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Crossposted: How nasty do you want your Demons?

Mark Cunningham — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 09:29:53 +0000

I know, I haven’t been blogging. Many excuses that no-one cares about. To fill the void that is this blog, here is a recent post I made on lostheroesrpg.com. Enjoy!

I’ve been working my way through the current draft of the setting. I had hoped this would only take a week or two, but it’s taken much longer for various IRL reasons (including a car crash and its subsequent fallout), mostly because the only time I can work on it, is the few hours spare I get after the kids are in bed and I’m not always as mentally focused at that time. (I’m getting old, I fall asleep in the sofa at 10.30 in the evening!)

The first half of the text required a lot more re-work than later pieces, yet it was the later pieces I struggled with the most first time round. It seems as a general rule, depending on the length of the chapter, the more I struggled with it the less re-working it requires. With that in mind I started working on the Pantheon chapters in reverse order, hoping to populate the better changes and feel from the later chapters back to the previous chapters.

It was only when I got to the chapter on Demons that something started to worry me. Not the writing, but something I had put to the back of my mind since starting this run. Demons are nasty things. Not nasty as in anti-hero way (like Vampires are sorta cool yet there still “monsters”) but the worst of mankind, supernaturally empowered. Rapists, murderers, abusers, molesters and so on. While it’s possible to create “good” Demons (Fallen Demons or Demonic Bloodlines that avoided the influence of Hell for example), the vast majority of character types are bad, real bad.

Lets get this out of the way now, Lost Heroes is based on old mythologies. These old religions contain stuff that modern readers may find tasteless or even offensive. I can already think of several bits and pieces that might offend some. I’m aware of them but I didn’t want to PC-ify these old stories, just for the sake of writing an RPG. So instead I tried to emphasis some over others. I don’t know if this works or if I should be more cautious in how I treat these themes in the setting. In part, this is the purpose of trying to make this “Book of the Gods” so that I can present something to others and get a real feel for the reader’s reactions. To put it another way, when does editing become censorship? I can’t tell because I’m buried in the forest, checking the bark on each of the trees.

And here I am, reading through the Demons chapter, realising there is very little balance to this chapter. It is dark and it remains dark. There is, preceding this chapter, an chapter on Angels who battle constantly with Hell to prevent Demons destroying everything. While some parts of Angels are dark, there is much light. When I was writing it, I tried to get my head into what might be the motivations of these Demons and their masters. It did haunt my dreams for a while, imaging the horrific nature of Hell, but I felt it was important to get it down on paper. A starting point.

One thing, from the beginning, of Lost Heroes is that I didn’t want to restrict your choice of characters. Of course a GM may apply their own restrictions for the sake of the game, but I wanted there to be a choice. Even if that option was only really available to allow the GM to create antagonistic NPCs, it should be there. Choice is also an incredible important theme in the setting. Everything is about choice. A True Chosen Demon… is a human who accepted to become a Demon. The evils of Demon are the evils of humans, amplified by the supernatural. Do you chose to be the monster or the hero? And so the gamer is already making a choice.

Reading about the monstrous Demons of Lilith, wife of Satan, I started to have doubts. I posted this on twitter:

Just re-read the Demons chap. in Lost Heroes. Am a bit worried that u can create evil and disturbing demons as PCs. Should I take chap. out?

Which it later got imported into Google Buzz where some discussion occurred.

I have no conclusions so far. I’m going to keep tapping away at this drop, hoping in the end that the bits will fall together. What do you think?

More drawings from Chargey

Mark Cunningham — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 10:32:11 +0000

After doing drawing exercises on texture, I felt inspired to draw, just for drawing. My daughter and her cousin both have a “Kaloo”, a brand teddy bear that has a long hat that can be used for sucking. Alice has two since she was a baby. She had three but lost one. Her cousin had three or four. So while they were preoccupied I grabbed one of each of their kaloos, a car for the cousin, Antoine (he’s mad into cars) and a flower that Alice picked when we went for a walk. I thought it was a nice, simple composition, and it came out very well.

