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RahzVael
03-27-2013, 01:40 PM
(This short story is going to be done in three parts, so i have left three posts for them. Feel free to post your feelings and thoughts about the story.)

"Nightmare Incarnate"

The room was dark as he awoke, and it was hard to make out any features to tell him where he was. Slowly, ever so slowly, the first light of dawn's embrace edged through the shattered remains of the high, vaulted windows and his surroundings are made aware to him. He lifts himself up and rested on his elbows, his muscles protesting against any movement. The scene around him, that he could see, was ghastly and, for a brief moment, he wished that the room had remained dark to spare him from having to see the carnage around him. He takes quick glances hoping to see more of what is around him, and to his horror he finds himself encircled by the bodies of soldiers. The armmor that was meant to save these men lay bent, broken, and scattered around each body. His heart begins to race and his breathing becomes heavy. With a grim determination he lowers his gaze to know if he was to join the host of the dead that surround him. To his relief, and with great shock, he finds himself without serious harm. Cuts, bruses, and dents marked his body and armor, all the marks of intese fighting he must have endured.

With a great deal of effort he wills his body to move and stands up, his every muscle sore with a deathly exhaustion, and looks beyond the piles of bodies around him to find out where he was. With the ruined decorations in the room it became obvious he was in no ordinary room. The lavish features of the room could only lead him to the understanding that he was in a throne room. He continues to see the now lifeless bodies of more soldiers scattered around the room. He tries to move only to find that his legs refuse to move, and instead falls to his knees. In an instant an intense and powerful sensation floods his being and he remembers how he camme to end up in this room. He was meant to play the role of a kingslayer and kill a tyrant king who had been abusing his position for too long. Slowly he stands, now haunted even more by the scene of slaughter all around him. He turns his head slowly and find that his back was to the raised dais that the throne sat on. Turning now to face the throne he stares at the new scene before him with a blank, almost lifeless gaze. Still seated on the throne was this tyrant king dressed in the finery of his office. The king was sitting with perfect posture, but not by his own means for the hilt of a sword could be seen jutting out of the chest of the king, pinning him to the throne. After witnessing this final scene, in addition to the chaos that surrounds him, the fears creeping around on the edge of his thoughts mstopped being like a gentle breeze and now screamed like a storm in his mind. The fears he never wanted to admit to himmself now consumed his every thought and threated to drive him mad at the realization of his situation. As he reels and supports himself on a nearby pillar the realization numbs him to the core of his being; he was the cause of the carnage and death that surrounds him.

Time passes and his fears subside and enough of his strength is now returned that he tries to plan for what he must do now, and what course of action is needed. The king is dead and his quest has reached its end and now the only thing left is to return to the citizens that cried for aid and tell of the success of his journey. With a newly restored determmination to see this mission ended he takes a moment to take stock of what equipment he has left, praying that he would not have need to replace anything of his from among the dead. With a sigh of relief he finds that his armor, though knicked and cut in places, is still usable and withstood the battle. As his fingers explore the cuts that now decorate his armmor he could not help but wonder how he could have cause such devastation to the king's soldiers and yet have so little injuries himself. These thoughts are short lived as he discovers, to his dismay, that his sword is not in its sheath. With paniced glances he tries to find where the blade could be, never allowing himself to admit the truth that he already knew. Relunctantly he turns once more and stares at the king sitting on his throne. Steeling himself for the grim business at hand, he forces himself to climb the dais and stand opposite of the king he killed. Slowly, he reaches out and takes hold of the sword's hilt and tries to pull the sword loose, but all he accomplishes to do is shake the throne, and the man that sits on it.

Not wanting to spend any more time in this room then is needed he prepares himself to pull his sword out of the kings chest. With both of his hands he grasps the handle of the sword in a firm grip, after placing his foot on the shoulder of the king, and with a powerful force pulls the blade free of it's resting place deep in the king's chest. He takes a few steps back, to keep his balance and to distance himself from the kings body that is now slumped down and over the side of his throne. Time distorts itself now as his gaze lowers to look upon the sword he knows as his own, and the blood that now dyes the blade red. Once more the nagging fear and anxiety that dance across the edges of his mind assail him and threaten to consume him whole. Their voice is low, like a silent whisper carried on a gentle spring breeze, but he can hear the words as if they are his own. "Was this right?" they whisper to him. "Did this man truely deserve to die like this?" As he wipes the blade clean with the cloak being worn by the king he forces the voices to be quiet, but deep in the core of his being he knows the truth behind the truth he knows. He knows those voices, those doubts, are right. With his sword sheathed and his strength returned to him, he turns and leaves the throne room. He wanders through the corridors of the castle, his pace gains speed the farther he gets from the throne room. The signs of his battle
are evident in every direction and he found it hard to recognize any kind of luxury that would show that he was in the heart of a kings castle. He can see the light of the day ahead of him before long and stops in the door way, only now noticing his breath is short and he had been running. He stops to catch his breath, his hands on his knees, and turns his head to look over his shoulder, gazing at the place he is leaving. The degree of destruction that he can see leaves him breathless. Nothing remained that would have allowed him to know he was in a palace. The majestic paintings and sculptures that decorate the walls and hallway were reduced to rubble and tattered shreds. The walls bore the scars of an uncountable amount of slashes and cuts, the windows reduced to holes in the wall. He turns away from this scene, shutting his eyes tight and hoping against hope that he will forget the images he has seen. The knowledge of being the cause of this carnage sickens him. He knows that no human is capable of this level of devastation and slaughter, only a demon is.

RahzVael
03-27-2013, 03:11 PM
This is for the second part of the short story.

RahzVael
03-27-2013, 04:08 PM
This is for the third part