Prologue
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------As the chicken roasted and the fire blazed, the tribe was caught in a jubilant mood.
Everywhere you looked you’d see another crazy, wild, grinning masked face, a pair of flailing arms and legs, hips swaying as the sacred dance continued.
The Tribe Chief was joining in the dance, each thud of his heavy feet sounding louder than the drum they were beating.
As he waved his thick and muscled arms, the bodies bolted to his wrists swung and showered the tribe in the fresh blood of the deceased.
After the dance, the bodies would be torn from his wrists, leaving gaping holes from the removal of the nails, which would leave scars marking him as ruler. Afterwards, the tribe would partake in the draining of the blood, a process where bloodsucking monsters would feed on the corpse and let loose for the tribe to hunt. Those that managed to catch one would consume the blood inside, letting them survive and live on.
Those who failed, however, would be torn into pieces and offered to the Chief. For every heart he consumed, the warrior’s spirit would integrate itself into the Chief, only bolstering his strength.
As the dance neared its end, a shadow stole out from the surrounding forest.
Unnoticed, it approached one tribesperson in the outer throng of the circle, and without any sound or alarm, attacked.
Slitting its throat, the beast was down without any sound.
Moving on to another unsuspecting target, it was again taken down with the unnatural silence of death. However, unfortunately for the assailant, one of the tribespeople noticed the assassination and let out a deathly screech.
All those in the circle immediately ceased the dance and turned to the shadow. Letting out a roar that shook birds from their nighttime nests, the Chief unleashed the tribe upon the intruder.
The first to reach him attempted to swipe at the shadow, but the intruder’s body evaporated and the attack passed harmlessly through. Before they could react, the shadow effortlessly swung out and cut open the trio’s throats with one smooth motion.
As blood flew from their new, gory smiles, it froze midair before forming into arrows that then took out six tribespeople who had managed to get bows trained on the figure.
Five more attacked, having the thought to grab their weapons before assaulting the shadow.
One wielded a curved and rusty sword vaguely resembling a scimitar, while another chose a spear and the rest settled on clubs.
The spearman jabbed at the intruder, but it dodged, cut the spearhead from the shaft, and threw it into the heart of one of the tribespeople attempting to sneak up from behind.
Without breaking his movement, he grabbed the club out of the air and sidearmed it through the temple of another archer attempting to gain a lock on him.
As the spearman threw away its now-useless shaft, the two remaining club users and swordsman rushed the figure.
The two club users swung at him from both angles, but the shadow caught each attempt on his forearms, stopping them dead in their tracks just in time for the swordsman to make its move.
Swinging its sword in a deadly blur, it made to cleave the attacker clean across the torso, but like the first attempt, the figure dissipated into smoke, leaving the sword to cleave into the foot of one of the club users.
Howling, the injured club user made to pull away, but the assailant, now reformed, cut each of their throats in another grim dance, pulling the blood from the deceased to form a bubble-like shield, blocking the arrows and spears rained down by the tribespeople.
Grabbing the sword from the ground and a spear from out of the air, he launched the spear up at one of the towers, managing to skewer two in one go.
As the bloodshed unfolded, the Chief cried to his warriors in the guttural tongue of the tribesmen to surround him and form a shield wall to protect the archers at his sides.
After throwing the spear, the figure made an impossible leap up to the other tower, landing on and kicking one of the archers off before beheading the rest in a grotesque show of skill.
Stabbing the sword into the ground, he grabbed the arrows from the fallen and rained them down upon the quickly forming formation of soldiers.
The arrows took out ten more while the rest managed to catch them on their shields.
The arrows embedded into the shields grew red before exploding in spikes of blood, spearing anyone unlucky enough to be within range and taking out sixteen more warriors.
Seeing the formation crumble, the Chief roared again, a deep, primal roar somehow fearsome than the last. Slamming his hand into the ground, he tore out a huge chunk of earth, which he threw at the occupied tower, crashing through it and toppling it to the ground.
The shadow pulled the sword from the floor before leaping from the collapsing structure and piercing through the heart of an unlucky tribesperson emerging from the dust.
All of a sudden, a bolt of red light flashed through the dust and caught the intruder on his side. Unlike the previous attacks, this one connected and ripped away the shadows surrounding the assailant.
What was revealed was so beautiful yet terrifying it caused the warriors who gazed on his figure to take a step back.
The figure had white and black hair cascading to his neck, parting around black horns reaching up to a gold and red halo.
His face was somehow young yet old, making it impossible to guess his age. He gave the air of a child’s corpse from long ago, dead but filled with youth.
The eyes that gazed upon the battlefield and carnage wrought by his hand were a vibrant shade of purple separated by the pupils of a cat.
His hands, covered in sizzling blood, lead down to claws that explained his ability to slit throats with no weapon.
As he stood, his eyes never left the Chief.
Taking aim at him, the final archer on the remaining tower prepared to attack the figure, shaking off its reverie in order to finish the job.
Its head flew before it could even pull back the arrow.
The figure was a blur now, speeding across the camp to strike down one tribesman after another, cutting down more and more with each blow, sending head after head flying.
A shaman-looking figure attempted to let off another shot of energy at the assailant, but it went wide and left one of the tents with a gaping hole across the side.
After the shadow swiftly beheaded the shaman, the Chief took action, moving across the distance between them much faster than should have been possible for a beast his size, sending the figure skidding across the field.
Catching himself, the shadow retaliated with several blades of blood, which the Chief broke on his arm before heaving another boulder at the assailant.
Quickly reacting, the shadow cut the boulder in half before continuing with the motion, chopping a spear out of the air and heaving it back at the thrower.
Noticing the shadow moving to close quarters combat, the Chief pulled another boulder from the forest floor and smashed it into the figure.
Blocking with a shield of blood, the assailant’s blade moved in an arc of bloody steel, separating the Chief’s hand from his body.
As the Chief roared in pain, the assailant flipped the blade to his other hand and relieved the Chief of his remaining arm.
The Chief stumbled back and the shadow caught the arms out of midair before dropping to the ground and cleaving the wooden bolt holding the corpses to the limbs.
As he kneeled over them, he whispered a few words to the unfortunate pair before closing their eyes and pulling shadows over them to cover their naked forms.
Once again, the Chief locked his focus on the assailant and roared.
Standing, his fists clenched, the shadow turned and roared right back. It may not have been as loud or as powerful, but it was ten times more terrifying. It sounded as if all the souls in heaven and hell had screamed along with this man’s desire for blood.
Taken aback for a moment, the Chief shook himself back together and charged the figure. Dropping his blade, he charged back at the Chief, locking them, for just a second, in a wild and deathly joust.
As they collided, a cloud of dust and earth erupted, obscuring the battlefield. A noise, and all was silent.
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Foxes peeked from their burrows, Wolves crept from their den, and the birds flew to the tops of their trees. None made a sound, in fear of disturbing the silence that had made the world freeze.
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As the dust cleared, it revealed the hulking corpse of what used to be the Chief, and the shadow holding high over it the Chief's own heart, torn from his chest in the throng.
Letting go of the heart, it fell to the ground and was stabbed by the figure, releasing a loud breath as if the warriors trapped inside had finally been released from their eternal purgatory.
Facing the moon, he let out one more cry, one announcing victory to the world. And all of the creatures of the forest, relieved, cried their joy to the sky as well.
As the melody of victory reached the sky, wings burst from the figure’s back, lifting him up into the air. Hovering over the battlefield, he looked, for all the world, like an angel of death.
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Thanks and good bye!