(More drawings after the jump…)

I went looking for something else to draw the next day and I remembered this cute little statue of Cherub Angel, that was tucked away on a book shelf. I like the final result. While not a perfect rendering, it captured something of the rough detail of the statue.

This picture is actually done from a photograph. It’s based on my daughter Alice and there is no way she would have sat for the 2-3 hours it took to do the drawing. Actually, I only know it’s 2-3 hours because my wife informed me when I had finished. I felt I had only spent 30 minutes or so. The photograph was one of opportunity. Alice and Antoine ran in from a walk with the grandparents. They had wreaths of leaves on their head. There was something-oh-so- fey about it and the photo captured it. I think I captured something of that too while it’s certainly not a close rendering of Alice.

Of course, I shouldn’t have said it was based on Alice, because that was the feedback I got… “I can kinda see Alice in it…”. Which kind of made it impossible to do the next drawing. I wanted to do second drawing, this time using Antoine’s photo. However I got wrapped up in trying to get a good rendering of him. After nearly two and half hours, I was no closer. I had restarted five times, trying to get his face right. In the end, I had to stop because I was getting frustrated with the process and thats bad. I had to remind myself that it’s the act of drawing that’s enjoyable and if I didn’t get his look right, it wasn’t the end of the world. However, later I went back to the rough sketch and used pens to give it a quick outline. I didn’t want to make the effort wasted.

The End of the World

Mark Cunningham — Sat, 26 Jun 2004 17:33:42 +0000

This is a short story taken from something I’m working on. Its about an Angel and his decision.

I saw the world burn.

The darkness had finally overrun its defences and we could see the great cities in flames. The tall glittering skyscrapers turned into gigantic dead pillars of fire. The sky was blacker than the coldest night and filled with deadly poisonous clouds. The horizon was a thin red line of flame and death.

We were too late. The war was over. We, the Angels of the Choir Virtues, could save nothing.

We flew across the sky. My bright burning sword felt light and ready in my hands. But there was no one to fight. There was no one to save. All were dead.

We saw buildings crumble and burn, petrol stations blow up, bodies crumpled at the side of the roads, cars overturned and crashed. Yet there was no screaming. There was no panic or tears. Nothing living stirred.

And then came the explosion. It was like nothing I had seen before. On the distant horizon there was a great flash that blinded us for a moment. We each had to pause in the air.

We didn’t know what it was. But it was coming. Like a great wall, a burning inferno that reached from the ground right up to the black evil clouds. It sped towards us faster than we could think, decimating everything its path as if it were made of dead dust.

We froze in hesitation and we shielded ourselves with our white holy wings but the light was so bright and so hot. It tore through us as if we had been flung into the very depths of Abaddon. It shocked me into the denial of unconsciousness.

When I awoke I was sore and battered. My white robes, signifying my glorious status as an Angel of God, were in tatters. The light had been so ghastly I was left partially blind and couldn’t see more than black shapes that moved and the red light of nearby fires.

‘Prop him up!’ The voice was sharp and bitter. I was tugged and pulled and lifted up. The hands that touched me were cold. I couldn’t struggle against them or help myself. My body was broken. But then I heard the moaning of others in great anguish and pain. A sound I knew for it was the sound of those nearing a terrible death.

I fought but it was pointless. I was too weak. My eyes cleared just enough so that I could look around. The source of the terrible moaning I could just make out, on tall twisted spikes of metal human forms were skewered and were wiggling helplessly. They were still alive but dying quickly. I heard the weak flapping of wings and the realisation shocked me cold. They were my brothers and sisters, the other Angels of Virtues. They were dying.

‘No!’ I screamed pointlessly. I pulled but they had tied me with strong ropes. They tensed and my shoulders were painfully pulled back. The cold clammy hands lifted me up and I felt the razor sharp point of metal sticking deep into my spine.

