Prelude

2007-03-12T20:48:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from the diary of *, 6^th Day of Spring

Who am I?

My name is *. I work for Saint Raven’s Academy of Martial Thought as a bounty hunter. That’s right. My life’s work is devoted to the slaughter of marked prey, be it man or woman; beast or child. As I sit here I ask myself, what right have I to do such a thing? To cut and kill at the drop of a coin into a waiting palm, at the whim of malicious men seeking selfish goals? Even now I cannot forget some of the things I’ve done. I can see my blade slicing through tender flesh and drawing blood. I can recall the savage delight, the disgustingly lavish glee that sustained the horrid reality of it all, as I stole away that person’s life.

What right have I to do such a thing? Many think I’m a monster. Hell, even I think I’m a monster. The truth is, what I’m doing has no right side to it. My job, so called, has no moral aspect, no redeeming qualities in the smallest sense.

No human being should spend his life destroying those of others. Every man, every woman, deserves to grow up happily amongst family and friends; to fall in love, to share love’s first kiss, to feel the joy of raising children, and to live their final days in a well earned peace. How many people have I deprived of this simple right of nature? Countless faces. My very existence has turned to abomination.

So I return to my question. Who am I? I am the worst of the damned. And for such men there is no redemption.

Redemption. If only I could reach it, but it flitters through my fingers like an ever-elusive butterfly; only when one shows his palm will it appear. It is a creature that will play along your fingers, gracing the skin with its fleeting kisses, but the moment the fingers in that hand close, the moment fingernails bite into a cushion of flesh, it disappears.

Redemption is the maiden with soft lips and long luscious hair. Ah, but if only all men could find such a woman. But she only chooses a select few, and even then, they stumble over their own feet and reach out with pitiful, pleading hands as she flits in between them. And just when you think you have her, just when you think she’s yours, just when you reach out to stroke redemption’s soft, scented hair, she moves on. She is an unattainable being, but by the very few that win her heart.

And I am forever more chasing after her.

The man closed the leather- bound diary and stowed his pen in a small sack at his waist. He didn’t bother going over what he’d just wrote; for he knew all to well that he had said all that he wanted to say. He would look back later on and laugh at his own insecurity, his ability to rant but only to paper. Perhaps he would tear the offending page out and burn it to ash. It was a decision to be seen later on.

Slipping the diary into the bag along with the pen, he pushed his fingers through his long, black hair. The style was not too feminine to cause any confusion, for the strands were too wiry and the ends flared out onto his shoulder.

Throwing himself forward from his previously cross-legged position, he leaned backwards onto a boulder, making himself comfortable as he surveyed the passing sunset over the tranquil forest. Bringing his legs closer to him, he rested his hands on his knees as he sat back and dozed.

He was a very handsome young man, but dangerously so. He had a thin face; not one of a conspirator or a thief, but one of a killer.

What he dressed in and carried him confirmed the previous statement. His outfit was black. Well, almost completely black. The torso armor, which consisted of hard strips of chipped, worn black leather worked its way across his chest and abs and criss-crossed around his back. They left very small amounts of exposed flesh, and yet a man wearing it could easily move around with little restriction.

Laying beside him were two sheathed, curved swords and a large naked scythe. The swords were nothing special; he would wear them belted across his lower back. The scythe however, was a weapon of slaughter and intimidation of all respects. From the large polished blade to the black haft entwined with silver, everything about it struck a profound fear in any who saw it; even more so in the ones he hunted.

As quickly as the passing of a second, the hunter opened an eye. He lay there for a bit, then raised his hands and placed them behind his head, closing the eye once again. He sighed. To an observer, it would seem that his brow was furrowed, that he was shaking his head as well.

Then, with little more than a slight haze in the air, he disappeared.

It was wounded, hungry, confused and afraid. Bound to a confined space by the hunter’s trap magic, the albino could only howl in anguish in the face of its inevitable death. As soon as the rage flared, it subsided, leaving behind a calm and rational state of mind. For the hundredth time it charged the barrier, only to be thrown back into a tree trunk. Cradling its head in its arms, the Zakula took a seat in at the roots of the oak tree, thinking back to the days before the start of his clan’s massacre.

They had been happy living in the forest, living off the abundance of food and drink that the forest provided for them. There were deer aplenty in the forest, bounding, sprinting and grazing in almost every inch of the place, easy to corner and kill for a day’s meal. There were twenty zakulae in all, all related in some way or another, a unity of blood. The few disputes were usually about position in the clan, easily dealt with using a fist or a fang. Other than that, the family lived a calm and peaceful life. Until the day the humans barged into the forest, into the very place the zakulae had lived for generations. At first the family had ignored the humans, for they usually left the Zakulae to their own devices due to natural reasons; one did not approach a Zakula unless he was completely safe or really stupid. A Zakula is somewhat of a wolf; it would be, albeit the fact that it walks on its hind legs and has a peculiar taste for green apples. Grey, black, gray, and mixes of those three colors were the most common of fur colors for Zakulae, but in certain cases, such as with our Zakula, the color of the fur was as white as the purest virgin snow. The Zakula had a head like a wolf but with a more rounded snout, and slotted, evil looking eyes that could be red, blue or purple depending on its genetic makeup. Its mouth held four molars, four incisors, and thirty-six canine teeth, the mouth of a carnivore. The torso was lean, the chest muscled from constantly chasing deer but retained a lithe shape, allowing the Zakula to bound from tree to tree, twisting in between branches and accomplishing the most acrobatic of aerial maneuvers. The torso was bent forward, giving the beast a hunched appearance, but is in fact due to the animal’s sleeping position, which was a curled-up ball. The legs were thin yet powerful, strong enough to propel the Zakulae ten feet into the air or into a sprint going at fifty kilometers per hour. The hands of a Zakula were pawed, and at first glance seemed as harmful and treacherous as a kitten’s. However, by quickly flexing the nervous cords throughout the hand a set of sharp claws would protrude from small slits obscured by fur, making them a handful climbing tool and a formidable weapon in the very same instance.

Black Poetry

Prelude