This isn't really a FAN Fiction. It's an Original Piece, created by je moi. Well, I sincerely hope you enjoy the Prologue...
Apocalypse
Prologue
1553, Heasaf
He stood motionless at the black gates. His untidy jet-black hair swirled wildly in the strong winds. His black cloak unfolded around his legs, and the blood-red sword he held aloft swayed in his hands slightly. His crimson eyes remained expressionless, the same could be said for his face, white as ash. He turned his pale face to the sky. The last fleeting rays of the sun were retreating behind dark clouds. Soon after, the rain came, pouring down like an avalanche. Thunder rolled through the hills and valleys surrounding him, great searing forks of lightning illuminated the blackened sky. Yet still he stood motionless at the black gates. Then, as a church bell signalled the stroke of midnight in a distant town, the gates opened as if pulled to by unseen hands. He strode forward in long strides, his boots pounding monotonously on the muddy grass. After a brief walk, he found himself staring up at a huge black castle, it's infinite towers and spires towering over him. It was all a very disturbing scene, the castle completeing the set, adding to it a new degree of sinistery. To any normal man, this would have been the final straw in a depressing scenario, and would have turned and ran back from whence he came. This man, however, was different. Different from all the rest. Different in too many ways to count. His eyes remained blank as he surveyed the structure, scrutinising every part of it, relishing that the end of his long journey was nearing. With a flicker of a snarling grin, he strode on. And he faced the moat. He held his sword firmly in his right hand, gripping it tightly. With his left hand, he made a sign on his chest. While doing this, he muttered words of an unknown language at high speed. A white symbol appeared on the raised drawbridge. The snarling grin returned to his face. As the symbol disappeared, the drawbridge was lowered.
He strode across without hesitation. He stepped into a large hall, two doors leading off to the left and right respectively, a glistening crystal chandelier perched precariously above his head, practically dangling from the ceiling. A table held a numerous amounts of lit candlesticks, giving out some much needed light in the dark hall. Marble sculptures littered the hallway, and as he scanned the room once more, a flight of steps materialized in front of him, leading upwards into blackness. His eyes retained their blankness. He sheathed his sword slowly, cautiously. As he did so, the drawbridge rose to it's original position. It clattered loudly, as if to say to the man that it was raised, and that he wasn't getting out in a long time. Undeterred, he snarled loudly to himself before striding up the stairs. Suddenly a loud wailing moan came from down below him. He bolted round, whipping out his sword, expecting the perpetrator to show themselves. Nothing. He cast his mind back to the stories his father had once told him about this place:
"On the utmost west side of the world, there is a castle, named Lucifier de la Mort, and supposedly, ghosts of long dead men and women, cursed to wander the castle forever, seeking redemption for the evils their master committed inside of it. The Lord of the Castle, oh, he was the causer of their suffering. He committed the greatest crime known to God and Man. He murdered his own people. Mass genocide. He destroyed his own country because they rebelled against his cruel, barbaric, tyrannic dictatorship. And as punishment for his sins, his livestock were all killed by a horrid disease, his family died by committing mass suicide, and he was driven insane by their deaths. And supposedly, if some fool enters the castle, seeking to free the Lord from his insanity, that fool will bring about the end of the world. So says a batty old Oracle anyway. But it's just a myth, son, nothing true, you should remember that, just a story. Nothing to be afraid of."
"That is what you said, Father."
He began to jog up the stairs. The wailing moans were growing louder, more painful, more despairing behind him. He started to sprint as the moans drew closer. The staircase seemed to spiral on endlessly into an abyss, but still he hurtled on. The moans were now turning into tormented screaming, and he could feel an icy wind rushing toward him. He tried to go faster, but his legs wouldn't allow him to. As the wind came right up to him, he thrust his sword backwards. The blade harmlessly went right through the being, only succeeding in making it more incensed. At last, he could see the stairway's end. As his pursuer was practically on top of him, he flung himself over the top of the stairs. The hunter vanished. He clutched his chest, panting heavily, his snarling grin fixated on his lips. He let himself keel over onto the dusty stone floor. He took out a grey waterskin, and took a deep gulp of cool fresh water. He tucked it back into his cloak, and straightened up, dusting himself down with his scarred hands. An ominous oak door was situated right in front of him. He rapped it with his knuckles three times. Upon hearing no answer, his drove the sword straight through it's base. Still no answer. Furious, he kicked down the door with his hobnailed boots. What he saw almost destroyed his resolve. The Lord of the Castle was seated in a seemingly uncomfortable wooden chair at the head of a long, elegant table. A host of paper-white people were seated around the table, all squirming horribly. All had a plate of rat droppings set before them.