There was horrid laughter, a perverse pleasure from my captors. They must be servants of darkness, monsters of nightmares. I could not escape them and my voice rose in song of mourning and shame.

Then I felt a light, a wonderful light that I knew and recognised even in my partial blindness. It was accompanied by glorious and great singing. It was the one true light of Him the Almighty. My brothers and sisters, Angels of God, had come.

I felt myself lifted and my eyesight was instantly restored. I was whole and glad again and my pain disappeared. I was ready to continue God’s great work and ready to battle the darkness.

I turned to face my one-time captors, planning to send them back to the very coldness of Hell. But I felt a gentle touch hold me back. It was only a light touch but it held great strength and power and I knew if was one from a higher Choir.

‘No! Let me bring justice,’ I pleaded.

‘No, Anthony, my child. Do you not see who you would take your vengeance on?’ I recognised the voice. It was the Seraph Gabriel, one of the blessed seven of God and one of his greater messengers.

So I looked and I saw.

My captors were not servants of darkness, not foul monsters. They were the human survivors of that apocalyptic explosion! Their skin had turned frighteningly pale and the sickness of radiation poisoning was killing them while it mutated them. But they were still human. It was not the darkness that had destroyed the world but humanity!

There was one who stood on a pedestal where a makeshift throne had been erected from the rotting remains of others. He stared at us, undeterred by the light of God and there was hatred in his eyes.

‘This world is now part of the Deadlands. This war has been lost. Do not look further. Not even our tears can save them.’ Gabriel cautioned. His tone was sombre and sad.

But I could not look away. I could not pull myself from staring at those human survivors and the dead bodies of my brothers and sisters that still hung on the metal pikes. They had died before Gabriel had arrived.

My sword had returned to me. Recreated out of the very light of Gabriel. I didn’t look at Gabriel as I descended. Nor did he stop me as I brought my holy vengeance down on them and slaughtered them all.

I tore the eyes out of all of them as they died for they were not worthy to look upon the light of the one true Heaven.

The trial had been quick and functionary. They had heard from Gabriel what had happened. They asked me nothing and said nothing to me.

I had killed humans knowingly and for selfish reasons. There could be no redemption. I was mentally readying myself for an eternity of torture in the 2nd Heaven.

I awaited their sentence. But none came. They must have believed my actions required no punishment yet I yearned for it. I yearned to be punished. I saw the world die and I know it was humanity that burned it. How can we protect and love humans if they willingly destroy everything God has given them? How can we stand tall and serve God if we were once human?

‘Why?’ I asked him.

Gabriel looked solemn. He was among the most beautiful of Angels and none would have dared ask such a question of him. But he did not strike me or condemn me. He bowed his head for I could see he was crying. He said, ‘It is simply the way of things Anthony. For Hope and Light to exist, there must be the darkness and failure. It is the Divine Plan.’

I once had faith. Even when I saw my mortal family killed in a mortal foolish war, I did not question my faith. But now I did. ‘I do not understand anymore.’

‘Do not try to understand. You must accept what happened and move on. Know that it is God’s Will. Have Faith in Him for through Him we are all saved.’ His eyes seemed humane and sincere. He seemed to understand what I felt but he knew as much as I did that it was impossible to give me the words I needed to hear.

The Earth was cold under my feet. I was naked and the sharp wind of this place whipped through me.

I had burnt my wings and left Heaven for good. None had stopped me and my brothers and sisters of the Virtues had begged me not to and so I had gone far from them and had made the fall.

It was night and very dark. I had expected to fall on a dead world but here I was in a living place. This world had not burned. A city of lights was in the distance. It made the horizon sky a deep orange hiding the few stars.

I made my blackened wings hide and I started to walk towards the city.

