A short piece that I wrote in a couple of minutes when needing to vent some anger.
I hope you enjoy! Comments and criticism are welcome.
Kill is such a friendly word. Not harsh like eviscerate, or cold like annihilate. It is familiar; it is always there for you.
Why, then, do you take to the skies? Why do you depart from your life or relative safety to swoop high above us? Is it to savour our screams from afar, is it so that you can snatch at my limbs with your talons?
Scourge, how I detest you!
You were young once. You lived down here amongst the sane carrying out the monotony of your futile life, yet you did not enjoy it. You hoarded your money like the feral avian you are and purchased wings. If you had only divulged into the realm of intoxicants and street warfare you would have been pleased, but no.
You handed yourself over to them. Those who wish to revel from you paying them to cause you pain. The sick and the twisted artists of the spires.
Do not stare at me from behind your tarnished mask; I care not for your questions.
I see you flock with your brethren, hunting others who wish to share the domain that you have claimed as your own, and I think to myself ‘which of us is truly free?’ I am down here, on firm land where my gang slays and my loot awaits, you are in the sky, watching all alone, with only your own misery and those who share in it for company. Is your life truly worth it?
Have you found that what you have longed for was never your grandiose feelings of superiority but a release from your physical existence? A release from your life?
I loathe you, Scourge. I would see your wings plucked and your beak cracked. Your eyries burnt and your ashes scattered. Do not look upon me, foul creature, for you are Ynneas Eldarith no more! Do not sully the glory of my heritage!
This, I tell you, for a vow has been made. As I stand here and weep while everything I have forced into my possession has been killed, their throats cut and their blood frozen solid, I vow to see you slain. You are a harpy, a parasite within the Dark City, and with my claws I shall have your eyes; and with my blades I shall have your skin. You have taken my children from me; you have taken my gems and material wealth. You have razed my home and slaughtered my gang. This, Scourge, is why I am stalking high above the usual ground dwellers.
From flagpole to balcony I leap, feet betraying me with every step. The ever shifting architecture of Commorragh seeking to see my life flames extinguished. I curse thee, Commorragh, for while a single breath still sits upon my lips you shall not be done with me.
My fingers are numb and my lungs are freezing this high up in the oubliettes of the Kabalite Nobles. My scarf hardly protects my face from bladed winds that stab at me, willing me to fall. But I don’t. I remain perched precariously upon my ledge, gazing out towards where you hide, where you cackle.
Even as the days pass I can still feel this hatred, this fuel within. It is what makes me ignore the pain of climbing all this way. It is what has made me hide when the Kabalite’s find a mutilated guard, for my life, even though it has nothing to live for, has recently been given a new purpose.
I will end you, winged beast of majesty and hypocrisy; that I vow.
Here I am where you reside. You have not found my scent, amazingly, and you have not seen me creep up behind you. Over the bodies of my children I step, their eyes gouged out and their bones snapped for the contents, eager to remain silent yet eager to snatch your life away. I am here to give you the release from your life that you have longed for, yet it is odd that you know nothing of how long you have left to live.
A silhouette crouches along an elongated perch towards a feathered being, every step placed with precise calculation, a blade in his hand to satiate his malice aforethought. The Creature’s kin squawk and wail to wake him, but as he turns he finds that it is too late.
He is plummeting to the ground, a crazed assassin’s hand locked around his throat, desperately trying to take every droplet of life.
The blade thrust thrice into the Scourge’s thorax, arcs of claret and crimson filling the air like carnival ribbons. He cannot fight back; he is too shocked to move.
As his eyes view his attacker he realises that with his brother he will die from his point of origin: in the dust from whence he ascended.