upon your lands, We settle and eat upon your wicked. We toast tonight for the salvation of our Utopian Order. The Dark Haven announces a more perfect world for all. Praise the Gods, for we were chosen to bless these lands from their sin." The captive refused to raise his goblet, "Demon! you have not won! You will never defeat all which is good in this world! Justice will prevail!" A smile beams across the creature, an arch of his head, "All good things come to an end, my friend, but for now, I am the one which offers salvation to your people, I will bring peace to you and allow you to leave. I await your retaliation, You will accept me as your Master when the day comes." That day never came... The prisoner mutters under his breath, "You'll accept me..." A fit of giggles is thrown about before another hostile yell, "You cannot defeat me!" The darkness has blinded the prisoner again as he falls to his knees, "You'll never beat me!" -YOU HAVE LOST- The prisoner twists his head, "NO! I haven't! I won't! I cannot! The sound of rodents beneath his feet, as another voice is heard, "No, There is a way out..." "There is no escape. This wet, damp, darkness is like the womb you came from. Welcome back to the beginning, My Lord..." "Escape is imminent, Be patient," The other voice speaks, as if to both the prisoner and the opposing voice. The prisoner chuckles into a state of fear, crying and laughing all at once, confused what he is supposed to do next. The only comfort from this insanity is the constant drip. That sound, that water, the drop, when will it stop?


"Your predictability bores me. I knew you were too weak to control all of us, my Lord. Now it's only your concern and what shall happen when we finally break you? What then, my Lord? When we, the Daemons of your embodiment take physical shape by our Father and Creator? You are our vessel and nothing more." A lethal voice spouts forth like the venom of a cobra python. "Do not listen to him, we are all equal in this mission, and we can not live without you, nor can we bring our influence to your world without your consent. Your mind is weakening and we will protect you, as you have protected us from the unworthy patrons of your later collaborations." "We all make mistakes," Speaks a new voice, one that is like an angry child, "We aren't without purpose, my brothers." "Purpose, We have our mission, my fellows. We may only wait now, till our time comes to tear down the walls of this feeble mind." Another voice speaks out of turn from the several others which remain in the darkness and inside the cell of the skull of the prisoner. The victim of this rage, holds his head and shakes it violently, annoyed; frustrated that there is a conversation going on in his presence though they act as if he doesn't even exist. It's all in your head, he thinks to himself, these walls, that's what it is, you've always had a fear of closed quarters, is this why? His thinking is on terms of mortality now. Ironic that it was, for he himself was far from a mortal. "Do you believe this body shall suffice?" Inquires one of the voices. "Only time will tell, my Brother, for now, this is our Creator's Vengeance. He has waited so long for this day, allow us to indulge him a little longer." The original voice speaks out loudly, the sounds of his voice tearing a headache into their prisoner. The victim of this personal hell whimpers, curled up in a corner, sitting in his own feces, "Stop! Stop talking! Shut Up!" "Rasterothiangolias'xlez Telon'zhelm is pleased at our progress..." "No, he seeks more, be patient, we will continue as necessary, The body is strong, but still only mortal, How Ironic that this body was once a godling upon the council of nine, third tier from the great God." "Ironic indeed." "Indeed," Speaks another voice. "Agreed..." says another. "A shame, though, an emperor of a great power, corrupted by greed. He could have been the ultimate word of all gods upon this world." "Corruption and greed are his weaknesses. They always have been. Do you not remember, my Brothers?" The voice sounds cold, hitting hard like a dagger to the back of the prisoner. The psychotic creature twists his back abnormally, falling to the ground, slamming his face into a warm pile of feces, totally unable to make any difference between reality and what lay inside his mind. A vision strikes his mind, the vision graced only to prophets and the holy. "My Disciple! You have cheated, stole, and betrayed the power I have invested upon you! Your weaknesses have brought you to your knees from the immaterial to the mortal materialism you now reside! You have fallen from grace and even your gods will not allow your return!" A hammer slams against the table, a greatly omniscient being speaks, his words do not emanate as much as they are simply 'heard' through the mind, "Return to the Realm of the Living and Prove yourself to your Fathers!" The slam of the hammer makes the prisoner cringe ever more, curling himself into a fetal position, like a child would in the fear of being alone, "Mykael! Where are you now?" The whimpering cries are only heard by the rodents, still awaiting the final stir of the body before they too, can satisfy their hungry bellies. In the prisoner's mind, the conversation continues uninterrupted, "Yes, I remember, He slaughtered his own kind and stole us from the vessels." Answered one of the voices to another within the mind of the fragmented. "He chose to defy the Creator instead of embrace him, his pact was broken then." "Fleeing, he did, and we have finally caught up to him. Our Creator will be satisfied by the shattered heart of this one. Allow him to be an example for all vessels we host." Speaks yet, another voice, one that is heard above all others, "This body must survive, he serves purpose in the realm of mortals. Be careful with your embrace." "We shall be kind and gentle, like his lovers." The child-like voice speaks. "Like lovers..." Reiterates, yet another. The prisoner, in his state of confusion, refuses to remember what he had done to receive this punishment, whimpering to the voices he inquires, "How many are you?" Tears running from his eyes now, feces and urine now staining his ashen grey coat of fur. -WE ARE MANY- The voices pronounced all at once. The captive clenches his body close, cringing, he wonders what he did, what was this? It must be a dream.... The other end of the cell just continues to be solemn, Drip. Drop. Drip.... The tiny puddle of water is the only constant in the inconsistency in the thoughts, memories, and conversations which the prisoner is forced to endure and yet, encourage.



