Thread: A Promise Fulfilled {Lady Nef x Shinyka}

It was beautiful. The sun setting low on the horizon bathed the plains in a luminescent orange glow, one that washed over the rocks and grass patches in a way akin to a torrent, consuming all in it's path. The dying daylights were not dim enough to conceal the aftermath of the scene that had since unfolded in this now-since stained land. Blood was awash over the plains and grass, gore soaking the ground that was not already tarnished by bodies and small oil fires, soon to extinguish on their own when their time ran out. And amongst this raven's feast, He stood. He cared little for the apparent outcome of the battle, as the victory of either side did very little to change the current scene. He took a few seconds to ease his mind, allowing himself to breathe in the bloody and cursed air. To him, the scent of blood, the sight of gore stained fields, the sound steel made when piercing flesh all carried near orgasmic qualities. It reminded him that He still existed, it reminded him that He still had meaning left to fulfill. He no longer had a name, nor a true identity. It seemed that in one long past era, He was somebody, a being with a name and identity, present although invisible, respected and commended although also feared. Yet, it seemed these old ways had passed, and He was no longer a silent man to be the object of songs or a friend, always in possession of an unused seat around the nightly fire. No, He was forgotten, He no longer was real in the eyes of the people. This displeased him, being forgotten and cast aside. Now, whenever the people spoke of him, they used his new name only as a curse, as something to avoid, denying his very existence in this day and age. However, there were a few that still knew of him, the select few who still followed the mostly lost ways of the world, opting to refer to him and his brethren as beings, rather then consequences and fears. Yet here He stood, a lone survivor of a battle he had taken to spectating, and opting to decline involvement in, despite the fact He could simply kill several hundred scores of men with the wave of his hand, or the sweep of his wicked mounted blade, which lay sheathed behind his bare back. He took a few more minutes to inspect the not scarred paradise, his eyes darting and seeing from beneath his simple black blindfold. The sight appealed to him, the way the crows picked at the bodies, feasting on a meal that was not there. And then, there came the most beautiful part of it all. The souls. He had always loved slaughter for this part and this part alone. It was indeed this part of every gruesome scene that somehow justified the wait. Compared to the events that were about to unfold, all the other atheistic beauty of this scene only cast a slight and tiny influence, an experience that could be cast aside with the sweep of a hand or the blink of an eye. He felt his fingers, or representation thereof twitch with excitement as He saw a black mist begin to form. With a nervous, excited twitch, He watched with complete attention as it began to condense, forming a black veil around the scene of the slaughter. From inside it, death cries could be heard endlessly, souls stuck in limbo re-experiencing their moment of death many times over, all in the course of several seconds. He could feel his lips turn upward, as he felt all the pain, suffering, sorrow and hate rise from this cloud, penetrating a corrupting the air around it, rendering the very landscape forever unclean. He soon became aware that his lips were pulled into a thin, twisted smile. With a single hand movement, He drew his sickle, the object very much as sentient as He was. Cracking his neck slightly, causing his jet-black blindfold to drop down to his neck, He bathed in the new found wave of opiate that he felt from his blood-red orbs finally peering onto the area devoid of life. He couldn't help but gasp, watching his drawn weapon above his head begin to pulse, also affected by the macabre atmosphere. He tightened his grip when it let out a scream, indicating his job was about to take place. The blade on the cruel instrument began to glow, a bright hue almost putting the now setting sun to shame, yet one unable to penetrate the mist of pure malice and discontent. My men, he called out in a voice that echoed with thousands of years worth of identity, each words carefully pronounced thousands of times over and over in the same sentence. It is time for you to move on, He bellowed, the light now concentrating to one area and the cursed sounds beginning to die down. The glowing began to concentrate, forming a single beam of light. Then, with a bright flash, it vanished, leaving only a single door, one that lay bounded with hundreds of chains, each barred with many locks. With a swing of his blade, He severed the chains, causing the door to swing open, revealing the pulsing blue abyss of his domain inside. Twirling his blade, He ordered the now dead and abandoned men into the gate, and was pleased with the surprising ease in which they entered. It was only a few seconds after He had finished ushering in the last of the dammed through the gate that He felt a slight tug. He ignored it, opting to ensure the task at hand would not be neglected in any way, but soon found another tug, pulling at him, daring him to submit himself to it and be whisked away. With slight reluctance, He once again cut the gate with his instrument, this swing binding it back up to the way it was before, then finally banishing it. Waiting with slight anticipation, He felt another tug take hold of him, and this time followed it, aware of his leave of the slaughter and exit into thin air. He floated in nothingness for a few seconds, before opening his eyes to once again find himself blinded by his blindfold, this time standing in the center of a building He could not recognize. He could feel a few traces of the battle lingering in the air around him, doing little more then testifying to his immense presence and power. After all, he was Death.