Post by Victor Adelai on Mar 13, 2017 21:02:42 GMT -8
Few things burn as hotly as failure.
There was a game of cat and mouse being played out on Vashon Island. The creature of shadow would slither through the woods. Sometimes he would be ambushed by fire-lance wielding monstrosities. More often, he would rend and tear the furry beasts before they could spot him. In darkness they would die, spreading their overwhelming vitae to the earth.
For two months the battle had played out in the wooded lands around the mostly ignorant humans. If the shadow beast were notching his bedpost, he had truly lost a single encounter. But he had crushed the life from over a dozen of the lupines. Even Miguel Menezes, the oldest Lasombra in his line, seemed impressed at the victories he was winning. Another mentor might have advised caution. Or perhaps volunteered to teach the young shadow beast the lore he might need to truly overcome his foes. But not Miguel. No. The ancient creature was more shadow then flesh, and his philosophies were simple in their purity: if 'Victor' wasn't strong enough to take the land from the creatures entrenched there, he shouldn't have it. Diplomacy was another weapon, but to call for terms before the complete obliteration of your foe spoke to either weakness or charity of spirit (which was much the same thing).
So well had the battles been going, that the shadow beast fulfilled his promise, going so far as to slither into the sole Catholic church that sat on the isle. It was small, but very old, and that pleased the creature. The church was worked by a priest and his acolyte and a single nun who favored white instead of black. Perhaps she was of a rare Order, or simply was too far away from the clergy to pay proper attention. Why she wasn't in a nunnery was anyone's guess. They had been fed blood and soon their prayers would twist away from the hung god, towards the one of shadow that lived under the floor boards.
It was there, in the dusty basement that the languid spirit slumbered. The mouthy Assamite had banished it from the gathering, for fear of the lupine retribution, going so far as to escort him out. The whole thing had felt like an ambush. As a precaution, the shadow beast had taken to sleeping out of its flesh. Honestly, it was liberating to go extended periods without resuming the more... heavy... mask of humanity. He wasn't a creature of flesh any longer, why pretend?
In the very, very far distance, there was the crashing of the doors being kicked open four or five feet away. The creature didn't have eyes to open, but it did slowly come to awareness. There was a scream cut short and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Through the cracks in the floor boards, the shadow creature could see what had entered. Large creatures sporting archaic weapons etched with runes and bathed in flames. He stopped counting after four, but it was likely more were still filing in. Their leader wore some beaded leather about his brow, his hair was gray with age. In his hand was a perfectly drawn rendering of 'Victor' when he wore the flesh of a man.
Treachery...
The creature began to slither away. The weight of the sun pressed down on him, clouding his mind, even as it fought to panic. The eyes of the lead warrior, the largest, shot downward to the floor and it drove the sword through the wood and into the shadows. An unearthly screech of pain erupted from it as the flames dissipated shadow.
Escape.
He threw out a sphere of darkness, but the perfect circle was warbled and misshapen where the sunlight seared through it effortlessly. The sun was the eye of God, Miguel had told him once. The darkness is what existed before God, and it was that darkness which God hates most. That is why he created light first.
No time for philosophy. The darkness caused the next weapon that pierced the floor to swing wide, but the flames still lapped at the creature. He clawed away, summoning tentacles to distract his attackers. They were powerful and precise, day or no... but also no match for the war-ready wolves.
It seemed hopeless. Three warriors systematically drove him towards the corner of the church while whatever was left began casting some sort of ritual, and creatures outside the church started to toss burning brands onto the roof and through the windows. In a matter of moments, the church would be aflame, and there was no where to run.
He fell asleep for a second, onto to awaken with a fiery brand through the floor into what should be his torso. Another screech and slithering away. It was in that moment he smelled it, the sweet scent of his escape.
Shit.
The last spear had punctured ever so shallowly the main pipe leading to the septic system under the church. What was left of the shadows poured into the fetid pipes and pooled as deep as it could. The darkness was cold and absolute. The barest ember falling into he pipe would extinguish his darkness in flames for all time. And yet the fire didn't come.
Above him he could hear the pleading for what should have been a prized retainer as they were slain. The bodies were tossed without ceremony in the center of the church. He could hear thudding as the day finally extinguished his pained consciousness. He woke only briefly when the central support of the building crashed down.