The darkness surrounding the room immediately cleared away following the illumination of a candle which stood over a lumpy mess of molten wax. The fire which emerged from it danced along with the warm wind flooding from the open window which faced the table on which the stick burned.
The smell of fresh parchment filled the room, as a new one was placed over the table, next to the candle in an attempt to see it more properly. A hand deeply wounded, scrawny, frail and old; with long grotesque nails and bony fingers, emerged out the pitch-black and dipped a quill into a half-empty bottle of ink which was somewhere on the table- hidden in the dark.
His hands moved across the new parchment, rather unevenly followed by ink which created dark puddles on places he stayed for too long. Finally, after re-reading and correcting whatever he had written at least a hundred times, he spoke; reading his creation in strange scarred yet shrill voice:
"Long, long ago, in a land far away from the one we live in now, on entirely different gravel, lived, a merchant wealthier than any other but deep was his misery for he had lost his one and only, delicate wife to the birth of his daughter. The only thing that remained of her with him was an heirloom: A sword which was passed onto him from his wife's father.
"Yet, he hid his sorrow for the sake of his older son and young daughter.
"In due course, they grew up to be handsome people who were of marriageable age but, the years of tying matrimony for his daughter skipped faster than his son. He looked far and wide to find the perfect husband for his daughter: who always rejected the offer no matter how great it might be. Soon days turned into years, and with the growth of his disappointment came a mystery striding towards him: why did his daughter reject them? Did she not favour men?
"But in the fullness of time came his answer. Grave news struck him on a thundering day that HIS daughter, the wealthiest of all women in the entire world ran away with a peasant boy. Anger boiled inside of him. He took his wife's sword whose blade would always be glittering in his chamber, even during the night; its hilt's adorned with an enormous diamond, and gold formed its grip.
"He set an espionage system and hunted his daughter down who had demolished his reputation which he celebrated so much. With the sword, he stabbed her, and her husband in their hearts. At last, after so many years, he felt content with himself. But his son didn't seem to share it.
"With the same sword, he slashed his father's head into two. He then carried the carcasses of his sister and her lover and roamed the world in search of a way to revive them. Alas! He had gone mad in the grief of his sister's loss.
"He searched sky and water, land and forest but nothing came. Finally, he stumbled upon a foreign land where the water met a precipice which was followed by great foliage. As he was stumbling upon the land, the mad brother came across the flower of death. Being ignorant of its heritage, he ripped it from the earth and laid it upon the decaying remains filled with maggots, of his sister. What the poor Madman didn't know was that he has stumbled upon nothing, but vain Serendipity. An elixir of Zemblanity.
"But then, a fuming death appeared out of the earth to ask the Madman of his folly. The Madman, in return, told the story of his mourning. Death, being the cleverest of the cleverest told the Madman that he was capable of being blessed with favour from him. He would allow his sister, and her lover to live, only on one condition. The Madman had to plant the branches he would give him on the soil of this country and his beloved and many others like them, shall live with him forever who would be called- The Descendants Of Death."
Being pleased with his writing, the old man slowly blew the candle out which immediately filled the room with darkness, once again.
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