'Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder who you are.'
With the birth of every child a star is born. The being's life force powers the star and it burns as long as the child's influence is present. This is the unbreakable law o...
A mother throws a trunk full of toddler's clothes into a lake. Her son's ashes lay beneath these waters.
"He must be so cold," she whispered.
Cancer
Sixty years. Sixty candles. One by one, her weak breath made every one of the tiny balls of flame disappear. The old man helped his wife stand up and took a bite from the slice of cake on her hand. She lovingly wiped off the frosting at the corner of his smile. As he kept looking at the twinkle in her eyes, a light that neither sickness nor age could dim down, he couldn't stop smiling.
She loved the cake. She had to. He made it the same way her mother did when she was a kid.
He had to. Because this would be her last birthday.
Cancer
Somewhere in the alleyways, a girl threw her dreams into the fire she made out of the junk she found in a dumpster. Her soulless eyes watched all her hopes, her ambitions and passions turn to smoke.
She was young. And like most, she used to think she was invincible. She used to think she was blind to death's eye. But the five letter written on the diagnostic report in her bag had changed everything.
Cancer
The sound of Christmas carol peeped through the thin glass windows. In a tiny post office in a small town, a man sat down with a box of letters sent to the north pole. It was his job to write to these children, to give them something to believe in, to make sure they remain blind to brutalities of the real world.
He opened the first letter. It was from a five year old boy named Dew. The squiggly alphabets were traced by the blunt tip of a pencil and an inexperienced little hand.
The words, 'Dear Santa, I want to live' were written on the folded page.
Cancer
D e s p a i r.
Cancer
D r e a m s s h a t t e r e d.
Cancer
H o p e s d e v o u r e d.
Cancer
M e r c i l e s s.
Cancer
S a d i s t i c.
Cancer
D a r k n e s s.
Cancer
D e a t h.
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These naked bones dance upon hungry flames.
Skin long gone.
Flesh long rotten.
Organs long devoured by the coarse sand.
She has no heart.
Yet warmth and intuition surges through the hollows of her blackened bones, impulses firing from calves to calves like lightning.
Roses, red in the shade of blood and wine bloom from the cranium of her ebony skull. Swirling petals frame her sunken cheekbones, draped over her clavicle and trail down her spine. The thorns peeking out through the velvet red screams death.
These roses do not know what water is, they do not know what the light is. Yet they thrive in the shadows, blazing as the only sign of life in a place where death holds dominion.
The obsidian claw at the tip of her staff grips an amethyst sphere. The slender bones of the lifeless beast clasp around the lilac crystal. The lavender smoke enclosed by the walls of the enchanted stone clogs the view of the land of the dead.
The necromorph heart.
One of the few rare objects in the void that can create ripples powerful enough to shatter the barrier between the land of the living and the dead, allowing it's echoes to travel to the underworld.
Embedded within these hollow bones lies a broken soul.
A soul fragmented and shattered, splintered into a thousand shards.
Among these hundreds of pieces only one belongs to her, a dark flake of light that can never wither away. No matter how badly she wishes.
Because you cannot kill what is already dead.
The others belong to the undead.
The crippled and the rotten.
They belong to every single unliving creature she has brought back to life.
That is, if you can call them alive.
Each piece of her crooked soul is a currency. Currencies which she can trade in exchange for a splinter of a dead soul from the underworld and infuse them into corpses to create creatures that will yield to her every command.
These undead beings do not possess any memory of what it felt like to be one of the living.
They do not know love. Desire. Pain. Or power.
Their entire existance is defined by two things. Hunger and the craving to serve the woman who raised them from beneath the soil, who freed their souls from eternal damnation.
The call of the necromancer is anticipated by the dead, by all who lie in the shadows of hell, waiting eons for one, just one more chance to see the light.
She has worn many skins in the tattered pages of history.
Worshiped as the goddess of death and rebirth.
Her presence is dreaded by every single world roaming within the great void.
The fear of death is carved into the soul of every living creature since their heart hears the very first echo of its own beat.
And she is what they call, Death.
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