"Would you like some sheep feathers, John? No? Oh well," the Lord asked, his eyes darting all over the room. The ghostly beings did not answer as the Lord pushed the plate of rat droppings into his mouth. "Chewy... you didn't cook them properly darling!" he shouted at the image of his wife, throwing his plate into the wall opposite, missing the visitor's head by inches.
"I've come to help you," he remarked, walking slowly toward the Lord.
"And you have helped me..." the Lord replied sinisterly, turning to look at his visitor, emerald flames burning in his eyes.
The room erupted into flames around the two men, surrounding them in two seconds. "This is the beginning of the end of the world, pathetic little human..." the Lord smirked in an unearthly voice, black feathery wings sprouting from his shoulders, his teeth turning into fangs, and his eyes transformed into slits. He roared as two more wings burst through each side of his waist. The visitor drew his sword once more, and prepared himself. The Lord continued his transformation as a strong tail pushed through his trousers. With another roar that shook the foundations of the earth, the metamorphosis was complete. As he surveyed the enigmatic visitor with his eyes, he began to laugh hysterically. The visitor simply stood there, still to shocked to do anything, simply staring in awe and fear.
"You think you can fight me and live then, do you, human?" the Lord sneered, still staring at his visitor, who had not reacted at all.
"I have a name, Dranoxac," the visitor remarked, lifting his sword so it was parallel with his nose. Dranoxac smirked.
"Then what, pray, is your name?" he inquired, licking his lips with a forked tongue.
"Jonal," the visitor responded, gripping his blade tighter.
"Well then, Jonal, you have the honour of being the first victim of Dranoxac!" Dranoxac cried, rushing toward Jonal in a flash. The human sidestepped to safety, and brought his sword slashing down onto the demon. The blade never connected. Dranoxac disappeared and rematerialized a few metres away, a flaming sword not set firmly in his fist. He charged forward again, screaming in some horrid language.
"Al naka, suminha, grersa!" the demon cried, thrusting his sword toward Jonal's chest. The human brought his own blade down on top of it. The swords crashed together. There was a white flash...
To Be Continued...
Well, hope you enjoyed. The Next Chapter might take a while, but I will put it up eventually. Until then... Later.
P.S: Please Read It. Thanks.
Apocalypse
Prologue
1553, Heasaf
He stood motionless at the black gates. His untidy jet-black hair swirled wildly in the strong winds. His black cloak unfolded around his legs, and the blood-red sword he held aloft swayed in his hands slightly. His crimson eyes remained expressionless, the same could be said for his face, white as ash. He turned his pale face to the sky. The last fleeting rays of the sun were retreating behind dark clouds. Soon after, the rain came, pouring down like an avalanche. Thunder rolled through the hills and valleys surrounding him, great searing forks of lightning illuminated the blackened sky. Yet still he stood motionless at the black gates. Then, as a church bell signalled the stroke of midnight in a distant town, the gates opened as if pulled to by unseen hands. He strode forward in long strides, his boots pounding monotonously on the muddy grass. After a brief walk, he found himself staring up at a huge black castle, it's infinite towers and spires towering over him. It was all a very disturbing scene, the castle completeing the set, adding to it a new degree of sinistery. To any normal man, this would have been the final straw in a depressing scenario, and would have turned and ran back from whence he came. This man, however, was different. Different from all the rest. Different in too many ways to count. His eyes remained blank as he surveyed the structure, scrutinising every part of it, relishing that the end of his long journey was nearing. With a flicker of a snarling grin, he strode on. And he faced the moat. He held his sword firmly in his right hand, gripping it tightly. With his left hand, he made a sign on his chest. While doing this, he muttered words of an unknown language at high speed. A white symbol appeared on the raised drawbridge. The snarling grin returned to his face. As the symbol disappeared, the drawbridge was lowered.
