Not The One ((ON HOLD))

Not The One

                                                         A/N: This will be sad, like SAD.

As sad as in BB's story, "His Demonic Corruption" and "His Beastly Finale" sad...like they die from their love like in Wuthering Heights...

Yeah. That sad.

Anyways: ON WITH THE STORY!

P.S: I'll switch between poems and actual chapters within this story. Just so yhu know so yhu don't come back and say: "What the fuq is this?!?!!?!"

P.S.: For mature audiences only. I mean, damn guys! I went to town with this! D:

**KaRMasLIttLEanGEl**

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Prologue: Merciless

 

Stepping down from his black stallion was the one man who was the very definition of fear. His eyes looked to be made from pure blood, their rich red depths capturing attention and the hatred within their depths ensnaring your and making your mind come figuratively by the hatred's strong fiery desire to obliterate any and all within its path.

His red eyes scanned over the grassy expanse of land. Ebony hair swpet past his face in the night winds and he narrowed his eyes as his two most prized weapons, a pipe wrench that held a mystical power and enabled it glow an unearthly illuminate red.

 The second weapon was a long broadsword that currently rested on his hip, within its sheath. He only pulled it out when necessity had turned to dire circumstances. It was a demonic blade with a mind of its own and often it chose to act out on its own. Its red intricate drawing depicted hands gripping its serrated edges tightly as a thick gold line bordered the obsidian hilt.

 The man was actually no older than seventeen at the very least but his eyes told a story of early bloodhsed when his parents were killed right before him by a rival tribe. Since then, he had been tortured by those murderers and alliances and dirtied in multiple awful ways and all villagers.

 

That is until he came across the pipe at age twelve when he been ordered to the clan's chief's bedroom. He hadn't known what for. He was always told never to go in there but when he had been ordered the first time, he'd asked why-- forgetting the first rule of a slave.

                                                Rule One: Never Question Your Authority.

His simple question had resulted in him being punched in his face, sending stars across his red eyes and sending him sprawling onto the ground. Dishes crashed it the floor on and around him, some pieces bouncing off the hard stone floor and tried to drive into his bronze skin. He didn't cry, he knew all too well from his first years with them that crying resulted in punishment. Punishment he hadn't known he could live through.

"How dare you guestioning your orders!" They had snarled, and taken hold of his throat while he lay on the floor. Sending a knee to his groin and crushing it beneath their weight as his red eyes showed his pain, their fingers found his scar-laden neck and squeezed.

"Ack--!" He choked, and desperately, he tried to undo their grip. His vision was beginning to tunnel as sounds became hard to decipher when suddenly he did what the second said never to do.

                                              Rule Two: Never Assault Your Authority.

 It was a mere swipe of nails, but his nails had been long and as they drove their skin, his attacker screamed in pain. They punched him in the jaw, and blood spilt onto the floor as the ran away, blood spilling from the tooth they had nearly knocked out of his jaw.