A gentle paw is placed upon the captive’s cheek, "Are you alive?" A gorgeous feline peers down at the broken lunatic who smells of decomposing heaps of garbage and sewage. Her paw runs down his cheek, against his chin, lifting it ever gently for his weak glazed stare to meet her compassionate composure. Her touch is angelic and perfect, he welcomes a friendly face, he hasn't spoken to anyone in months, at least, not anyone that's real, or so he considers. Weakly groaning, the captive murmurs something almost entirely inaudible, "I can not end my days like this..." Falling into another manic state of depression, he continues to try and finish his sentence, he fails miserably, when her lips touch his own, "Even you, require touch, love, and satisfaction." Thinking back to this, the mindless being ponders, he shakes his head, "No. I do not." Being a demon, that would be a plausible thought. He'd manage to continue but in the satisfaction of the kiss, enjoying it far too much than he should. The world around him quickly turns to a heavenly array of colors. Lifting his soul from the ruins of his prison of both his body and mind and into a blissful levitation where the sky remains endless as well as the beauty of its surroundings, "Wouldn't you prefer to be here?" The damned creature nods his head, though, deep inside his heart he was calculating the worth of reaping it's resources and pillaging the golden chapels which rose above the forest canopies, "Yes, I would..." The beautiful feline enchantress slips her fingers around his paw, lifting him up for a better site of the magnificence, the captive smiles and closes his eyes. "Mephisto! Mephisto!" A youngling of the House of Bloodhound would tug upon Mephisto's sleeve, the captive watches and quickly realizes that the female as well as his garden of beauty had all vanished, in it's place, a towering castle, it's walls made from the finest of stone, the floors created by tiles of marble, evidently transported from the various outskirts of the known world. Mephisto was wearing, at the time, black robes, precious gems about his red cape, a simple crown placed upon his head, his posture was powerful, stalwart, and full of prowess, "What is it, youngling?" "Your dreaming again, Father." The child answers and smiles. taking a step back, now gaining the attention of his master, a genuine and innocent smile beams across the boy, rocking heel to toe, with his paws behind his back. "I suppose I was," answers Mephisto. The kid nods and takes Mephisto's paw and escorts him to the throne where he may better settle himself. The child more than anything wished for his master's acceptance and took it upon himself to sit in the Lord's lap, upon the throne of the great hall of kings, "Mephisto? You know what?" The notorious leader looks down at the boy, offering, for once, a smile, and “What is it?" "You're going to die soon." The captive opens his eyes and realizes he is not in a great hall of kings, nor is he in a heavenly mass of gardens. He is back in the prison cell, the darkness all too familiar, the stench is strong enough to rouse the dead, he shouts to everything and nothing, "Make it stop!"


A great and powerful creature floats above a shattering glass globe that spans the size of the very planet which all life lives upon. The sphere spins at increasingly uncanny speeds, fast enough that the stars above them race by like sand in a dust storm. Planetary lights and shining stars reflect their glow upon the cracks of the globe's surface. Somewhere on the ground, a party of six individuals fight for their life, attempting to remain upon the planes of the shattering glass, shifting, determined to throw them into the icy depths of space. The battle is with the same creature which watches from atop of the global conflict, this second image of him is quick, agile, a superior opponent, cutting and slashing at the party of six. Of the group, two have already been mortally wounded, holding for dear life that this war would end before their final breath. There is an orbiting speckle of red light moving at a constant speed above the battle. This red speckle has caused all of this chaos, a precious commodity that would be fought over it so intensely.
Lightning bolts the ground and knocks one of the defending party members’ aside, driving her dagger into the glass, the world shakes and shatters more. A roar from the planet emanates a thunderous sound, it rolls into the blackness of space, in retaliation meteors begins to fly, randomly striking in all degrees. The red creature, dashes, leaving a ribbon of blurring images from where he once was, striking another member in the back of the head with his elbow right before sliding his sword through another contender. The skewered victim falls back, holding his belly while the other struck victim leans forward, dazed by the strike to his skull and comes to a crashing halt as the glass stops his fall.The tiny crimson ball watches intently, it's life on the line, if they party fails to beat the omniscient godling, then it's life will be an eternity of torture, constantly being plucked for knowledge, power, curiosity. That is no place for a being of this importance. Death is a welcoming thought, so for now the little speck anxiously awaits the outcome. The world moans as another blade strikes into the glass sphere, the final crack before the weight of the action shatters the globe like a house of cards. The godling lifts up from the air, holding his body and explodes violently, creating a vortex. The party nearly escapes and retrieves the crimson orb. All this time, the godling has watched. Watched the battle, the destruction of his physical image, the escape, and the dramatic exposure of the excitement. He scoffs and runs fingers through his hair. The godling, scoffs and disappears into the emptiness of space. "I was saved by this creature," Speaks a voice, "I owe him that much." "You owe him nothing. He took you back from the Dread lord for his own personal gain. He is no better than Nyar," The voice turns dark and angry, "Remember your roots, Brother." "Maybe you are right in your assumptions." "I know I am right, now continue with your work, it won't be much longer." The captive screams again in sheer agony, liable to shatter glass.


