I'm just a poor boy. I need no sympathy.
( because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low )
Pangea had been gone for years, and he had been left to watch as everyone scrambled adjusting to their lives wihtout the carnivours oasis or blood soaked lands. He in turn had suffered, he ha dlost his tormenting cavern, a place once lined with thousands of carcasses that he had sacraficed to the oasis, all of whih had been declined by the carniverous waters. They were far too rotten by the time he could reach the oasis, maggots squirming about in the crevices, and most of all that was gone was his lineage. His son, Imperial, was pathetic perhaps the unfortunate and sad product of insest, while his two daughters were perfect beyond compare but both had dropped off the face of the world. Leaving only him alone, trapped in a constant pattern of blood lust.
It had been ages since he had killed, he spared many of Beqanna's inhabitants for years now. Blood hardly stained the surface of her lands, as less and less blood was spilled. His lack of fulfillment has drawn him to mere insanity, voices echoed within his mind "Kill-Kill-Kill" They repeat wickedly over and over again, and the only way that seemed to make them stop was the spilling of blood.
So the wretched ghost travels to the den, where he could quench his bloodlust and those pesky voices that hailed throughout his poisoned mind. He knew the forgotten, and lost were here. Meaningless creatures filled with pity and sorrow, they didn't deserve any of it, and now they were all his for the taking.
He strolls through the quaint area, a repulsive grin plastered on his face, that would surely make any passerby grimace. But thankfully, he chose the best time to visit the little brats of the den during the witching hour. He could hardly make out anything in front of him, every darkness except for the mere glow of his crimson eyes that seemed to light his path, as he paraded through every so silently, not to wake any of the fairies little monsters.
That is until he comes upon a purple pile of limbs, this will be his first victim in ages.
His smile widens, as his head bows craning over the poor child. As her jaw unclasped, left agape, a wicked laugh being released from the depths of his throat, as he snaps at her, sweet precious little Lullaby. Gripping her by her withers, the cruel man snatches her up. Her voice shrill, crying out for help, as her muzzle began to grow thick with blood. As he shakes her bout, something similar to how a feral dog would tear apart flesh. And she screams out in horrid pain, the poor child he thinks, a devilish smile cracked his lips as he tosses her to the ground like a piece of trash. And he watches curiously as she scrambles to her spindle like legs, tears staining her cheeks as blood ran down her spine.
He inspects her, as she scrambles away, him charging after her in tow. She can't away, shes too weak, and too slow, but what he doesnt manage to see is the small minute balls of light that watch the wretched creature tormtn their sweet, and adorable Lullaby.
And so in complete and utter pursuit, cornering the girl between a boulder, and a tree trunk, her rump pressing against the stone, her eyes closes, as she emitted heavy exasperated breathes, as if she knew her end was now. And so the mighty ghost rears, up placing all of his weight upon his hind in order to achieve a mighty amount of force to inflict upon the pale purple girl, and just as he slams down, a horn is bestowed upon the girl, razor sharp like a blade. And it pierces through his chest knocking the wretched red-eyed beast to the ground, slain by the littlest and most innocent of heart.
Here Lies the ghost, Waylan, in an unmarked and forgotten grove of the den.
Never remembered, and Never forgotten. Simply a blank space in Beqanna's History.
any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me