He strode across without hesitation. He stepped into a large hall, two doors leading off to the left and right respectively, a glistening crystal chandelier perched precariously above his head, practically dangling from the ceiling. A table held a numerous amounts of lit candlesticks, giving out some much needed light in the dark hall. Marble sculptures littered the hallway, and as he scanned the room once more, a flight of steps materialized in front of him, leading upwards into blackness. His eyes retained their blankness. He sheathed his sword slowly, cautiously. As he did so, the drawbridge rose to it's original position. It clattered loudly, as if to say to the man that it was raised, and that he wasn't getting out in a long time. Undeterred, he snarled loudly to himself before striding up the stairs. Suddenly a loud wailing moan came from down below him. He bolted round, whipping out his sword, expecting the perpetrator to show themselves. Nothing. He cast his mind back to the stories his father had once told him about this place:
"On the utmost west side of the world, there is a castle, named Lucifier de la Mort, and supposedly, ghosts of long dead men and women, cursed to wander the castle forever, seeking redemption for the evils their master committed inside of it. The Lord of the Castle, oh, he was the causer of their suffering. He committed the greatest crime known to God and Man. He murdered his own people. Mass genocide. He destroyed his own country because they rebelled against his cruel, barbaric, tyrannic dictatorship. And as punishment for his sins, his livestock were all killed by a horrid disease, his family died by committing mass suicide, and he was driven insane by their deaths. And supposedly, if some fool enters the castle, seeking to free the Lord from his insanity, that fool will bring about the end of the world. So says a batty old Oracle anyway. But it's just a myth, son, nothing true, you should remember that, just a story. Nothing to be afraid of."
"That is what you said, Father."
He began to jog up the stairs. The wailing moans were growing louder, more painful, more despairing behind him. He started to sprint as the moans drew closer. The staircase seemed to spiral on endlessly into an abyss, but still he hurtled on. The moans were now turning into tormented screaming, and he could feel an icy wind rushing toward him. He tried to go faster, but his legs wouldn't allow him to. As the wind came right up to him, he thrust his sword backwards. The blade harmlessly went right through the being, only succeeding in making it more incensed. At last, he could see the stairway's end. As his pursuer was practically on top of him, he flung himself over the top of the stairs. The hunter vanished. He clutched his chest, panting heavily, his snarling grin fixated on his lips. He let himself keel over onto the dusty stone floor. He took out a grey waterskin, and took a deep gulp of cool fresh water. He tucked it back into his cloak, and straightened up, dusting himself down with his scarred hands. An ominous oak door was situated right in front of him. He rapped it with his knuckles three times. Upon hearing no answer, his drove the sword straight through it's base. Still no answer. Furious, he kicked down the door with his hobnailed boots. What he saw almost destroyed his resolve. The Lord of the Castle was seated in a seemingly uncomfortable wooden chair at the head of a long, elegant table. A host of paper-white people were seated around the table, all squirming horribly. All had a plate of rat droppings set before them.
"Would you like some sheep feathers, John? No? Oh well," the Lord asked, his eyes darting all over the room. The ghostly beings did not answer as the Lord pushed the plate of rat droppings into his mouth. "Chewy... you didn't cook them properly darling!" he shouted at the image of his wife, throwing his plate into the wall opposite, missing the visitor's head by inches.
"I've come to help you," he remarked, walking slowly toward the Lord.
"And you have helped me..." the Lord replied sinisterly, turning to look at his visitor, emerald flames burning in his eyes.
The room erupted into flames around the two men, surrounding them in two seconds. "This is the beginning of the end of the world, pathetic little human..." the Lord smirked in an unearthly voice, black feathery wings sprouting from his shoulders, his teeth turning into fangs, and his eyes transformed into slits. He roared as two more wings burst through each side of his waist. The visitor drew his sword once more, and prepared himself. The Lord continued his transformation as a strong tail pushed through his trousers. With another roar that shook the foundations of the earth, the metamorphosis was complete. As he surveyed the enigmatic visitor with his eyes, he began to laugh hysterically. The visitor simply stood there, still to shocked to do anything, simply staring in awe and fear.
"You think you can fight me and live then, do you, human?" the Lord sneered, still staring at his visitor, who had not reacted at all.
"I have a name, Dranoxac," the visitor remarked, lifting his sword so it was parallel with his nose. Dranoxac smirked.
"Then what, pray, is your name?" he inquired, licking his lips with a forked tongue.
"Jonal," the visitor responded, gripping his blade tighter.
"Well then, Jonal, you have the honour of being the first victim of Dranoxac!" Dranoxac cried, rushing toward Jonal in a flash. The human sidestepped to safety, and brought his sword slashing down onto the demon. The blade never connected. Dranoxac disappeared and rematerialized a few metres away, a flaming sword not set firmly in his fist. He charged forward again, screaming in some horrid language.
"Al naka, suminha, grersa!" the demon cried, thrusting his sword toward Jonal's chest. The human brought his own blade down on top of it. The swords crashed together. There was a white flash...
To Be Continued...
Well, hope you enjoyed. The Next Chapter might take a while, but I will put it up eventually. Until then... Later.
P.S: Please Read It. Thanks.