The city has fallen.
Buildings have burned.
Innocents are brutalized.
And those who fought back…well…let's just say there are better fates.
Among the rubble of stores and homes dark figures can be seen shambling about. Sometimes there appear to be many, and other times it seems as if they coalesce together giving form to dreadful, horrifying creatures.
In the center of all this chaos lies one lone survivor, a middle-aged man, trapped under some fallen debris. The man in question possesses brown hair, paired with green eyes, along with a build belonging only to farmers, or some other laborious profession. Said man has been trying to free his trapped leg from the pile of debris without alerting any of the nearby abominations; however, as he continues his fruitless endeavor his hope begins to dwindle and his panic rises.
He has seen the horrors the formless beings can accomplish. He'd rather be eaten alive by a murder of crows than experience whatever terrors these creatures can enact.
Slow, methodical clapping partnered by a voice began to reverberate from all around the trapped man.
"I must say, I am thoroughly impressed! Not only have you managed to survive my creations, but doing so while only losing a single limb! Good show, good show!."
Their voice was low and deep, accompanied with a tone of sadistic glee.
Realizing the noise the mysterious voice was making, the man began to frantically look around, checking to see if any of the monsters were alerted. Strangely, though, none of them seemed to react…they merely kept wandering about.
As if they never even heard him.
Noticing the oddity of this the man began looking around for the origin of the voice. However, no matter where he looked he couldn't see anything but destruction and death.
"Looking for me?" a voice from behind him questioned.
The man flung his head around and laid his eyes on the origin of the odd voice. The origin was a tall and lanky man with grayish skin, black hair, and hauntingly golden eyes. While his appearance was odd, what truly drew the trapped man's attention were the odd man's scleras. They were black. No, no that's not right. There's no proper shade of black that can accurately describe the outer layers of the odd man's eyes.
A more apt describing word would be void.
Yes, void.
Empty.
Nothing.
The longer the middle-aged man stared, the more the odd man's grin seemed to widen, as if his near panicked confusion was the most amusing thing in the world.
Trying to ignore his rising fear the trapped man began to speak.
"W-who are you?" His voice quivering at the beginning, but gaining more firmness near the end.
The odd man chuckled. The trapped man couldn't explain why but that lone action in of itself was so… eerie, unsettling.
Ignoring the trapped man's shuddering, the odd man spoke.
"Hmm, my name is Pitch, Pitch Black," the odd man enunciated each syllable of his name while smiling, his white teeth contrasting his overall appearance.
"And you?" Pitch asked.
The injured man stared, confused.
"Come now, I've introduced myself, it's only polite that you do the same." Pitch grinned.
Reluctantly, the injured man answered.
"J-john. My name's John. John, Johnson."
Pitch seemed to suppress a chuckle at John's name. After composing himself Pitch spoke once more.
"Well, John Johnson, I hope you're a good storyteller."
"What do you mean?" John asked, hairs standing on end as he tensed.
Pitch chuckled then spread his arms wide, as if unveiling something of magnificence.
"Well I need someone to spread the news of my work and… well, you're the only one left."
John's eyes widened and his pupils dilated, his mouth hung open as it dried up.
"Sadly, the other residents of this town weren't as… resilient as you."
As realization finally began to settle in, John gasped.
"Y-you monster!" He raged, recalling the lifeless eyes of his sister as the formless beasts ate her corpse.
In response to John's rage, Pitch chuckled, as if the pitiful man beneath him was no different than an ant children would torment with glass.
Pitch reached down his hand, grabbed the rubble trapping John, then threw it into a nearby building, collapsing the wall.
Not once did he ever break eye contact.
Pitch's mouth was by John's ear
"Run."
Without warning, John's body was overcome with a slushie of fear and adrenaline, fight or flight had begun. Using what little strength he had left he got up and began to limp as fast as he could away from Pitch, away from his home. As John approached the borders of the town, he could hear Pitch, cackling maniacally. Once he made it outside the borders, the town became shrouded in shadow, horrified and pained screams emanating from the dark haze like the thumps of a beating heart.
And, as if Pitch were right next to him, he heard his voice loud and clear.
"I'd say sweet dreams, but… there aren't any left."