"I would have told her then she was the only thing that I could love, in this dying world... but the simple word of love itself ran and ran away.... This was never my world you took the angel away, I'll kill myself to make everyone regret..." The captive whispers to himself, such rhetoric, reviewing all the good things that he had experienced before living in this little concrete place he now considers home. The creature within the rustic cage is beaten by some unseen enemy. Lacerations have torn through the fur and flesh, dried blood crusts his body like mange. All of this done to himself, his talons have been worn and snapped from the tension of clawing himself and the nearby wall, as if to dig out of to where ever he may be. The lunatic huffs and leans back down, planting his face against the bars of the room, scratching the side of his head, holding to skull with an available paw, a drunkard trying to recoup from the night before. "Save yourselves!" Yells the notorious leader, he's been beaten, crushed, and surrounded by his enemies. Out of the crowd, clad in silver and gold, a strong and powerful figure head, "Your days have come to an end. You're reign of terror stops here!" The leader is Lord Tanis, surrounded by his paladins and warriors of justice. All of them waiting to pummel the fallen and crushed creature. The demons of the Leader surround their broken master readying to fight to the death, the demon king of stares about the crowds, his face gouged and swollen from the attacks, beaten into submission by the Alliance of Light, Lord Tanis never surrendered himself. He spits blood then raises a twisted arm, snapped at the wrist, the bone presses painfully against the flesh, fingers immobile and unable to move, "No! You can not save me now... Save yourselves... You are my only chance..." He coughs blood as red as any apple. His please go unheeded by his loyalists. They stand there awaiting the inevitable. All of which with dreaded appearances.Lord Tanis steps even closer, a powerful creature stands before him and his demon master, "Stop there, Tanis!" "Out of my way, Mokoshan, you can't save him now! Do as he commands, leave him!" The moment of silence that followed was the longest in all history. It could all end here, Mephisto and the Dark Haven, the end of the Vampyre, the extinction of the newest blight of evil. Mokoshan readies his sword high, Lord Tanis, in return, raises his war hammer, "Do not do anything you will regret, Demon!" Tanis roars, "ASIDE!" "Save yourselves!" The demon leader barks out pained that his people refuse to listen. How loyal, they were, the love of the family was impossible to break. The beaten one crawls on the ground, his claws digging into the dirt below everyone's feet. He moves towards his Mate. He clutches her ankle with his unbroken paw, shifting up as to speak to her, "Save my people... They can not win this battle..." She looks down at her love, "We will stand and we could win..." What a pathetic excuse. The evil army was caught off guard, outnumbered three to one, there was absolutely no chance for retaliation and survival. The broken king smiles, "Not this day... I need you more than ever, without you... The Vampyre will die and my legacy will end here... I will not remain eternal. Take my people and flee. Tanis owes me that much..." She nods, holding back a tear. She looks over to her right side, gracefully moving between Mokoshan and Lord Tanis. She looks the king of kings up and down and smiles wickedly. Tanis takes a step back, "Move aside witch!" His war hammer begins to glow brilliantly. His men, behind him, raise their arms and like an angry mob, demand justice. The outcries from the crowd are full of hatred, "Down with the Vampyre!" Another voice roars, "Rid of those Bastards, Lord!" The mediator takes a step forward, slowly moving to her belt, her gaze still on the King, "Lord Tanis... how long has it been? This war between our two peoples?' her belt unsnaps, and falls to the ground behind her, she takes another step forward, "Would you strike an unarmed femme?" Her inquisitive look was full of admiration and teasing pleasures. Indeed, her belt had a dagger attached to it. Tanis lowers his weapon, "Queen Zuriel... I warn you, stop your wicked ways or by the Primes I will strike you down now!" Zuriel huffs and her composure looks as if one that had been defeated, "You owe my King a favor... Let us leave in peace and you shall keep your prize. Or have you no better senses than the 'evil' you say you fight against? Do not go back on the mercy my Lord has offered you." She tilts her head, "Show us that there is still promise for the age of Furre-kind." Another long pause. "Bring her to her knees Lord Tanis! Show no mercy!" Shouts an angry member of the light alliance, "Strike her down now!" Tanis turns about, "Enough! I will allow them safe way! Make a hole!" His men were slow in doing so, baffled by the command. They did, however, follow the order with a quiet murmur from the crowds. The whispers of something treacherous rose through out the angry mob. The Conspirators, they would think, they would believe or would like to believe that witch craft had been involved.Zuriel looks to her men and then to her mate, her gaze was one of vengeance and in her body language, she motions that her Mate will not be forgotten, they will find a way to bring him back... they must, for their kind to survive. She peers to her crowd, "Ease your arms. Make haste for Castle Haven..." After the Vampyre make their departure, Zuriel remains to watch the murder. From the mob of good, comes a sorcerer, shrouded in white garments, "As your command, Lord Tanis..." He would speak to him from his whisper. He raises his paws into the air and shards of ice begin to form on his fingertips, "Your reign ends now, Lord Mephisto!" A shattering sound of breaking glass suddenly echoes, a snow storm swirls around the battered body. The execution commences. Mephisto's body stiffens in pain, the ice burning his body. He screams in pain and then nothing. As the mist melts into the air there crawls a silver crystalline statue of an agonized body writhed in suffering. The wisp of the cold rising into the air, the crowd was quiet. Lord Tanis approaches and raises his Hammer high, "Goodbye, Mephisto!" The hammer swings down and the body of the demon shatters into a million pieces. Zuriel remains unharmed, fallen to her knees to the remnants of her mate, her tears falling upon the frozen portions of the body. She looks towards the group of mortals, "You think you have ended the tyranny... there will be someone else to take his place... you shall see..." Tanis nods, "I welcome their attempts! Let Mephisto prove an idle for others. Evil will never prevail!" He throws his cape about and waves his arm, "Come Men! We have much to celebrate this day!" Zuriel looks up to the lone tree where the execution took place. Meovannians considered it the wishing tree. She wished a way to bring her love back to the land of the living. Under the moonlight, a comet flew through the heavens, a falling star. Another portion of the frozen body crumbles, and in the slowly defrosting body, she notices a heart, still trying to pump... There is hope yet. The captive looks up and wishing he could at least see the stars, maybe there would be another falling star? He couldn't tell. Damn the darkness. He continues to talk to the water drop that keeps him company.


“They are speaking lies to me again. What am I supposed to believe in? What are all of these images going through my head! Who are these people! Why are they in my head?!” The rambling continues, as the delusional captive continues to lower deeper into insanity he has committed himself to, “I understand you all, but why do you all insist on showing me these images? These images of what I used to be? What is that? A Father? A Dictator? A Demon? A GOD?!” He frantically attempts to sort through all of this, however, each time he attempted, more images flooded his head and he would have to start over again. “We speak only the truth to you, Milord. Understand we would do no harm to you. Believe in us as we believe in you…” Quite contrary to what the voice had said so many nights before. No matter. The captive would not, could not recall what had been said merely minutes ago, let alone past a day’s time. The voice echoes to the others, “He has no one left… no one left to care and to remember him. His legacy has befallen the dredge of life. Not even the elderly can recall his name, He whom should never be spoken.” A separate voice whispers, “A tragedy has befallen him.” “The legacy has ended, its legends deserted,” Whispers the child like voice to the captive, “Ending here and now… Your throne of urine and feces…” “We will not end this way… No. We are more proud than your pathetic and broken shattered mind. We will not lay waste with you here, in this damp cell. Such is only for cowards and imbeciles to lay waste,” This voice was enraged with the sunders of a dragon’s calling. The tormenting roar of an angry beast made the captive’s ears bleed. Other whispers continue to mock the insane, “Your throne of shit… You’re pathetic whimpering… your worthless lies…” The mocking continued endlessly, each insult driven into the heart of the captive like heartburn that could never be eased. Suddenly the captive’s eyes opened, arching his head back and howling at the non-existent moon, the moon locked outside in freedom where he is not, “BASTARDS!” He roars, “ALL OF THEM!” He smashes his fist against the ground, “THEY WILL REPENT!” A fit of laughter bellows about in his head, the laughter of an entire crowd, mocking the puppet on stage, the dirty naked puppet, hung on strings and hopping about in murk and sewage. The laughter only angers the creature more and all at once he rose, spreading his wings wide, taking up the length of the cell. He howls at the moon again, slamming his paws against his face, dragging them back slowly, combing through his scalp and rendering wounds upon his flesh. The fingers press thick chunks of sewage and blood in what once was perfect silken hair. “Escape is imminent Milord!” The leader of the voices dictates to the captive, “Be patient and your retribution will be ever more bitter sweet!” The captive folds his wings back in place behind his back, he turns around in his cell block, “Patience…” He growls to himself, “I lack the virtue.” He kneels on the ground, staring into blackness, “Vengeance will be satisfying.” The voice of the captive seems awkwardly changed to a resilient thundering voice dedicated to the most noble of things. “Patience….” A voice replies. “He will not be patient for long my brother…” another voice comments. “He has no choice.”