I was confused. The world was dead but here it was alive. Had I been given a second chance? Or had God sent me back so I may understand why He would let such a tragedy occur? Or perhaps this was my punishment to see the world burn again and know I could not stop it?

I did not know. It was cold and I needed clothes and shelter.

Drunken Angel

Mark Cunningham — Sat, 05 Apr 1997 08:42:22 +0000

A short about a man who has lost his way.

The smelly pimp had brought me to the room. The whole motel was his little grotto of illegal commercial sin.

Today I lost the last of my vestiges, I lost my pride, my guilt. I embrace what I am. The motel room was small, a double bed with a thin mattress, a lamp that came from the worst taste of the 60s. The pimp had said Wait here, she be here soon. He smiled.

I sat down on the bed with the pimp watching me, picked up the magazine that lay there on the thin blankets of the cheap bed. Three month old mag of vanity fair. The women on the front were dress in long silky evening gowns, and the inside was just as empty. The pimp looked cheesy there at the door, like a second car sales man, but something made me feel that he was more then his pretence, his face was sinister and long, skin pulled tight over his bonny, skull.

“Ah here’s my Queen. You’ll like her, she be worth what you paid me, and mister, ever feel in the mood again-” he paused, as if for dramatic effect that really did fall short of any impact ” well you know where to find me.”

I didn’t look up as she entered, but I heard the nearly inaudible sound of pvc creaking. I just looked forward. She didn’t speak- The pimp had said “she’ll know what to do, wont have to worry about anything” as if that was a desired quality of used car that he was selling. “So, what do we do?” I asked. I heard her moving again, and she moved to the front of the bed, with her back facing me. I looked up, and I watched as she undressed in front of me, without her saying anything. Her skin was supple, soft looking. But too ugly scars ran along side her shoulder blades, like horrible blemishes, but they didn’t detracted from her beauty. “Your name is Michael isn’t it?” She asked, her voice was gentle nearly singing in it’s timbre. “Yes, the pimp told you.”

She had black hair that looked like a wig, running down her naked back. She sat in front of me wearing only those gloves that reached up to the elbow. “Your in a lot of pain,” she said. I was suddenly perplexed. Pain? “Emm, I’m not into anything kinky or something like that…” She turned her face to me smiling, and her face was gentle soft beautiful, the thick layer of makeup only seem to heighten this beauty. But then the smile turned to a frown and she stood and turned completely to me. I was excited- A brief thought that decency had finally left me- then I willed myself over to the thoughts of her perfect flesh.

“This is not you Michael”, she said as she walked towards the edge of the bed. “What is?” I asked but it was only to humour her. “You wish to die.” I felt puzzled again, the excitement slightly dissipated- “whatever… ” I answered.

“Close your eyes…”. I did as she told me. I heard her get close to me, her fingers touching my face-Then … I saw… fire, great billowing flames consuming everything, thousands apon thousands of people burning and screaming- and theses people all had wings, long glorious white feathered things, some of them that climbed out of the flames onto islands of lava, were black and scorned but there wings had to turned to black leather bat wings- all this in a second and I open my eyes- and her face was right in front of mine, her fingers gently cascading down my face… “Shss Michael- close your eyes..”

“I saw…”

“Shss Michael.” I closed them again. And I felt her fingers touching my mouth and then I saw… A gravestone, cold and stone, I could make out the engraving- “Michael.. ” I heard her say, “Michael?” and I released that what it said, Michael, Dead and no-one cares.

I opened my eyes and she wasn’t there, gone. Her clothes; her trace of perfume all gone. I ran out of the room looking around, looking for the pimp, but I couldn’t find him either- and the owners never heard of the guy. All gone, disappeared, disappeared, all gone.

That night I went home, and I cried under my bed sheets, fire burning a cold grave… scars on her back, like her wings had been ripped off her body…

untitled

Mark Cunningham — Wed, 26 Jun 1996 09:30:36 +0000

From 1996, I wrote this scene while in first year in University. For some unknowable angst-ridden-still-acting-like-a-teenager reason, I emailed this to a lot of people. I’ve preserved the original ASCII text format.


