I wrote this about a year ago and I really want to make it better so I'm putting this on Wattpad to see what you all think! Hope you enjoy :D
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The Messenger
A man clad in leather ventured across a forsaken plain. Dead grass crunched under his black boots, their sound to be consumed by the infinite void of silence. A pungent aroma of death accompanied the winter’s breeze, sweeping through the barren valley.
An unbearable weight crushed his shoulders from boulders to pebbles. He ripped the parchment from his breast pocket breaking portions of the seam and a thread or two and glared at it. His eyes radiated with a pain from a broken man’s heart as he gawked at the seal of the wrapped message.
The order’s insignia was branded into scarlet wax to show authenticity of the Messenger. Bandits and robbers saw flaws in The Order's operations and began to forge letters and ransack the new ghost towns. Unknown threats, spies even did identical crimes for investigations or personal regiments. But those obscured, tricked and brainwashed by the Cursed tried to hinder the Messengers cause. Any who tried the law were slaughtered with the rapist and murders.
The Messenger gathered black clouds of his corrupt emotion and let rage swallow them in one vicious gulp. He grinded his pale fingers into the now useless letter, smearing the red goo onto himself. Then he launched the mutilated paper behind him with all the emotion strength he mustered.
In a span of three centuries, not one messenger had failed to deliver their parchment. His kind, as if written in stone, never made mistakes. And his mortal mind could not fathom how he had shattered a everlasting trend.
“The Cursed will die, by my will!” The messenger’s voice started as a whisper but gradually grew to a roar. Then he recited part of his pledge “I will triumph, no matter my cause.” He unsheathed both his blade and revolver and stormed forward to the town of desecrated bodies.
The gravel streets and walls of the homes were stained and dripping with a mixture of bile and blood. Graying entrails lay scattered upon the dead, partially buried and simply on the ground, all kept preserved by winter’s cold. Fluid deprived corpses turned to white hallow shells, boasting the tortuous tears and rips inflicted upon them in life.
Grey light illuminated through misty clouds above, matching the mood. Dry puddles of blood captured an entirety from its background, highlighted by the glow. Why didn’t I take the short cut?
Rarely anyone survives the massacre. There is an unlucky part of the privilege though. The turn. The Messenger and his brothers in arms are immune to the infectious salvia and blood of The Cursed. That’s why he was trained since birth to fight.
He adjusted his grip on the sword’s hilt. Brown rags wrapped around its handle were rigid and felt unneeded on his reddening skin. All he would need to do is lift his blade to his neck and slowly slice apart his skin, muscles and arteries until nothing could stop the water fall of blood and his dangling head. But then the Messenger heard a scream. Natural instinct persecuted initial thought and he quickly followed the trail of sound.
He leaped over two or three corpses and charged past abandoned wagons and carts. He heard the bellow once more and sped up due to the intense pain within it. The Messenger arrived at a small house near the center of the town. He kicked down the rest of a splintered door and sprinted up stairs.