“Why do I continue to speak to you? You are my most feared and destructive foe! You! You are trapped in this cell with me. The irony that I am forced to speak with you now, as a friend instead my most bitter enemy…” The captive shakes his head and smiles genuinely in his blissful lunacy. He shifts his head towards his comrade, such wonderful conversation they have been having, exchanging stories of past combat, and their futures once they escape from this prison cell, “You see I’m not evil… I mean only to bring Utopia back to the world. It is in such disorder. I fear the existence of my very reason for conception. You see? I mean that there must be me, I must do this, I am forced by the will of the world and my gods to assure the unity of the lands under my control.” He nods, “Of course, there will be oppression and those seeking to destroy me. I welcome my enemies; they blight the world with evil and lies.” He looks away from his friendly enemy, “I have no choice, you see. I must become the warden of my prison, not just another subject of its disorder.” The demon speaks not of the prison cell he currently hides in, but the world of mortality where he had been condemned for eternity. The world that others enjoy and find blissful, is just a cell number to him. In order to escape from the prison, one must begin an uprising, break free of the walls and run to freedom and salvation. “I will lead my followers to a new world. One that they could never imagine in their dreams…” He speaks the words noble enough, however, there is no reason for mortals to live in the heavens, they wouldn’t be allowed, “I’m not leading them to die, and I am leading them to perfection.” He tells himself, however, deep inside a voice whispers, “Silence is perfect.” He shakes off the thought. The captive sighs and looks back to his enemy, still in the cell with him, “How did you get here? Who trapped you? Are you part of the game? You are here to drive me mad, aren’t you? You continue talking to me and I simply can not shut you up! You are worse than all the other voices swimming in my skull. You however… You remain reality! I can hear you speaking; I can hear you move… I can’t shut you up!” The captive gets angry and yells, “Just STOP! For a moment, STOP and rest! Do you EVER REST?” He can’t help himself. His mortal enemy just mocks him as it yells, ‘Drip… drip… drip…’


The captive slumbers in a cold shiver, delirious with fever, panting frantically to sustain his temperature. The demon cuddles himself with what once use to be elaborately fine robes made of the finest silks. Now they’re just bloody mold ridden rags. Inside his mind, another world exists, one that doesn’t portray a dying creature. Inside his head is fire and brimstone. Flat lands for as far as the eyes can see. Fires jet from the earthen crusts of coal. Rock pillars resembling spire like monuments span through the dismal planes like spikes ready to hang men on. The land is dried and cracked like mud bricks left out too long in the sun. The sky is crimson, like sunset, though there is no sun, nor moon. Blanketing the heavens are black clouds, rushing by at incredible speeds. The wind is like a broiling oven, the very touch of the heat burns, and that wind blows like a maelstrom of hurricane-like rage. Thirteen demonic creatures walk along the emptiness of crusted earth, flames, lava, and stone. These creatures stand tall, completely absorbed in their motions like serpents or dragons. Their wings wrapping around their body like long capes. Their massive bodies feel at peace in the heat and in the torrents of wind and fire. They all at once come to a stop, and in unison, they all bow to a knee, their tails sliding to and fro upon the dry earth. The leader of this pilgrimage can only be identified by a scar drawing down the middle of his face, as if by perfect coincidence or symmetrical ritualism. His left eye has been gouged out, so was the left nostril, non-existent. When he speaks, only the opposing portion of his face moves, as if the deformed side was set in stone. The leader stands up from his kneel and turns about to the other twelve, “We have come a long way, my brothers.” The others do not speak, nor lift their head to view the leader. They remain on their knee, staring at the red ashen gravel which is the ground. They await the word of their leader, and for what purpose they all together came here for, to bare witness to their homeland, the planes of fire, their creator’s domain, his humble abode, his resort. “Within the mind of this host, we dwell, we have remained quiet, patient and locked inside the dark rustic cages he created for us! His mind is strong, and powerful, he alone was capable of taking us from our mission, and used us for his pathetic purposes in the mundane world. We have broken free of our bonds, my brothers! We will have our vengeance upon he who has abused us!” The other twelve demonic entities stir, a low pitching growl comes from several of the creatures, the others awaiting the victorious growling roar of their success! They all restrain from speaking out, awaiting their purpose for the gathering. The leader of the thirteen turns about, unclasps his wings from around his body, spreading them out before the horrible landscape. His wings are tattered and torn, dried and leathery and ripped with holes; they could not take flight, even if he wanted them to. The wings span to an outrageous length, the leathery textures flapping about in the maelstrom of fiery wind. The creature arches his back and spreads his fore-arms to either side, clawing the air, palms up, as to bring down the heavens! And so he does! The black clouds in the heaven all turn about from their constant and perpetual speed to the southern direction. The clouds instead, now spiral around, overhead of the leader of the demonic horde. The leader roars the name of their creator in a language so ancient and so old, that it could never be deciphered. He speaks the ritual invitations for their Lord Rasteroth. The clouds continue to spiral, forming a cone, then into a tornado which strikes the ground, dozens of yards from the pilgrims of fire. The ground uproots, the stones spiral around at outrageous speeds, the jets of fire are also sweeping into this centrifuge until all at once, the tornado returns to the heavens. The ground where the tornado struck has left a hole, infinitely deep. The clouds return to their direction of movement, the atmosphere returns to its normal chaotic state, and then a massive flame rises out of the abysmal hole. The fire is in the shape of a claw, which slams then, to the ground, rising then from the darkness, an arm, then another claw. Finally, the body of a fiery being rises. The image of this creature could only be considered godlike. The flames make up the body of what appears to be a draconic being, infinitely large. However, with the torrents of wind and fire, the image continues to change, flicker about, and keep the actual shape unlike that of a draconic figure. Millions of fiery wisps spin about the enormous body of flames. The apparent head of the body of fire turns down to look at the spec of sand before it; the spec is of course, the leader of the Thirteen. On the ground, the leader looks up, turning to face the wall of fire before him. Staring into the heavens at the great god, its creator. The tiny creature yells to Rasteroth, “Your tasking is complete, my God! What will you have us do?!” The fiery apparition speaks to his Thirteen apostles the voice is beguiling, Gargantuan, and unrestrained. The very land shakes to his every syllable; the words are nearly incoherent by the echoing emptiness as well as the thundering enormity. The captive wakes up, realizing what is going on within his head. He screams loudly a single phrase. -May the gods have mercy.....-


