10-3-15

Something unspeakable has begun to take me over. It weighs on my chest like a great burden and generates foreign impressions deep within my bones. I haven’t the slightest bit of genuine composition for such a manner, but the longer I remain in this form the more human I feel and vulnerable I become to developing a weakness.  Perhaps it wasn’t for me to judge these things. I am starting to believe nonsense like that is a myth spun by desperate fools eager for control and a perverse cause. Surely in time the truth will be revealed. For now it will remain a mystery, a folklore tale spun by bored housewives or drunken men in saloons.

 I perceive great failure. The smell of frustration hangs thick as a vision of Master emerges from a cloudy veil and with a taste of bitterness. He carried a severed head by its hair. Stringy layers of gore dangle from its neck. Embers burn deep in the hollow sockets of his eyes as he approaches a throne constructed of human remains. His is an expression stony and cold, his lips chalk white as they press firm together.

He is the first of many to refer to themselves as Masters of the Undead. His is known as Master but his true written name is Malificustric. In nature he, as with our whole nation, may exist in a physical form of his own selection. It happens he chooses a mortal male image to represent himself though for reason that eludes my senses.

He pauses before a stack of decaying bodies and tosses a shrewd glance over his shoulder. My connection is broken. My surroundings return to me with the knowledge he was aware of my presence.

Still there was something else in the air as I stared into his eyes. I believe it to be confusion and perhaps regret. On some level did he regret his actions and perhaps was he going to withdraw from the Masters circle? Something in the way he looked at me suggested truth to it even if his hatred for mortals still burnt hot.