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"Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot will be shot" -Mark Twain
They will shed blood as consequence for their sins.
Deep imprints of the beast’s hooves bore down on the wet road as it dragged the carriage onwards. Rain threw itself against the wood of the carriage brutally. Sharp screeches and wails emanated from the body of the cart, its newly laden frame tearing apart. Floodwater rose several inches, tossed aside carelessly by the horse in its relentless chase to reach the old ruined fortress.
When Fate is in the hands of mortals.
Quietly ushering the girl with child into the looming dark castle, the tired old maid pried open the tall, thick oak doors as the storm grew ever so strong. An old beaten man carries a lone package and a silk sheet from the carriage. As the doors shut, the horses and carriage are eaten outside. The creatures of the night encircled the despairing keep.
When order is passed around as a meaningless responsibility in the hands of senseless men.
At the moment the first cries of the child were heard throughout the night, darkness tore itself in two. The tie between the shadows and the nightmares was broken; all hell broke loose. The moon itself tore in two, filling the black sky filled with the richest red blood. Shadows fell on the fortress.
When death and life become bonded by the human touch.
Unceasing rhythmic wars encompassed the surrounding area. shadows torn in two, nightmares ripping apart.
Immortal Chaos is born form the ashes of the old kingdom.
The world, from this day forth, feared the night as it had done hundreds of years before. No longer was there a safe haven for the creatures of the night. The night that i came into this world, all hell broke loose.
A new son of death has risen. What do they call me? What doesn't the fear in men's hearts call me? I am Andenculorus Magmariol Actulo, Son of the Last of the Opposed.
I kill people. I was never good with them… I call it 'emotionally challenged.' Probably helps to note my hatred of any form of affection… But still, I was raised in a shack, miles away from any form of orderly civilization. Look, if you are here to turn me in, or your just looking for a good 'story,' (or whatever my life is to you) if you don't think this story- my life- is real, so help me God… You cant believe how many times I have gotten told that 'oh, that’s bull,' or, my favorite, 'The Hell is wrong with you?' So go ahead. Read my story. But be warned; The reason why you are so afraid, so naturally afraid of the dark, that reason is real. And that fear gives me life.
Interested, are we? Maybe just persistent. Well then, either way, lets just start with my childhood, shall we?
I was raised by some partially insane criminal sorcerer (The kind that never shave) and taught basically everything that I don't do or haven't done yet… Ill get to it. Maybe. You know, manners, morals, saving the world from total inhalation… Not killing massive armies, with three limbs tied to a thousand year old tree. But, now that I am officially dead in all sense of the word, call this my 'looking back' on my life. At least I found some paper to write on, its not as easy writing words down when your deceased. My hands are twitching too much from the battle reflexes… Well, there goes my well-thought-out philosophical speech about life's precious gift and why I didn’t get that gift; which I'm still trying to figure out. My whole life, or whatever you want to call 'living' for me, has been a war between ultimate (and a bit unorthodox for most people) good, and ultimate, manipulative evil. I should start from the beginning, bear with me here.
I was born surprisingly naturally. The only difference in my medieval time, was that I wasn’t breathing. Nevertheless, I was abundantly healthy and overwhelmingly strong. Something about exuberant amounts of magical essence inside of three month old baby scared the elder of the village so much he had a heart attack whilst running from the room.
Growing up I was a joy. Always so thoughtful and quiet. But in all seriousness, my father had to rebuild the shack we lived in three times from fires caused by my uncontrollable ass. My time with my parents was short, and shortly after my eighth birthday, guards ransacked my village for what may have been the last of an ancient race. I only knew how they died until many years later, by the most unexpected person. My parents risked their lives to hide me. There I stayed for three days, not a sound of my tears wetting the floor. You can probably infer that I never saw them again- alive. The rest of my life was spent in various rat holes, street corners, and abandoned stone buildings for a few years. Then came the crazy mentor, then soon enough I was back on the streets and into an orphan house. From there, I fought my guardian over everything, especially school. A year after I arrived, I was forced into it, on the grounds that if I didn’t, they would throw me into prison. Hell, they already had my old cell dusted and polished, waiting for me by the time I ran off…
But I'm getting ahead of myself.