I dreamt- 

========================================================= 

'Madness is a perfectly normal, state of mind' the man
explained with his upper crust English. He sat down
and waved his white gloved hand in the air.
He had an aura, around him, of superiority. Somebody
answered him. 'Madness is a just reaction to the
subconscious thoughts about death....' this one who
spoke now was tall, black trench coat, leather
trousers, big boots. He refused to sit down but
stood in the dark shadows.
          'I beg to disagree, my friend. It's a
slight rendering of the metaphysical barrier of the
subconscious.....' the upper class English man said.
          There was three men and a young lady here,
including myself. I never entered into the debate but
listened.
          '.....when the conscious soul understands
the pure evil of itself,' the English man continued.
          'You think you understand madness and
evil?' the young lady bent close to him, she wore
what looked like an 18th Century costume, 'Have you
ever been submerged totally in your own mind,
illusions and protections ripped away? There is no
such thing as pure evil.'
         'Really Cammy,'
         'Evil exists only in it's own corrupted
forms.'
         'Every little bit counts you know.' He
sounded like he knew it all and it infuriated Cammy.
I could see her chest heave underneath what must be
a corset. The man in the trench coat lit a
cigarette and blew long streams into the air.
	The two other men looked normal in their
business like suits but they had their backs to me,
looking out the window into the City. Their business
style seemed to contrast with the dark English style
of furnishings. I kept wanting to see their faces,
not the backs or their neatly cut hair.
Cammy came over and ate down beside me, each movement
beautiful in it's grace and flow. She was nearer now
and I could see how pale her skin was, and how
beautiful her black rimmed eyes contrasted with it's
paleness. A piece of hair hung delicately over her
forehead.
	The door opened and a waiter came in pushing
a trolley of drinks. The young English man said 'Ah
service. Good show my man.' No one else moved, the man
in the trench coat took another long drag from his
cigarette, the two at the window seemed to listen to a
faraway train and Cammy was sorting out the ruffles in
her satin dress. The waiter came around to each, first
the English man, then Cammy, myself, and around to the
two at the window who waved him away with a slight
movement of the hand. He left then, leaving us in
silence.
	The English man was looking at me. I was
finding the silence uncomfortable, I knew he was going
to ask me something and then he did 'What do you think
is madness?' Everyone knew he meant me and I knew
everyone waited intently for an answer but they hid it
so well. It was time to impress, but should I think
that way? That is not me. 'Do you dream English man?'
I said.
	'English man? I like that title, I may use
that.'
	Cammy broke in again 'well do you dream
'English man' do you dream?'
	'Yes.'
	'What do you dream of?' I leaned forward and
placed my hands together in front of me.
	'This and that.'
	'Is there logic to it?'
	'No.' I knew he waited for my response but I
didn't need to answer, for the silence itself was the
answer. He looked expectantly at me, leaned forward, I
leaned back into my chair.
	'Yes?' he ventured.
	'You are wrong, your dreams do have logic. The
twisted fantastic logic of the dreamer's subconscious.
Madness is when their is no logic to it.' I had my point
and it sounded good. I looked at Cammy, her expression
had not changed.
	'That's a damn interesting way to look at it.' I
looked at the man in the trench coat but all he did was
take another drag of his cigarette.
	'But how does that sort of madness come about?'
	I looked at the men at the window, one of them
must have turned around because he just turned his
perfect head back to the window.
	The man in the trench coat threw his cigarette
onto the glass table in the center, 'When is Darius
intending to appear? Have things to do...'
	'Silence! He will come.' One of the men at the
window raised his hand to enforce his comment.
	The one called Cammy looked at me and said 'What
do you do?'
	'I mess with dreams.'
	It seemed so natural that she sat there in 18th
century period dress, it seemed like a dream.
	'You do. So this 'dream-madness' you describe,
what is it like' The English man sat forward intent on an
answer.
	'Can we talk about something else...?'
	'Well how do you do it then, I mean 'mess with
dreams'?'
	'You are persistent, English man...'
	'His name is Lucas.' Cammy's voice was perfect
in it's electrocution, it's sweetness and delicacy
raised my gloved hands and I proceed to remove the black
leather gloves from them. My hands were whiter then the
purest snow, they always are, the veins constantly
bulging. I slowly closed my hands, letting myself touch
Lucas' dreams, I felt something but I was forced out.
Lucas was sitting slightly more tense on his chair.
	'I understand now,' he nodded slowly. He nodded
slowly. He had a strong soul. Cammy reached out to touch
my hands, I let her soft skin touch my hands. She looked
from my hands to me, 'they are so soft!'
	'Tell me something, why are you dressed in
costume, em Cammy?' It was sort of blackmail but she
smiled, her full red lips so enticing, 'Old habit,
Mister...?' she was looking for my name.
	'My name, Cammy, is Matthew Hewlock.'
	'Well, Matthew, I hope we get on well together.'
She shook my pure white hands from the touch of my
dreaming hands, I was surprised she showed no shock from
the touch of my dreaming hands. I replaced the gloves on
them.
	'Well Mr. Hewlock, that was some blast, it was so
strange' the English man seemed to have recovered. His
gloved hands relaxed on the armchair.
	'Lucas, it was not a mental attack, something
totally different,' for the second time one of the men at
the windows spoke.
	The man in the shadows, in his black trench coat
stepped forward into the light of the lamp. His face was
so well defined, he wore a fashionable beard, and his red
hair stood directly up, like a long pillar. I stopped
myself from sniggering, but in a way it was not ugly. It
reminded me of those Japanese cartoons I have seen. He
was also extremely tall over 6ft not including his
fantastic hair. He moved towards the door, the same man,
that had spoken at the window, said 'don't move, please.
Darius will arrive soon. I am in contact with him now,'
turn around god damn you, 'he assures me it is very
important you stay.'
	'Why? I don't know who you are or your friend, I
don't know 'Mr. Dreamer' over there and 'English Man'
here, and I've only heard of Cammy in whispers. Why is it
important I remain here?'
	The English man stood up, 'look my friend, I
don't know this Darius, but I do know what is happening.
Please you can't go.'
	'What happened to your 'Madness' English man?'
	'Lucas, please, is my name.'
	'Why should I stay?'
	'Because a Demon has broken through the veil.' 

