The Crucifer

Chapter One; Bellmire Cemetery

Fog entrenches the cemetery ... born out of no where. It must be a manifestation of some putrifying evil abroad...

Chapter One; Bellmire Cemetery

     Krowvayne sat on the edge of a tombstone as a screen of mist passed over his face with a faint diamond touch. The air he breathed was purifying as a holy drink. The deeper the intake of the air, the more expanded his surroundings became. He went into a deep state of mind, a burrow where otherwordly feelings fill the well of his thoughts.

     "Spirit is all that I am. It is what inhabits this body. Any other mode of thought is folly."

     The dipping and arching hills were teething with graves that were grey like apparitions, but mottled with moss. The years engraved on them were  ancient and legendary. He saw that the hills were an ectoplasmic green and when he glanced heavenward the constant overcast above was hallowed and clean. In front of him a virginal angel of stone reached out at him with an unfathomable gesture of love, petrified during the act. She was conceived from some vague ideal of what a pure and colorful heart was supposed to mean before its myth had been circulated and passed around by the filthy hands of the lower realms. Krowvayne smirked at the sweetness of it. There was some truth to that statue...

     "I hope I shall find a girl that embodies that same kind of thing that you exude," He said to the statue, feeling all of a sudden that when he looked at the statue, it was like looking through a divine window, where he experienced direct celestial contact with a feminine energy. It made him uneasy, as surely as if he were in the presence of an actual human maiden. He could feel the vibes of this statue which felt like a dove captured and struggling in the flesh of his heart. A sort of strangled passion for this woman out there somewhere that he had not yet met... and right now it was intensified in this anonymously lovely presence emnating from the life-like stature.

     "Am I tasting the fruits of the spirit? It is such a sad fact that I cannot carry this feeling wherever I go. In some places ...  it is just forbidden or unheard of. But I will ride this blessed feeling out to the end... I will impart it unto even those that I slay. Until I... myself... am slain."

     For those who live by the sword die by the sword.

      His lengthy legs did not dangle from the tombstone. His feet had been at rest upon the earth and he simply sat up like he had risen from a table chair. He walked with a gliding stride up to the statue, his longing look pinning the virtuous face of the ideal woman. His sword resting on his shoulder bounced lightly as he carried it one handedly over terrain that was fickle and ever changing. As he got closer, the statue became more apparent in that being of its age. The face was weatherworn with webbed cracks that were blackened. It seemed that a mask was peeling off her face for a moment, but he got close enough for that illusion to dispell.

     "I don't know what you are... or if you are even real. What I do know is... whoever crafted you breathed into you a truth that humans can no longer hold. However, I am a chaser of dreams, a reacher of ideals. Your abstract meaning is but an idea, substantial as only a thought - yet I feel the ghost of what you could be. In finding you, have I reached the high point of some journey? Are you the idol for some pilgrimage? Let us touch and meet. Flesh against stone..."

     Krowvayne palmed her shoulder. Her silhouette stirred and flexed. He blinked violently - he flinched. Then he washed her up and down with a scanning gaze of incredulity.

      "Woman, are you ... alive after all?"

      Her face hatched and shed slivers and flakes. They peppered his feet. He saw the emergence of an obsidian black face with sultry, devilish eyes. From virgin to seductress, with a cruel mouth.