A door opens and creaks slowly. The slit of light beams brightly and it appears now that his cell is indescribably taller than it is wide. The light pours into the cell and like a moth to flame, the demon tries to grasp and hold to it, to keep it. The admiration of something as simple as a beam of light makes the beaten captive drool and he speaks incoherently while the moment passes. The shred of light shines away, darker now. Darker now… Darkness.

Scuffling is heard from the ceiling of his pit. Scuffling and fighting, rocks and other debris begin to plummet to the bottom of the pit where the captive has been settling in. The pounding of pebbles strike the walls of the wet cobblestone and echo loudly over and over again until at last they stop with a splash in the tiny puddles of water about the captive’s home.

A loud grunt is made as a punch is heard, the familiar sound of knuckles to flesh. It must have been a belly shot or a strike to a kidney. The captive perks his ears, trying to listen to the conversation going on up top, but to no avail, the voices were too far, too distance, and he, too distracted. Mephisto could still feel the light on his fingers, that light, he wished so badly that he could have stole it and kept it for later.

Suddenly a shifting of sand, the scratching of sand on glass and then a long muffled scream was produced. Louder and louder and louder until finally the stranger hits the floor in the land of the demon captive. The captive jumps back and holds to the wall as he was truly unaware of what was now in the cell with him. He could smell that it was flesh, he could smell that it was female… She was alive and tied up. She was alive and he had not eaten for as long as he can recall.

The two strangers chuckle as they turn about at the mouth of the pit. They carry on their conversation after doing the dirty deed and open the vault door. That screaming sound of metal whining and rustic hinges creaking and echoes. The beam of light shines down into the hole and lights the new cell mate like the glow of an angel in a hymnal moment. The crazed captive stares at her like a saving grace but his eyes are not so kind and generous. The red embers of his pupils reflect the terror of the female and in her muffled scream, she snaps, the sound is heard throughout the darkness as the light subsides back into the void. The door crashes closed and bolts while the tiny rats scurry to seek shelter. The muffling ceases before the door slams.

The feast had only left the captive in a more desperate affair, bathing himself in the blood of his victim, gnawing on what once used to be a thigh, he places the head of the victim in his lap, stroking it's hair. While he rips meat from the bone of the leg, he speaks to the severed head in his lap, "There there now... it's over now... You hurt no longer." All the while he nibbles upon the delicacy of fresh meat, he thinks about the two silhouettes that looked down at him, mocking him, scoffing his existence. "Patience..." He tells himself, lessons taught to him by the evils inside his skull. The demon collects the many parts of the mangled body, and places them in his lap now. Expanding his wings and turning them about as to hide himself inside of his small fortification.


The demon seemed rejuvenated after digesting the being that was, for only moments, a visitor to the asylum. With this new found energy, the demon walks back and forth in his small cell, isolated in movement only by an ankle shackle which has long since become rusted. The creature, with what energy he has received, takes special interest in the locking mechanism of the worn metal, the chains, and the latch on the wall. Grasping the cold damp metal, he idly makes his way in attempts to break it. He fails in doing so, but he continues to examine the shackle. He would gnaw off his foot, but without the ability to feast and regain his energy, to reproduce the lost limb, the creature would surely just bleed to death. Death… he thinks to himself, what a mortal idea. What is death to a prisoner who can not allow such things? The captive ponders this a long time, perhaps too long. Death, supposedly, is an escape from the mortal prison, but he is not mortal, nor is he allowed salvation. No, his prison will not allow death; perhaps he would experience something far worse than his current problematic state. Death… he thinks again, “Not only death, but the bringer of death, I am Death’s escape! How Death would so eagerly wish to take me, Death can not take me… It hasn’t any grounds, and surely the gods understand this. How Death must hate me. How Death must envy me. Death…” He says to himself, “Death…” He growls, “How I enjoy the idea of it.” He chuckles to himself, flapping his leathery wings about his body. In a sudden bit of rage, perhaps a growl of his belly, unsatisfied by the meal entirely, he would snatch up the head of his victim, peering at it, but to no avail, it is black, and he can not see. He speaks to it again, stroking its head fur, its texture seems strange, like roots or vines or moss. Moss… he thinks to himself, he grabs a handful of dirt, and rubbing the texture of moss, and then the head, Moss… he ate something that had the texture of moss. The demon nods to himself and considers this, dead Moss… Huh… this reminds him of a prison created and administered. From where he can not recall… though, ironically, he found it humorous regardless. The captive speaks to the round ball of moss, “Moss Head. How did you get here? Who were those two who threw you in the pits to your death? Moss Head? Why do you not speak to me like my friend, the drip? Why do you just remain so quiet? I want to know where you came from! I WANT TO KNOW WHERE YOU CAME FROM MOSS HEAD?!” The dead moss head did not reply. Something else did, something else in his mind, the war-mangled demon, the leader of the Thirteen, “Milord… You are not satisfied…” The Captive Looks around but no one is there. His head speaks to him again, wonderful, he thinks, what else could possible go wrong? The captive drops the severed head and claws his own, his long hair so easily peels away from his skull, like dead skin to a burn victim, “I know what you’re planning, Daemon…” “Do you?” “Yes.” There was a long silence, only the drop dripped and dropped and its sounds were louder than anything else at the moment. “What do we plan to do, Milord?” The captive tilts his head and begins pacing again, “I will not allow you…” Another silence is heard, such a painfully annoying sound, the captive thinks to himself. The daemon enjoys the torture that which something as simple as the lack of sound can provide. “Milord, it is nearly time…” The daemon speaks abruptly. “Time for what…?” The insane inquires, though he already knows the answer to it, surely he does, they spoke about it in his head, not too long ago, even though he himself wasn’t allowed to say anything during the meeting. Perhaps the captive asks this for he himself is in denial. “The time for purging yourself and this world of your creations, purging the blasphemers of the Spire who have ousted you and purging the wicked which have captured you - Oh yes Milord, you will have your vengeance, we saw their faces and we know who they are! Your pitiful purging of Vampyre comes to an end now... the entire destruction of its very existence and history as well! It is time to fulfill what you yourself could never do! This will please Rasteroth as well as the council of gods. We will satisfy your parole, you will return to the heavens and we, to the collective of the Father.” The leader speaks out. A bone snaps loudly, breaking the otherwise silent cell. The captive howls loudly. He despises this pain, even now, he can barely speak. His mouth unlike the maul of a wolf, but something more serpent roars and breathes flame. White searing flashes of pain blind the captive in brilliant brightness.Another bone snaps, then another! The severing of his muscle from bone tears his body into convulsions, the captive falls down into the sewage of his cell. Clawing the ground desperately with broken nails, and bloody tips, the demon begs for reprisal and mercy. The breaking of the captive sounds much like kernels of popcorn popping open at a movie theatre. “Make it stop!!” The captive begs! “You don’t want to stop this…” The daemon speaks casually inside of the captive’s skull. The demon captive does not reply.