==========================================================

Seraph

Mark Cunningham — Tue, 25 Apr 1995 13:38:38 +0000

This is another very early piece I wrote (I’ve date-stamped it 12th April 1995!). My original summary of it describes it as “the madness of a dying Angel”.

Time passes slowly now. Everything seems to stop and start. Some people said once that nothing is truly smooth, they don’t understand how universally true that is. Nothing is perfect. From the exact moment of our creation we are already flawed, some more deeply then others. Time does not flow smoothly either. Clocks and watches have no sense or consciousness so they can see time from the outside and flow in the ebb of Time. I am blabbering. I have so much time to think now I just wish something would happen.

Outside my study window, the first signs of a storm are apparent. A strong gustily wind uproots and throws around a shrub like invisible men playing football. The sky is heavy and overcast, blacker then the darkness.

Inside my study I feel detached from nature. No wind blows my books, no clouds obscure the pale yellow light from the overhead electrical lamp.

I call to the spirits now, come to me, come in this storm. ‘Unsex me here and fill me from toe to top with direst cruelty’.

I hear the mad howling, of the wind through the chimney or through the empty corridors of my mansion. Will I always live?

There is a tingling sensation on my neck, the tiny white hairs start prickling. They are coming, the darkness is coming. I stand up and survey my study one more time. There on the wall is my sword; So long since I have grasped it’s steel hilt, so heavy. Now my beauty, we will die together.

