The Beaten Noble...

Heavy and yet silent...

The rain fell relentlessly thick and black like ichor, bleeding into the world's darkness in cyclical madness. Each drop carried a silent unyielding sorrow, drowning the world and straining the cobblestones in gloom and subtle despair.

Hidden beneath it all yet was a shallow laughter, whether it was happiness or one born from extreme dispair, was a mystery. Many could not even begin to imagine that the rain carried this laugh.

And yet a quiet warmth ensued, flowing like a breeze between serene valleys... merely a fleeting afterthought of a mind consumed by pain. 

Ladden under this downpour was a silent figure leaning heavily against a cold, tattered wall shrouded by a subtle haze of a dark, flashing film.

The figure's chest rose and fell unevenly, laboured by an unseen weight.

His form trembled continuously and uncontrollably, wracked by a constant pain that permeated his forlorn form.

It was so intense that he barely won the battle, he waged against his instincts to scream.

He....would never allow himself such disgrace.

Only faint groans escaped his will. This was the best he could manage.

His struggle against his will painted a picture of extreme agony. He grit his teeth, forcing down the shame burning in his veins.

This humiliation - the weight of failure - was unbearable! And that feeling fed the madness he had never known existed.

Silent, like a predator, it stalked its time, waiting for the chance when helplessness would consume him whole.

 And in time he would know.....

And yet, greater still was his anger and indignation for feeling such shame.

"It should not be like this....."

"No...no..." the figure lamented silently.

"It should not be like this at all...." His voice carried a faint mockery of a sob.

"I was born for greatness...stars were supposed to bow before me, the heavens weeping in celebration of my glory, and yet here I stand."

"Defeated...."A hint of helplessness hid in the depths of his voice.

His voice was muted, like a whisper.

No one deserved to hear his voice, whether because he felt they were unworthy or because of the obvious shame he felt.

".... Defeated by some degenerate scum."

A slight crack could be heard in his whispering voice.

".... Scum of the darkness...." his tone took on an imperceptible edge.

Spine-chillingly subtle.... though he did not seem to notice the irregularity.

A hollow laugh escaped his tight lips as his body trembled from something other than pain.

And unlike what many would have thought, his body had no wounds...

 His skin was clear, unwounded and unblemished if not for the unrecognisable fluids that obscured its natural shade. Yet the agony he seemed to feel would leave one questioning.

His once ornate robes were torn in so many places that only a few pieces remained to keep his noble decency.

Yet no one could deny the masculine beauty of the body exposed to the sight of mortal eyes. His muscles were perfectly symmetrical in their structure, glorious, yet subtle in their dominance. Yet they too shivered, not from the bone-biting cold. But from the pain -amplified, raw, and unrelenting that consumed him

The original make, colour, and fabric of his robes were unrecognizable, drenched and disfigured by the relentless depressing rain.

Thick like Clayborn blood, yet silent and light in its descent, the cursed rain fell onto his form in a bid to drown him in the wrathful sorrow of the Lurker, plastering his crimson-ashy hair onto his forehead.

As the dark rain slid off his skin in rivulets, it mixed with the sweat of his torment, giving him a much-needed respite.

The air throughout Astrea was heavy and stale with the pungent scent of blood and flesh. Even the howling winds could not carry away the grim reality of the Surge. Hidden beneath it all lay the suffocating stench of rot -All the things he liked and more.....

---------

Yet somewhere within the cover of the Lurker, they waited, the snarls and growls of the unseen monstrosities echoed through the lonely streets of Maesta echoing his inner turmoil

At first, they were like whispering temptations-a single voice giving form to the dread of what hid within. But as the seconds ticked by, they surged to a full-blown chorus of predators out on a hunt.

And their prey.... was him.

His body stiffened, his trembling subsiding as the growls and snarls woke him up from his pathetic monologue. Something he had co.me to do quite often these years.

Shaken, yes, but not out of fear. That was an emotion he had long found he could not feel. Well, almost... for the things that gave him dread, were very specific. 

What plagued him now was the unsettling fact that his body was in a state of unconscious glee at the advent of these so-called monstrosities.

The people of Astrea had come to call them Children of the Lurker, The Chained Ones, among other names. Whether in awe, fear or even in mockery, was something he thought he understood, yet did not. 

The desire to carve every piece of bone and flesh from their hideous and unseen forms was like a drug, that obscured his mind from the simple cold truth; that he simply could not.

Before them, he was as powerless as a lamb.

He lacked the strength to put into action his unconscious desires. He could not even cut into their skin much lest draw out blood without sufficient effort on his part. Otherwise, he would never have been put into such a state by them.

His eyes remained shut, his face a show of undisguised and unseen pain. With time, his back straightened against the rough wall behind him. Pushing off it in a tentative thrust, he shakily took a frontal step as he struggled to adjust to the pain that had long fried his nerves only.

His hands tightened around the steel blades he held, their subdued gleam, shone like tarnished metal.

