Bloody Rain: Prologue

          It’s raining in Seorus … or what used to be Seorus. Great torrents of storm fall unendingly from the strange swirl of color that is the heavens. A single horse with its panic-stricken passengers pounds heavily through the woodlands, but are they really surrounded by trees? It’s impossible to say; an insurmountable murkiness distorts their vision, yet this is undeniably an entirely different world.
          The garishly yellow sky swarms with black and crimson clouds that gyrate feverishly, and the rain is blood that burns when it touches skin. Moaning peals of thunder drone and clash above them, reverberating painfully in their skulls as the black lightning cracks the sky like a great stained glass window. The bleeding sky drenches the broken land, the air reeks of inescapable death, rancid blood, and smoke from the burning foliage. The gore trickling from the dense canopy does little to quench the fires.
          Oblivious, the horse maneuvers through the thickening forest, undaunted, almost enthusiastic. Each crashing step splatters vivid red muck onto itself and its riders. The younger man clings to the first, who in turn desperately clutches the saddle. Both struggle with a nightmarish inability to speak, dependent on the animal's instinctive, mechanical wandering to bring them through their unreal situation.
          The horse suddenly veers sharply to the left and onto a trail previously hidden by decaying leafage. It follows the sporadic course as if it knows the way, ignoring the ground that crumbles and buckles beneath its hooves. The earth begins to quake and it gradually opens its maw. The riders fully expect to plummet through the scarlet-tinted mire, but the horse easily vaults the expanding fissure.
          There’s no wind now, no movement—apart from the raging colors in the sky—but the moment the horse’s hooves thunder to the ground again, the stillness is shattered by an abrupt cacophony of eerie moans and loud lingering creaks from supposedly empty overhead boughs. Frantically, the riders whirl around in the saddle, seeking the source of the baleful noise. They feel the tree line slowly closing in on them, trapping them in between whatever waits eagerly in the darkness on either side. They cannot see them, but they know—as if they were in a dream—that the silent wraithlike figures, the things with no eyes, stalk closely behind … skeletal hands reach forth from the dark recesses of their all-encompassing cloaks to skim across the back of the rear rider’s neck.
          Does not want—here … anyone—here….
          The thin penetrating whispers grow in intensity, but remain partially unintelligible, and dance around the pair in a nauseating circle even as they ride at full gallop. The disquieting, roiling sky acquires stars that glare down on them attentively, arrogantly, to act as the eyes of the wraiths.
          Why—sent here … why—here … away!
          As if on that cue, the trail withers out. abandoning the riders in the center of a clearing. And this time, perhaps with the help of the eyes in the sky, the thing behind them doesn’t miss its mark. Bony fingers connect with skin and puncture it. Fingers enter flesh to crush bone and windpipe. Screams escape as gargling rasps of anguish. Death by unusual strangulation isn’t enough, however, and the unseen hands extract the rider from the saddle and he disappears.
          The other rider attempts a leap from his mount, but something strong holds him in the saddle. He can only turn and watch in horror as indistinct, mutated silhouettes creep out from the underbrush and maul his gasping companion. An equine grunt draws him from the sickening display and he turns back to the horse.
          His breath catches as he looks into the face of the animal. Its head begins to rotate slowly … and continues to strain further than should be possible. The bones snap to compensate for the unnatural movement and their splinters lance through the flesh of its neck.
          Dismayed, the rider stares into the empty, bleeding cavities of the horse’s eyes. Numbness seizes his being as a final strangled plea sounds from behind him. Then the horse—the thing—throws him from the saddle.
          The trees draw in their limbs and lift them toward the sky like priests hailing the heavens, exposing the man to a fresh gout of raining blood. The red torrent pelts him with its damp, scorching heat. It fills his eyes and his lungs as scalding water.
          He stops breathing.
          Everything blanks.
          He wakes to find himself in the corridors of the palace again. The horrifying images forcing themselves upon him are gone. He exhales in relief and searches for his companion … whom he spies sprawled across the floor beside him, blood spilling freely from his eyes and from the corners of his mouth, neck twisted grotesquely. Suddenly, reality doesn’t seem any more preferable.
          The prince towers above them, withholding a spiteful grin, though his eyes betray his endless enjoyment over their suffering. They had defied him: they had said no. They should not have said no. He hadn’t meant for this exhibition to injure them. He meant only to threaten them, but also to give them another chance to see the superiority of his alignment. But he went too far: he had not intended one of the potentials to expire in such a manner without first hearing his response. But there was one who could still respond.
          “Do you now understand? Have you changed your mind?”
          The man on the floor swears angrily at him, something about murdering his brother, and the prince growls. Was he not being generous? Why are people so selfish and closed-minded? After all, it’d be for their good in the end … and two chances are two too many, really. His masters will surely punish him for this, especially since he’s been having difficulties recruiting followers of late. Or maybe it’s just a sign that they should move on? Perhaps there is none left to recruit here?
          The prince coldly regards the still living man, his mind elsewhere, and even as the man continues his list of curses, the prince draws an icy dagger.

          How does it fare?
          "It fares well. I’ve gathered more than fifty to assist us.”
          Is their power adequate? Are they well trained?
          “Most of them have had some education, yes, but they could use further instruct—“
          No, they must be ready immediately. How many are there that are already experienced?
          “Perhaps half of the number.”
          You are becoming too accepting of the unworthy.
          “Can they not be of assistance in another way?”
          They are nuisances … meaningless. Add them to the sacrifices and erase them. Now, our numbers are still inadequate. You will triple them in no less than a fortnight. We see you have failed  with another two. Do not do anything so extravagant in the future. We may be noticed before we wish it. You will act only as we direct you.
          “I apologize.”
          Have you anyone else in mind? Or shall we move south?
          “I do have others in mind … two others who’ve had no instruction. But wait—they have such potential! If I can snare them, they’ll be more helpful than most of the educated. I swear it.”
          Then present it to them as well, but we will be the one to judge them in the end. And do it quickly: tonight, there will be a cleansing. Be prepared.
          “After midnight in the southern district?”
          Yes. You know what you are to do now.
          “Take my final rounds—of no extravagant measures—and erase the remaining population.”

          Song: Glass in the Trees by Dead Poetic
          Quote: "Do you think that if you stopped doing something that defined you as a person that, maybe, you would cease to be that person?" - Johnny the Homicidal Maniac