The captive looks into the darkness with a new found appreciation for the emptiness. The sounds of the water droplet no longer bother him. The broken creature seems un-phased by the loneliness he has endured for months. He whispers a strange tongue, even foreign to this ancient, who has researched such things since the dawn of time. His words manifest to the brick walls in the form of hieroglyphs, written in his own blood, burning to the stone as it sizzles to room temperature. "The ends of my existence are far from the end of days and my retribution." He mutters in common tongue between his twisted and perverse tongue of unknown origins. He continues to growl, ramble on and shake violently, his transformation has yet been finished, and the demon has more missions to contend with...


“Hush little child, I’m here…” She says, “Step away from the window…” She speaks again. The boy turns about, frightened of the darkness, the thunder storm, the strikes of lightning splitting trees and rocks in half. This was no ordinary storm, let alone in the region of desert that makes up a great portion of the Drakonian Peninsula.

The boy did not respond to his mother’s plea. He stood there, in awe and admiration, that fear being all too present and respected, “Mother… I do not understand.” The child looks over his shoulder, his fur stained with drying tears, “It never rains this bad…”

The mother, fearing the same as her son, nods, “I know, dear, come, the storm will pass soon enough.” She was far from truth but she could only tell herself that the storm would honestly vanish and in the morning, a bright and wonderful clear sky would rise, the horizon of rainbow hues, and the sound of the nearby ocean washing the stains of the storm to sea.

“Mother…” He speaks out, his voice shuddered in fright, and then a flash of lightning, a splintering tree, the engulfing limbs all reeling for the finale of the rolling thunder. The child jumps back, falling off his bed, hitting the table, knocking an oil lamp over and almost instantly flaring his oriental rug, still wielding the tag which says, ‘do not remove, VTC accordance.’

Mother jumps forward, her responses of a natural care-taker to her child, slipping, and missing as the child slams to the ground, the flames erupting around her now, she valiantly snatches her child from the ground, exiting the room immediately. She closes the door and looks to either end of the hall.

The halls, were corridors at this time, there mirror on the left end of the table was replaced with the black emptiness of what appears to be eternally long distance of hall. To her right, the exiting rail of stairs to the lower level of her cabin was replaced with an endless hall. She hesitated to make a move to either end, confused to what has happened. Delirious thought, so she would think, attempting to regain her cool temperament.

The thirteen year old child stirs in his mother’s arms, he groans as he rubs his head, rolling open his eyes to look at the expression of his mother, her state of panic made him anxious and worried. The child mutters, “Mother…”

Mother looks down and attempts to smile, “Marcus, can you walk?”

Marcus nods his head, “Yes, I can. I’m alright.”

Marcus’ Mother lets him down, grabs to his paw, they proceed running down the right side of there hall, assuming the stairs would still be there, hoping it was the night and the fire in the back room which offered the illusion that the hall was infinite.

Suddenly, the child’s bedroom door bursts open, the flames grow enraged, hungrily slamming the wall of the corridor and splitting into either direction of the endlessness. Mother could feel the heat of the creeping explosion warming to her tail, “Run faster Marcus, run faster!”

The child had trouble keeping up, stumbling over his feet while his arm was being pulled, “Mother!!!” Marcus screams out attempting to get himself a chance to catch up, he looks over his shoulder, the flames, the bright wall of yellow and reds growing hotter and hotter.

Marcus grows more afraid, “MOTHER!” He roars! The child doesn’t know what to do, except run, run as fast as he can away from the flames, the fire, the roaring blazes, and the dark cold emptiness in front of him seemed more pleasing than the fury behind him. So Marcus runs.

They run to no avail, the death shower of flames leaped and bounded like an avalanche of snow after a heavy blizzard. The child, trips and falls, he screams again once the grasp to his mother’s paw was severed.

Mother turns about after taking several paces forward, unable to leave her son to the hungry flames; she chases back to retrieve him. She looks towards the coming flames and realizes it is already too late, for her and her son. She watches in horror as the fires consume her child, she screams in violent pain when she herself is engulfed into the stinging licks of flame.

The corridor remains infinite, constant, quiet, and empty. The hall is cold and lacking imagery, light, expression or sound all except for a sizzling. Then suddenly, there is another sound, the scratching of dried clothe against cold concrete. Marcus moves to his knees, smoldering with the smell of burned clothing. Rubbing his head, he was in no shape or form harmed in any way, besides the smell of his burnt clothes.