Opening his eyes gave way to enchanting orbs of pewter mixed and glazed with deep ethereal lavender and pale frosty blue. 

His eyes gave away nothing of his inner struggles and only those who were adept at micro-expressions could hope to catch the way his pupils black as the void trembled in eerie resonance to the trembling of his body.

And though this action of his seemed useless at best, in the kind of situation where sight was as useless as giving a lantern to one born blind. To him it offered some reprieve for it gave him the twisted advantage to see within the cover of darkness.

Where others needed light, he on the other hand had no such need.

The 'Lurker' had given him sight within her fold.' Her presence radiated from every drop of rain, every howl of grief, every breeze that brought the whispers of those dead and gone. She was there watching, watching as her children culled and were culled in return. A truly vicious cycle.

But he dared not use her gifts beyond necessity. For whoever was born with a brain would know not to accept gifts from entities far beyond them in scope and existence, much less those considered to be the source of all horrors.

So, other than to see his immediate surrounding radius of around 3 meters, he dared not see any further -not that he could.

She was not so generous in her gifts.

Even then he could feel them shift within the fold of darkness, the cover of their heritage, he did not need to see them, to know how they moved, it was second nature to him now.

Their forms were obscure and unrecognisable even with the ability to gaze at them.

Still, he could tell how they circled him like vultures.

And then, they attacked. From every direction, front, left, right and even the obscured skies above. The only solace he found came from the wall at his back and the earth beneath.

The cobbled stonework provided a warmth he thought he did not need.

The first creature lunged. Its unseen hideous form twisted midair through the relentless rain, 

Each drop. as heavy as a mourning heart, merged with its body in an infusion of strength, healing it against all weakness and any injuries it might have received. A silent cheer from the 'gracious' mother.

Its strength and ferocity heightened but so too did its despair.

CLANK! CLANK!

Chains rattled like a dirge as they accompanied their movements, how then did they move so agilely? When weighed down by the tons they carried. 

And so, the question remained.....

Between man and monster, who deserved pity of the gods above? Was man the only one who deserved pity for the despair caused onto them by the abominations born in darkness? Or were the abominations also deserving of this unseen mercy for following the rules rooted in their origin, fighting for a chance to evolve beyond her control?

Only difference between the two sides was the flesh they wore. For man could sometimes be far crueler than the monsters that roamed. Who was to say that the other was the monster?

Many would never question the instances, and neither did he. All he knew was that their breathing husks brought shame upon him, their endearing flesh reminding him, mocking him for his lack of any substantial strength. For that, they deserved his ire.

He never questioned why they attacked him as they did. Was it to satiate depravity laced in their souls at birth? Or was it a role forced upon them from conception?

Even if he had considered it, he would not have given two shits about it all.

Why should he care for the feelings or troubles of these degenerate scum? Life was already too hard for himself, there was no room to show compassion for others.

To him they were no different from prey -prey he had to hunt for honour and a twisted satisfaction he could not seem to feel.

But none of that mattered to him now. All he could see were the twisted rows of teeth, horrendously visible even in the strain of darkness, closing in through the muted rain at a speed his mind barely even registered.

He raised his blades, but it was too late.

The rows of teeth sunk into his flesh -his neck, chest and most of his lungs were caught in their cruel grip.

Yet there was no fear in his eyes-only a forced indifference and a trace of disdain.

Hidden from sight, however, was the trembling of his pupils, deep and unsteady, as the searing pain wracked his body, and reached an all-time new.

The beast that had seized its prey felt a thrill like no other. It had hunted and now its prey was within its grasp. Now it could face death satisfied, knowing that it had laid claim to one of them.

But things were nothing if never easy.

The beast faltered, confused by the absence of the warmth of Clayborn blood or the familiar taste of iron that had seeped so deep within the flesh of every Clayborn. All it felt was the ashy, lifeless taste of cold ashes.

What the beast failed to realise was that the moment it bit into his flesh, something strange happened.

No blood spilled. No flesh tore. Even as bones may have snapped due to the sudden force of its bite. 

Instead of gore, there were only ashes.

When the beast thought, it had ended the trembling figure's life, it had in fact, sealed its own doom.

.... its body inflated and bulged into unproportionate sizes, as its muscles and flesh strained against their limits. Bones cracked and fractured, unable to withstand the sudden, alien pressure surging through them. 

BOOM!

Amidst its agonized screams, the creature's form imploded. But what would have been the scattering of flesh, gore and fluids, was the crumbling of ashes. Once a creature hidden in darkness was now nothing but ashes.

 It had fallen as quickly as it had dared to sink its hideous jaws into the young man's flesh.

Wherever it was now, the creature would come to understand one truth:

There were things both alive and dead, never meant to be touch or sullied 

He... Krael Maesta -was one of those untouchable and inviolable.

Unseen by all, including Krael himself, a soft yet murky light dissolved into his skin, eliciting a dark pattern that faded as quickly as it appeared.