Death's Signet

by Aqaurius

This little prologue was the start of a story I had written way back when. I found it in a notebook in a long abandoned drawer, decided it sounded interesting and gave it a face lift. Don't worry, theres more to come!

A hooded figure stepped briskly through the yawning forest. The figure was stepping around a large rock when a rabbit bounced into his view. It peered up at him suspiciously out from under its long furry ears. With a few muttered words the rabbit turned to stone. The visible portion of his face contorted into a scowl.

Brushing past the now frozen rodent he gazed at an aging oak tree. With deep conviction he uttered some more unfathomable words causing a blazing white falcon incased in a deep iridescence to burst from the tip of the mace he was holding. After spinning around a couple of times it swiftly turned, veering to the right of the oak and sat, perched on a branch. After a few seconds it hopped off, flew upwards at an incredible speed and dived down, plummeting towards the oak. The falcon slammed into the tree and disappeared in a cloud of smoke and ash. The being's scowl deepened.

Suddenly the breeze stopped. Everything grew quiet. He took a step forward and froze. Whipping around, he narrowly dodged the oncoming blade of steel. With a sigh of frustration he crouched and swiveled towards his opponent. The aggressor seemed to be a middle-aged man with midnight-black hair and pale blue eyes. His blade arched at the sight of the cloaked being. He slammed the weapon forward and the figure dodged again. The speed of his dodge was enough to push his hood backwards.

The man looked at the beings forehead and blinked, astonished. Taking advantage of his momentary paralysis the figure swung his mace with deadly force. Breaking out of the trance, he hastily blocked the swiftly moving mace. The mace clashed with the blade, bringing the sound of metal-on metal. Grinding the mace downwards the man quickly leaped forward and cleanly sliced off its head. Now shriveling, the creature in the cloak fell backwards, landing with a resounding thump.

Walking away, the man sighed deeply. He glanced back at the head of the beast and shuddered. It was not the gruesome blood red eyes, seeping with fluid, nor was it the whitewashed face, paler than the moon, nor even the hundreds of razor sharp teeth that filled the beings mouth that frightened the man. It was the words on its head: Zaron Mavet. More commonly known as… Death's Hand.