The constant howling of the wind reminds me of the darkness screams which I vaguely heard in dreams. They taunt me, ask me things, tempt me and now they come.

I have left the study and I stand in the corridor. There is a sharp chill in the air and a draft. I guess a window is open somewhere. Perhaps the others will come when I die to try and save me.

The storm is growing in strength, maddening. Fluxes of some eerie tempest. Is this my flaw? The one given to me on my birth? Am I already part-taker of evil? A subconscious urge? I do not know. Perhaps. Perhaps.

Two thousands years of life, uncomprehendable to a Mortal, yet I have lived here, afraid to go on, afraid to join the others. Maybe this darkness has already destroyed them and ripped apart their sanctuary in hell.

What an obscure thought, perhaps the darkness is them and they call to me now to join them. How ironic it would seem that what can grant me release and transcendence I fear and loath?

That tingling sensation again, but the cold metal of my sword helps me fight the feeling. Is it wrong that I fear it? Yes! It is. I am not evil. I did not call you, go leave me and this place.

O! The window at my side has burst open and the rain splatters on my face, the whip of the wind hurts my face. There it is shut. My God that storm is strong. None human can reach me now and I cannot leave. I am alone as I always have been.

I slash with my sword experimentally in the air, one hundred years ago I think, was the last time I used it. Will the darkness kill me? I so long to know what is beyond the veil.

What is that I see? Just up there? No it must be a trick of light for now it is gone. Why do they taunt me? What have I done?

The illusion of flowing time is faded, the minutes become hours, each second amplified in the becoming night. They will wait until midnight, until the bell-tower rings, a bell-tower which hasn’t rung in fifty years.

I sit silently in the gloom, the electricity went out and hour ago or was it just a minute ago? I heard whispers in the gloom, I grip my sword my only anchor to reality.

I’m beginning to forget. I cannot remember my friends, how I came into possession of this house, all of it is fading but I do not forget the sword. What am I? Do I forget even that? They are coming it is not an illusion anymore. I know that now but I can’t remember anymore. Maybe I don’t care anymore, no I cant’, I must care.

It is the only thing I have left. Howl wind! HOWL WIND! I WILL NOT YEILD TO YOU!! Hear things that stop as soon as I hear them, I feel presences, like afterimages, like residues of spirits. I will not follow you, you will not take me back.

I hear a bell, oh God! Is it time already? A ripple of booming thunder? Now no light remains in my fortress, I am the Macbeth as he realises he has lost everything and is to fight a battle he will love. I will take as many as you as I can and drag you with me to what is beyond the Veil.

Oh God! Oh God.

A man stands in front of me, no illusion; he? he seems solid, real. He is tall, long black hair tied back, a stylish black trench coat and suit but his eyes are red, bright burning red.

‘Do you think, Daniel, Do you think it is over?’

I raise the heavy sword and charge towards the figure, I scram my battle rage but he stands totally calm and then? he? starts to laugh aloud.

‘Die Lucifer?’ I scream in this madness and his laugh gets more so lunatic.

‘No one calls me Lucifer, that is a mortal pet name.’ He smiles, his face contorting into some Maniac’s image and I can see his aura become fire, his eyes supernatural in their intensity and I realise my charge will never reach him, that I haven’t even left my chair!

I realise now the storm in no longer outside but around me, the darkness, an amalgamation of a million evil things gathers around me. The darkness has arrived; ‘I am tired, I am so tired and old.’

I have no space as it encircles and closes in on me, and over the sounds of the storm I can hear only the lunatics’ laughter. Oh God I pray to you?

I see an image as everything fades, the lunatic leers over me, ‘I am Magnus Lionheart now, Daniel,’ he smiles ‘Maybe we’ll meet again.’

THE END

thedeadone.net » angels

Crossposted: How nasty do you want your Demons?

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