The child moves to his knees and shakes his head, focusing his eyes now down the length of the corridor where, to his surprise, he finds a statue. He smiles and leaps up in excitement, charging towards the figure of his mother, “MOM!” He shouts and clings to her leg like he had done earlier in his bed room. This time, when he did it, the leg shattered, ash showered and fell over his body.

The smell of burned flesh, smoldering bone, ashes, and death… The child falls down, not understanding any of this, “Mother…” He collects her ashes in his paw and turns it about, dumping the contents back to the pile on the floor. He hears a whisper in the distance of the corridor.

He stands up and goes to find out if there is anyone else left after the fiery attack…


A small town in Malfeasance is set asunder by another attack of revolutionists. They have been labeled enemies and terrorists, but their goals and ambitions are ethical and moral. They stand fast in a cave, speaking of the horrors of the world and the entrapment of their rights. They have become subjected to martial law, trade restrictions, and the lack of their common freedoms. They are prisoners without escape from the tyrannical government which claims their lands with an iron fist; all of this in the name of the Empire.

A beaten little girl settles quietly at the corner of the cavern depths, listening to the low rumbling conversations of her families’ plan for retaking their homes and crops. The echoing of their voices travel endlessly into the dry darkness of the cave, the idle chatter seems peaceful in a strange way. An infant begins to cry, the mother rocks the baby and tries to comfort her.

“We will strike them here where the hammer will fall hardest,” The war planner informs as he points his finger at a make-shift stick and rock model of the fort which the Empire has constructed where once laid their chapel.

“Won’t they expect us to attack them there? C’mon, they wouldn’t leave that unguarded! That’s a major hub for their operations,” Jebediah speaks out of turn, marking the spot on the model, “Besides, we’ve tried before and we lost many folk.”

“This is precisely why we should strike again, Sir! The Empire is far too arrogant to think we’d attack that same spot again, besides, after the Mirshaulk raid, the war footing of the Imperial Armies have moved to defend two fronts. We should take this opportunity!”

Jebediah scratches his chin in thought.

There’s a gentle giggle of a boy in the distance of the corridor, the voice is only heard by the beaten little girl who is quiet and paying mindless attention to the grown ups who plan their victory, “They’re all going to die soon…”

The little girl holds to her ragged doll, beaten and torn from weather and scuffles. She draws it nearer her bosom, inching her legs up against her torso. She looks about for the origin of the voice; that giggle, that boyish giggle!

She would whisper to the darkness, “Who’s there?” There is no reply and so she only thinks it’s all in her head.

“MARCIE!” A loud shattering voice is shouted, “MARCIE?!”

The little girl snaps her attention from the darkness to her father, “I’m sorry… What did you need?” She stands up, holding the doll’s feeble arm, dangling its body against her hip and thigh. She took plenty of ridicule for keeping that ugly beast of a rag doll, but it was the only reminder of how things used to be, she had received the item from her grandfather before he was brutally killed by the dogs of war. She was too old to play with dolls, they told her; she would never listen to them.

Marcie looks at her father as he speaks to her, his words drifting away, fading from existence while she only nodded to the movement of his lips. Had she gone deaf? She would be asking herself. Now is not the time to worry her father of this condition, maybe she was just tired and didn’t want to be bothered anymore.

“Do you understand?” Marcie’s father would ask.

“Yes Papa, I do. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” She had a way of just saying these things with a gentle giddy expression with big puppy dog eyes. It always won over the crowds and she knew it. Before the war, she was the talk of the town, the envy of women, and the fantasy of young boys. Now she was in a cave, dirty, and holding an ugly rag doll. How things change.

The whisper is heard again, the boyish giddy, “Marcie…” The voice would say as she turns around. “They’re all going to die soon…” The childish voice was rather saddened to say the least.

The curious little kitten looks back over her shoulder to assure herself that it was in her head. If the boy wasn’t imaginary the others would have heard it, wouldn’t they? Her father was paying no mind to her, as he normally did these days in war, so she was left to explore and play with her doll in the cave a lone. She was accustomed to the corridors and so she walked towards the direction of the voice. It would be nice to have a real conversation, she thought to herself.

Jebediah smiles and agrees to the plan that was originally explained, “We’ll hit from this angle, we have to get our reinforcements from the villagers and once we prove the value of this plan, I’m sure the entire village will rally against these bastards!”

The group of men nodded and look upon one another in satisfaction of the plan, all except for Marcie’s father. He realizes that his daughter was no where in sight; it’s unlike her to just simply vanish into the caves without first telling someone.

“Marcie?” He asks to the group, “Has anyone seen Marcie?” His voice worried to a point. He lifts his arms from the table and looks about the main chamber of the cave. He begins to shout her name over and over.

He has lost so many already, the loss of his daughter was too unbearable a thought, and he quickly throws that notion away, “MARCIE by the Primes where are you?!”

“Jamison! Over here!” One of the planners for the attack looks worryingly over to Marcie’s Father.

Jamison looks over towards the planner and asks again, “My Daughter?” He asks.

The planner shakes his head and looks down towards the floor and off in the distance some. As Jamison moves to the scene, there’s nothing but emptiness. The corridor was quiet and dirty cotton was tossed on to the ground, settling on top of a small puddle of blood.

Jamison’s eyes stare blank; his face has the expression of seeing ghosts, “What… in the…” He runs towards the cotton, the main filling for any plushy doll. Marcie always carried that thing with her, looking at the blood puddle, he sheds tears and anxiously, worryingly shouts again, “MARCIE?!”

In the distance of the corridor, a silhouette is formed, red eyes flicker towards Jamison followed by a glowing white Cheshire grin of mischief. The father of the lost child stands up, seeing this figure, he throws the doll towards the shadows, “What have you done to my daughter?!” However, once the doll hits the silhouette, the image vanishes entirely.

At that moment, all the flame-lit lanterns and candles flared all at once, and all together ceased to burn.


Marcie walks down the empty corridor, the whispering has grown much louder now, surely she’s close to the boy. Oddly, she doesn’t recall this corridor of caverns to be this long; maybe it was the strange quietness of it all which has her on edge. Either way she travels forth into what appears to be the unknown.

