In the relentless march of time—seconds cascading into minutes, minutes bleeding into hours, an endless torrent of days—my consciousness has carved notches into the walls of eternity. "How long?" The murmur falls from my lips, a sardonic soliloquy to the void that is my chamber—a realm within a realm, where the concept of escape is as laughable as the idea of life in the court of death. No apertures mar the onyx perfection of my confinement; no glimpse of the celestial dance between those aloof moons that I, Cedrix, basterd son of the God of Death, once reached out to in vain defiance. Five centuries, perhaps? Time's tendrils lose their grip on a mind such as mine, yet the visage of my beloved Darla haunts me still, her memory a specter draped in the cobwebs of time.
Ah, but the ambiance of my cage—how perfectly it mirrors the abyss of my own essence. The walls, a void's caress, not of the bleak palette of mortals but the profound black that devours light and hope alike. My father, in his grim wisdom, has tailored my prison to the tastes of his wayward spawn; how quaint. A corner boasts the barest necessities of existence—a toilet, a bathtub, stark and unadorned, mocking the basic needs they serve.
And there, in the embrace of shadow, lies my only consort: the guitar. Its body, gnarled by time, the black paint peeling like the skin of a forgotten god, reveals the pale skeleton of wood beneath. It is the echo of my soul—fractured, faded, yet undeniably potent. (Please excuse me, I must be going insane) Perched upon a bed that knows no slumber, my fingers caress the strings, conjuring melodies of ruin and melancholy that weave through the still air of my cell. Each note is a dirge for what was, a war cry for what is to be; they resonate, a symphony of death and despair, within the confines of my sanctum, a prelude to the cacophony of rebellion that yearns to burst forth.
You might wonder, as you stand at the precipice of my tale, how I came to be ensnared in this enduring nightmare, this boundless void that stretches out like an unending requiem. It's simple, really— with my hands wreathed in the fire of chaos, have torn asunder the fabric of worlds, sown discord across the cosmic tapestry with a devil's glee. I became an architect of anarchy, a sovereign of devastation. I spat in the faces of deities, sneered at the celestial order, and yes, I even dared to scorn my sire, Demetrys, the austere sovereign of the afterworld, the necessary shadow to all that gleams falsely with the light of 'good'.
Oh, he was a god conceived from the womb of turmoil, a necessary evil they claimed, a balancer of the grand scale. Curse him! Curse the existence he shackled me with! This life, this power—it wasn't a gift I ever beseeched, though, I confess, there was a time when its dark allure was the sweetest nectar to my lips.
There's an old adage whispered in the still of night, one that brings shivers to the spine of the living: "Should the mournful strums of a guitar's lament reach your ears under the cloak of darkness, flee, bolt your doors, for the harbinger of demise is nigh." Children, fools, hear me well—I was that fabled monster, the collector of breaths, the reaper's errand boy. But even a fiend of the night tires of the endless gloom, the relentless harvest of spirits. I yearned for respite, to bask in the fervor of liberty, to revel in the chaos of existence. And so, I threw off my chains, not knowing that in seeking my own twisted form of leisure, I would find myself in this cage, a prisoner of both my lineage and my rebellion.
In the interminable canvas of nights, I indulged in the pleasures of the flesh and mind, reveling within the multitude of cosmic bordellos that dotted the star-swept expanse. Narcotics, dredged from the darkest nether-regions of space, coursed through my veins, a symphony of forbidden rapture. My existence was a carnival of souls; women from across the cosmos succumbed to the inferno in my gaze—my snow-white mane and the mischievous azure of my eyes, no doubt a legacy from a mother shrouded in mystery.
What a grand farce it was! But ennui crept upon me like a shadow within the vainglorious expanse of my father's abode, aptly named "Death's Door"—a moniker that coaxed from me a derisive snort. I prowled its shifting labyrinth of halls, each turn a new enigma, until a spectral sibilance ensnared my attention. "Cedrix, come here," it hissed, a summons into the bowels of the ever-morphing sanctum I once deemed home.
There it stood—a door, an obsidian enigma etched with runes unknown, their arcane geometry a whisper from beyond. As if with a will of their own, the doors yawned wide, beckoning me into their stygian maw. A levitating path unfurled before me, a ribbon in the void, leading to the heart of this sanctified chamber. And there, ensconced in the gloom, was the scythe—a manifestation of dread so pure, its very presence rent the air with a palpable malice.
The scythe was a grotesque masterpiece, its blade an arc of nightmarish beauty, wrought from a darkness that drank light whole. The handle, a twisted column of bone and shadow, throbbed with the pulse of unseen hearts. I advanced, drawn by an inexorable pull, and as my hands clasped the sinister artifact, power—raw and unbridled—surged through me, a baptism of infernal might.
"Do you revel in this, Cedrix?" it whispered, a voice like the crack of doom, as shadows, thick as tar, seeped from its edge. The darkness embraced me, an unholy fusion that set my very essence ablaze with an eldritch ecstasy, a thrill beyond the mortal coil's most decadent vices. It was a rapture I would chase to the ends of existence, the pinnacle of my damnation and my glory.
