Deep in the dusky gaseous clouds of the Horsehead Nebula, there exists a lone planet known as Arcadia, home to a peculiar race of people called demons. Residing in secrecy for their entire existence, the many classes of demons are in constant confli...
One night, I had a dream. I dreamed of a goat with pitch-black fur and golden eyes that glowed in the darkness. It bore twisted horns and the branded mark of an inverted pentagram upon its forehead. The pentagram was the mark of our people, the symbol of the demon species itself.
In the void of sleep, the goat spoke to me, its words echoing in my mind though its mouth did not move. "The Sabbath is soon to be upon us. Only one of the Sins may survive to lead all of demonkind. This is the last chance your world will be given. If nothing changes, this age will come to an end in blood and fire. One must unite the demon race if there is to be any hope of survival. Lust. Sloth. Envy. Gluttony. Greed. Pride. Wrath. All seven Sins, this is a call to action. Spill your blood for the greater good of Arcadia...and to the victor go the spoils. May the strongest Sin survive."
The words of the goat repeated themselves to me, over and over. Every time I closed my eyes, I could only see its piercing gaze.
It was so real it burned.
In the cold desert wasteland of the Wrath Ring, a savage beast burst up from the dunes, quaking the earth and spraying a shower of sand into the air. When the dust retreated, the creature towering above was an immense, ghostly figure in a tattered black dress, with a doll-like head and flowing hair made of running sand. Though she had no mouth, she let out piercing screams. At one point in time, she was probably one of us. But now, this specter of the sands was lost to the void. Nothing would call back who she used to be. My only choice was to do what I did best- protect the Wrath Ring and put her out of her misery.
Perched atop an enormous tire halfway sunk into the sand, I stood with purpose. Stray granules of sand clung to my pointy horns and tangled in my short, yet voluminous curled black hair. I hunched down, my white gown flowing in the stinging desert winds. They gnawed at my pale skin like dull teeth. My black tail thrashed back and forth, forming a curl at the tip. The skeletal hand of the feral demon reached out to me, bony fingers outstretched. Before she could grab me, I tensed the tendons in my legs and flung myself into the air. My forearms to my hands and the tips of my fingers turned pure black, and my nails elongated into a fan of sickle-like claws.
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Diamora, the Shadow Demon
I tore my claws across the demon's dress, shredding the frail fabric. Sand gushed out from the wounds, like a knife pierced through a burlap sack. The demon's shriek rattled my bones. I maneuvered myself to land atop a mess of mangled iron framework, the twisted remnants of a building that was now long gone. My bare feet slammed the metal, and my pointed black toenails dug in. I caught my balance just as the sand demon struck out for me, swinging those bony arms to catch me in their grip. I slashed at one of the fingers, severing the digit.
