It was not your fault but mine; colbean

[nazghul]

i could be your favorite monster.


A winding path of blight and rot carves its way through the forest. Walking this route from the river to the clearing he calls home each day has wrought misfortune to the trees and brush around him. As a child, he had been mindful of the places he walked, careful to spare even the small insects he came across. But with age came indifference. Time eroded that gentle empathy of adolescence and taught him to serve his own interests instead.

So now he walks the same old walk back from the river. A dried, withered twig snags on the ink black of his wings and snaps easily under his step. Years ago, that twig would have slipped right through his wing. He wonders when that changed but shrugs it off. Instead, his pitch dark eyes survey the white-yellow grasses before him. They look so pale against the fiery shades of red and orange that autumn has brought with it. They almost look like bone bleached in the sun.

What an odd thought. Morbidity rarely crept its way into his mind. Perhaps time had changed more than his wings and the timber of his voice.

Still, he presses onward, to his little corner of the forest. The quiet brings him peace. It used to be noisy with birds and various critters; but his presence and that cloud of misfortune drove them away eventually. It’s for the best. They’d likely be crushed by a tree or fall to their death if they lingered. This awful aura is precisely why he seeks out solitude. When left alone, he isn’t able to harm anyone. Freak accidents and grisly deaths only befall the ones he chooses, instead. Nazghul likes being in control this way.

NazghuL