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CrowDazzle
Username: Rebdomine
Dragon's Name: Unnamed/Undecided
Dragon's Link:
Event: Halloween
Submission:
He was dressed from head to toe in Stygian, sleek leather, from his steel-toed boots, re-inforced by the help of Gwendolyn's welding skills, his jet black jacket and pants, to his fingerless biker gloves. His slicked back hair wild and windblown, his face was solemn and apathetic, his lips hard and chapped. The growling and murmer of his motorcycle shook a tremor as he rode, and with his soldiers behind him, each on their own whirling, mechanic machine, wheels spinning and steaming, the world trembled behind them. Their machines snarled with fire and brimstone, their inner-bellies heated by coals blazing with heat, red glowing from within like a dragon about to shoot flame. They were a stampede of destruction, a pack of starving vultures and rabid jakals scavenging for their next meal, howling with their monstrous machines. A menacing truck had, attached to it, a steel claw that could grab and rip down buildings or pluck up enemies and crush them to death. Each rider in the army wore their own black leather makeshift uniforms, with modifications from pointed metal boot spikes, dark silver goggles, to cybernetic prosthetics, made from forged scraps.
Of royal birth, he was sired by Najid, ruler and soverign protector of the most hostile raiders to ever pillage the Ashfall Waste. His mother, Ramla, was the strongest brawler among the clan, ripping bone and senew from her enemies, decapitating them with her sharpened axe. Raiders were incapable of feeling love; they felt something close, a desire to pass on strong genes while eliminating the weak, a desire to wed for dominance over a land, and sometimes, a desire to steal and rob from others what you desired, and abandon them, but never love. Of Najid and Ramla's alliance was born a son that the world met with immense horror, his title, the Crow Prince, whispered with terror behind closed doors. With a hateful and cruel demenor, he and his men would ransack and pillage without mercy, their monstrous vehicles thundering across the land. He had an army of twenty men, strong-built bruisers who rode alongside of him, carrying out his every command. As they rode. they left a trail of destruction in their wake, creating orphans and beggars out of nobles, and grand desert settlements into starving shantytowns.
Respecting his father's wishes and orders for him, he had returned to wreak havok upon his birthplace and claim his right as prince. The Scarred Wasteland was a miserable, inhospitable territory, where the soil boiled with disease and pestilence, famine and plague devouring the land. Skeletons of the fallen littered the wasteland as eerie reminders to trespassers and travelers alike to turn and flee for their lives before it was too late. The Crow Prince was a plagekind, born here in the festering scar of the wasteland. Those born here were savage survivors, turning to war and conflict for entertainment and honor above all, and cannibals, they would consume their own fallen brethren to survive. The lower classes were ruled with force and oppression, dying meaninglessly on the battlefield for the pleasure of the higher-ups. It was a grueling, disgusting, despicable land, where the more willing that you were to kill others, the longer that you would survive yourself, or be it that you were weak and refused, you would be slaughtered.
"Make way!" Came a shout, crisp and deep, from the diaphragm, a demand. "And who do you suppose you are?" Returned a voice. Before them, a gate, formed of twisted thorns and clashing metal, stood tall, and between the prickly briers, one would peak a kingdom built atop the dead, suspicious peoples staring daggers into the strangers. "Make way!" The man shouted again, his machine rumbling louder. "I am the reincarnation of your God, the Plaguebringer," spoke their grim leader, his grips on his motorcycle tensing, "Sanction me and my men, and I will protect your village." The ultimatum was serious, and the two guards, strapping in muscle, and each with deadly weapons, stood aside. "Open the gate!" One called, and the thorn-laced, iron-clad doors slowly screeched outwards, allowing access to the town. The machines roared past the gate, the village trembling before their might, following the brick road to the town square.