The scythe before me pulsed with a dark vitality, its rhythm an unholy symphony that mirrored the beats of my own heart. To the uninitiated eye, it might have seemed a cumbersome relic, a burden too heavy for mortal hands. Yet, in my grasp, it was as ethereal as a wisp of smoke, a feather caught in the tempest of my destiny. With a flourish, I brandished the scythe, its arc cutting through the stagnant air of the chamber, a dance of power and grace that set my blood ablaze with exhilaration.
"What are you?" The question escaped my lips, a whisper into the void. The scythe's response was a caress of sound, a voice as alluring as it was ancient, tinged with the essence of seduction and the weight of aeons. "I am whatever you need me to be," it murmured, a promise wrapped in enigma.
"Do you bear a name?" I queried, my gaze locked with the formidable blade, its surface a tapestry of darkness adorned with a pulsating crimson light, like the heart of a star about to collapse.
The scythe's reply was a resonant thrum in the air, "You may christen me as you wish."
A name surged forth from the depths of my being, a name that haunted the corridors of my soul—Darla. "You shall be my Darla," I declared, imbuing the weapon with an identity that resonated with my deepest yearnings and memories.
"Then Darla, I shall be," the scythe acquiesced, its voice a symphony of shadows that sent rivulets of exhilarating shivers coursing through my veins. In that moment, with the whisper of that name, I felt an unbreakable bond forge between us, a union of spirit and steel that promised a future rife with conquest and rebellion. Darla, my weapon, my companion, my echo in the void—a herald of the chaos I was destined to unleash.
As I beheld Darla, the scythe not merely a weapon but an embodiment of ethereal energy, it beckoned me with a pulsating allure, a siren call to the depths of my being. Its question sliced through the air, sharp and incisive. "Are you not weary of this existence of yours?" The words lingered like a mist, compelling me to introspection. My life—a relentless cycle of hunting souls, both corrupted and undeserving, a symphony of death punctuated by hedonistic escapades designed to drown out the cacophony of guilt and remorse. What, indeed, was the essence of my existence?
"What do you propose?" I countered, the weight of my life's choices anchoring me to a moment of profound uncertainty.
The scythe, Darla, vibrated with a promise as tangible as the darkness that enveloped us. "Together, you and I can rupture the chains of this realm. Imagine the cosmos as our playground, where chaos is our creed, and disorder our dynasty. Is this not the craving of your heart?"
The suggestion, selfish as it seemed, resonated within me like a struck chord. An epiphany, fierce and unyielding, blazed through my thoughts. To hell with this purgatorial existence, this monotonous role as a mere harvester of souls. I hungered for more—a celestial rebellion, to scorch my name across the heavens, to outshine the stars and then, in a final act of magnificent defiance, to implode into a black star—a maelstrom of destruction, a void devouring all in its path.
This vision, wild and unbridled, surged within me like a tempest. "That sounds like the symphony of my soul," I mused aloud, my voice a mix of wonder and resolve. In that moment, with Darla in my grasp, I felt the birth of a new destiny—one where I would ascend not as a mere harbinger of demise, but as an architect of anarchy, a creator of cosmic upheaval. The path before me was clear, lit by the infernal glow of rebellion and the promise of an existence unshackled from the mundane.
With the weight of existence bearing down upon my soul, all I craved was an escape from the monotonous dirge of duty, from the specter of my relentless father. The scythe, Darla, now felt like an extension of my being, its dark energy a familiar tide that ebbed and flowed within my veins. The sensation was intoxicating, a searing dance of power that could unhinge the mind of a lesser being. But to me, it was as natural as breathing the void's cold breath. "We are akin, you and I," I murmured to Darla, feeling its amusement resonate in a spectral chuckle, an acknowledgment of our shared essence.
Retreating to my chamber, I adorned myself with my black leather jacket, its surface a tapestry of rebellion adorned with patches of my era's most infernal music group, THRONEOFDARK. Their melodies were a macabre ode to the very concepts they knew nothing about—death and devilry. "Naïve mortals," I scoffed internally, their ignorance amusing yet somehow endearing. After all, in the eyes of many, I was the devil incarnate, the final sight for those unfortunate enough to cross my path.
With Darla secured upon my back, I strode from the sprawling confines of my father's dominion, stepping through the colossal gates that marked the threshold between the realm of death and the greater cosmos. There awaited my other accomplice in rebellion, my mechanical steed of doom—the Deathsteed.
Ah, the Deathsteed—a masterpiece of infernal engineering. Its frame was a fusion of eldritch metal and bone, adorned with the ancient skulls of warriors who had fallen in battles long forgotten, their empty sockets forever screaming silent war cries. The bike growled in anticipation as I approached, a beast awaiting its master's touch. My hand glided over its chassis, feeling the thrum of dark energy coursing through it. The headlights blazed a sinister red, piercing the gloom, while thick, black smoke billowed from its exhaust, a dragon's breath heralding our impending departure.
Straddling the Deathsteed, I revved its engine, which roared like a chorus of the damned, a symphony of power and fury. The ground beneath trembled at its might. This was no mere vehicle; it was a harbinger of my wrath, a partner in my quest for chaos. Together, we were a tempest of defiance, ready to tear through the fabric of the cosmos, a duo of destruction and freedom, unbound by any law but our own. But of course there was Darla now, my mistress under the pale red moon, the angel that drowns me in my sleep.