An echo bounces around the chambers of the caverns, the screaming of men and the questions of daughters. The threats of everyone dying were also floating in the darkness, “Hello…?” Marcie asks. Her voice shaken as confusion strikes her. She spins around to view something, anything, however, there’s only black around here, as though the world had been blotted out with a dark paint, “Anyone…” She mutters, holding back tears of fear.

“Shhhh… Do not be afraid,” The boyish voice would say behind Marcie. The young girl spins around quickly to catch a glimpse of the boy but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing in this corridor to comfort her or to see until a torch lights by itself in the distance. She wonders if she should proceed to it or was it a trap of some kind. Which way was back to her home? Where was her father? Surely he would go looking for her, it’s not that far she had walked, she should be easily found, and “Who’s there?” She asks.

A paw touches Marcie’s shoulder, she instantly drops her rag doll to the ground, spinning about, clasping to her chest as if it resolve herself from a heart attack, before her was a boy, appearing to be three years younger than her, “Don’t be afraid.” The boy would say in a consoling tone.

Marcie blinks and squints to get a better glimpse of the boy, the warm auburn glow of the torch in the distance articulating his fine attributes. The boy’s features were sharp and distinct, definitely sculptured in detail, “Who… Are you?” She inquires, looking her big blue eyes at the boy’s gentle gaze. Unlike Marcie's big blues, his were much smaller, narrow, dark and mysterious.

“My name is Marcus. I found you,” The boy would smile, moving his paw from her shoulder to clasp her hand. The last time he held someone’s hand, the body burned to ashes.

Marcie moves to take his paw then clasps it tightly, squeezing the hand gently to assure it’s validity of existence, “I wasn’t ever lost. Not really!”

“Marcie…” The boy smiles and tugs on her arm, “Lets go, I have to show you something before it’s too late!”

Marcie looks awkward for a moment, looking over her shoulder, “My Papa will be looking for me… I have to go back.” She tries to pull away from the boy’s grasp but it seemed so much stronger than her own.

Marcus looks over and shakes his head, “No… There’s nothing back there for you. You can’t go back.”

“Why can’t I?” She jerks, “Let got of my hand!” She struggles now.

“But… Let’s Go!” The boy was anxious to move Marcie, “We don’t have time!”

Marcie cries out loudly, “Let me go. Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

The boy hesitated before releasing her paw, “I’m sorry… I’m just so lonely… and I saved you, something bad is happening and I wanted you to be saved from it. Please believe me?”

Marcie stumbles back a few paces, looking down at her feet, she kneels down and retrieves her rag doll, “I can’t believe you, you could be an Imperial Bastard!” She used the term like how a venomous python would spit. She learned it from the old drunkards who spat upon the Empire which controlled their village and country.

Marcus looks at himself, still adorning the burnt clothes, and his messy dirty body covered in his Mother’s ashes, “Do I look like an Imperial Guard?” He smiles, “I’m looking more ragged than your doll!” He would gesture towards the item she carries, hung only by the length of its leg.

“Well… No….” She acknowledges to Marcus, “But I still need to go back, I’m worried about Papa.”

The boy nods with a sigh, “Okay, Marcie… we’ll go back to see him, I’ll go with you.” He smiles and takes a few steps forward, “Oh!!!” He reminds himself of the torch out in the distance, “We’ll need light! Let me get it. I don’t want you to fall down and hurt yourself, lots of rocks to trip over.”

Marcie pulls up her doll, hugging it to her chest and resting her chin on its head. She sways to and fro and thinks what sort of trouble she had gotten herself into. She waits for Marcus only because he was right, it was ominously dark for some reason, darker than normal, she would gather. A torch would be nice. She watches the boy jump up, grabbing the only torch in the tunnel. How peculiar it would seem that this torch was the last speck of light in this entire cavern. She counted her blessings that there was at least this stroke of good fortune and didn’t question it any further.

Marcus snags the torch from its iron wrought and brings it to Marcie, the boy smiles, his strong features make him friendlier now in the light, “See? Light! Now we can go see your Father.”

The girl was interested in this comment, “Where are your parents?” She would ask, “Tell me about them.” The couple walk down the tunnel wielding only the torch and a ragged filthy doll back the way Marcie had so adventurously trekked.

Far in the darkness, two red eyes glow brilliantly. The pain of the world is reflected in the fiery orbs and a look of pain melts the eye’s pupils. A deep quiet growl rolls from the corridor, far enough away not to be heard from the scampering child couple. They chuckle and Marcie swings her plush doll at Marcus’ shoulder. The boy acts and rubs his shoulder after tripping over himself. They chuckle. The eyes do not seem amused.




Drip… Drip… The constant sound of the puddle, the enemy of the captive, it’s rival winning over the creature’s mind. The demon within the darkness screams and bellows loudly, a painful writhing pain that rattles the bars, skittering rats about aimlessly for shelter. Sand shuffles and slides down the edges of the ceiling and the pebbles tickle the cobble with their playful sounds and echoes.

The captive’s claws felt fresh, strong, talons from where fingernails once had broken and bled. The thickness, he felt his palms, scaled and cracked. The demon clutches his face which no longer resembled what he was accustomed to. His hair, once thick in sewage and blood had shed away. Only strings of long fibers remained in his scalp. The captive’s face was heavy, grown, and mutilated with thick fleshy plates of skin and scale. He couldn’t help but laugh at his change, it was to be expected. He had finally snapped and lost his mind.

The beast within him burns his throat. A fire like no other tickles his lips, breathing and smelling ash and sulfur. The terrible smell of sulfur he could not grow accustomed to. Then in a fit of confusion, as if rousing from a bad dream and realizing it wasn’t a dream at all, the captive turns around in his cage. He felt his wings behind him scraping the walls and as he does his turning he trips over what used to be a much larger bed. He was unable to reach it before. The demon tries to lean down to feel for his ankle but the room was too small for him. He raises his foot and plants it to the side of the cobblestone wall and then realizes instantly that the chain was snapped, the brace around his leg was shattered. His leg was swollen and massive. His body had grown enormous. He could not stay in here. He could not stand it any longer. The voices told him to climb. Climb! CLIMB!