"Be you who you say you are, you must speak to our king," a guard informed the leather-clad motorcyclist, and he shrugged, a coy smile crossing his face as he uttered the words, "Onwards, then." A number of his men started towards him, to which, he turned and said, "Leave me be, I'll go alone." He refused to let the guards, now on either side of him, grab ahold of his arms, but he quite willingly went with them, taken to the castle to where he was brought through an entrance hall. Ahead, he saw a towering throne before him, and there, sitting upon red velvet magesty, was the king in his fine robes and adornments, his crown of bones and garrish necklaces of teeth announcing his nobility and valor. He knelt before the ruler of the village, bowing his head in reverence, an act that appeared all but gracious and genuine, but was, in reality, a mockery of the man himself, and a sarcastic act of playing along.
"Is it really... You, Plaguebringer?" The king croaked, his voice old and weary. The imposer had to stifle his cruel laughter, believing this kings' voice to be ridiculous and trifling. "It is," he said, licking his lips, "Need you any proof?" His eyes darkened to a dangerous red, swirling with vicious threat. After a moment, the king said, "No. If you are who you say you are, then I will not heresy a God, and if you will offer my citizens your divine protection, then I am ever in your debt." The response returned to the king was cold and calculated, a voice saying, "With me on your side, you will win every war, your people will have an infinite supply of bread, and while they will be the chosen ones to spread the disease, they will become invincible themselves. Host me and my men, show me your gratitude, and this is my promise to you." The king, greatly humbled by the offer, accepted it readily, responding, "Yes. We will prepare a banquet for tonight, and you and your men will sleep in the finest guestrooms of the castle."
"Brilliant."
The festivities were wild and fruitful, everyone in the village serving their best meals and delicacies. Fine wine, made from red grapes, was brought out from the cellars, a particularly special alcohol to the plague clans because it represented war and blood. It was served alongside of bread, brewed deep under the waste's ground, amid the rotting soil, cooked to perfection over years. Whole carcasses were smoked and barbequed, served bone-in and all. The bards played forth their best war songs and battle cries, beating the painted drums in a ritualistic rhythm. Red banners and drapes covered the town square, and boquets were made of wild catsup, chrisp-leaf amaranth, and carnival tulips, the flowers of the plague lands. The convivial atmosphere lead to much banter and drinking, amid intoxicated spats, and the man behind the scheme found himself pouring out his red wine as the festivities continued and dropping his wrymwood bread for the birds.
There was a clashing and sudden cheering as the king made an appearance, the crowd dispersing around him to give him room. "It is long at last that the Plaguebringer finally returned!" he announced, everyone cheering wildly and turning to the group of armored men. "I propose one last toast for tonight, for the Plaguebringer, and for spreading the disease!" He said, raising a glass into the air. Everyone in the crowd took another large swig of their wine, becoming more drunk by the hour. "And for him, I present a gift of my most reverend gratitude," the king continued, his voice booming and raspy. The false prophet stood before the king and the audience, playing along with the routine, even though his eyes were watching the ruler like a hawk honing in on it's dying prey.
"How do we know that you really are the Plaguebringer?" Said a man, stepping up in challenge. "Wasn't the Plaguebringer a woman?" He added, his voice full of suspicion and spite. The antagonist, in his rage and fit to prove that this man was a phony, pulled forth his sword from his sheath, metal clanging against metal. Before he could land even one hit, however, a hand grasped firmly around his throat. He kicked and tried to pry the hand off, his face turning red and then blue. His body went limp and numb, and dropped to the ground as it was released. "See, here!" The king called, "This is the real Plaguebringer." The crowd cheered, clapping loudly to approve of the destruction towards non-believers, entranced by the gore themselves.
"Now, now! Hear first, the promises of the Plaguebringer," the king announced, a wrinkly hand nudging the young man on the shoulder. "I am bringing forth a great war that will turn all of Sornieth to my own rotting, festering wasteland," he explained, "If you side with me in this war, I have agreed to make you the hosts of my disease. We will destroy all other lands and infect them with our pestilence. We will be unconquerable, all blood spilled will only cause us to grow stronger, and all those who fight under my name shall have eternal glory and my own protection." The audience broke into applaud and clapping, the crowd hooting and hollering in support of this new reign. They were completely encompassed in the brutality and victory of war and disease, and saw not past his ruse.
"And with you offering us this," The king said, "All I can give you is but the hand of my own daughter in marriage." Draped in a red dress was a beautiful young woman who couldn't have been much younger than the impostor himself. She had long, beautiful platinum hair, beautifully styled, her makeup done to perfection, and skin as pale as milk. "She is our village's own princess and matron of war," he explained, "She's a brilliant strategist and fighter, and with her as your wife, you will complete the blood promise with us, so that we can bring forth your war, and be your chosen people." The false God gave a charming smile, taking the woman's hand and giving it a kiss. "I accept," he said, the crowd breaking into hysterical applaud.
On that moonless night, after the entire village had been intoxicated and falling down drunk in the square, the army of men returned to their suites to scheme. "We will awake before the first light of morning to raid the village. Slaughter them all, and burn their houses. Steal anything that you want, but all of the treasure goes to Najid," the prince said, giving his orders. He had no concern with what wrath that his men brought down upon the people of the village, only that he gained from it, and that his father may see him worthy of his conquest. Listening in, was a spider upon the wall, the princess of the village, leaned against the cracked door, her ears pointed to listen in upon the plans of the raiders and to formulate her own attack strategy.
It was around midnight, that sleeping in his bed, the prince found his eyes jolt open, and before his eyes, a sharpened dagger was ready to plunge into his chest. With reflexes like a cat, his hand sprung forwards, grabbing his assailant by the wrist and, with all of his strength, throwing his attacker down onto the bed. They struggled and fought against one-another for control of the dagger, the pointed, razor-sharp end pointed towards the Prince, and, in the fray, nearly stabbing him many times, but each time, he pressed it back. Grabbing at the holder of the weapon, he let his nails dig into the flesh of the hand, and with a startled gasp, the dagger fell and was easily kicked away and off onto the floor. "Who are you?" The prince demanded, "And why are you-" He froze, realizing that his attacker was not a hired hitman or well-trained assassin, but the princess of whom he was to be wed.
"You aren't the Plaguebringer," she spat, "And you will not raid my village." "Oh, really?" He said, this time, allowing the chuckle in his throat to break free. "And who's going to stop me, some pretty little girl?" He bragged, "Good try, but you're going to have to work a lot harder to kill me, sweetheart. Actually..." His eyes lit up, and he added, "You woke me up just in time." He gave a snap, and four of his men walked into the room. "Take care of her," he said, waving her off with his hand, "We've got a village to destroy, and nobody is getting in my way." He stood up, throwing on his jacket, and gave a catlike grin as he exited the doorway, more of his men waiting outside of the room for him.
The screams of the victims echoed throughout the wasteland, the clashing of metal weapons haunting the night. The king's crown hit the floor, covered in blood, and was grabbed up by one of the many raiders, thrown on top of the pile of pillaged loot. Houses were ransacked, dresses and cupboards pulled open and their contents, what wasn't looted, scattered across the floors and rooms. Screaming people filled the streets, before their voices were cut short. Was this what his father would have wanted? The Crow Prince had to wonder. The violence and cruelty, would Najid have been able to support it, had he known that innocents were being slaughtered? The village was burned, coals ripped from the bellies of the vehicles and tossed into the houses.
"Now, what do I do with you?" He asked, turning to his engaged wife. "I really do like your attitude," he added, "But.. You know, I was promised a princess." His face lit up with immense wickedness, his pointed-tooth grin growing wide. "You aren't a princess. You don't even have a kingdom," he said, his tone dripping with mockingness. Her own face grew white. "How could you!" She yelled, her arms held back by two of his men. "How could I?" He asked back, grinning like a madman. "Let her go!" He demanded. The men removed their hold on her, and as soon as they did, she staggered forwards, ready to assault the prince. "Come back when you have a kingdom, and maybe then I'll marry you," he said.
Her fists grew tighter, as did the Prince's grin, and just when she was about to whack him in the face, she stopped. Instead, she pulled him close, and whispered, "I am the matron of war. I don't care where you go, I will remember this, and I'll find you," she said. She released her heavy hold on his jacket, her eyes glaring sharply into his.
