Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin. And Princess Marianne ain't a real person.
180 A.D.
Roman Military Headquarters
"What did you say about my daughter!" Decius Auxientus demanded.
"I said she murdered several Legates!" Marcus Aurelius retorted.
"Lilith would never do such a thing!" Decius reeled back, his face contorting in rage.
"Four dead Legates say otherwise!"
"They're dead! They can't say anything; why don't we forget this?"
"N-" Aurelius started.
"Before you decline, just know I will curse you and the Roman Empire if you do."
"No!"
"Fine." Decius's lips formed a cruel smile.
/ / / / / / / /
993 A.D.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Salazar Slytherin burst into Baran Beaverpaw's newly constructed office; a scowl etched onto his face. "Get rid of them!" he demanded.
"Whatever do you mean?" Baran asked, a practiced look of confusion on his face. Baran was a tall blonde man with a blue swirl tattooed on his face and, like Godric, carried a sword known as Hope's End.
"Those loathly gargoyles!"
"You mean the ones that insult everyone?"
"Yes!"
"No."
"Excuse me?" Salazar sputtered.
"I won't get rid of them," Baran said, idly cleaning his fingernails.
"Why!" Salazar practically shouted.
"Because you made a secret chamber without telling me, your best friend," Baran smirked. The head of Slytherin house went pale, skin almost corpse-like
"H-how do you know about that?" The fourth founder whispered. Baran stood up and started circling him, a smirk tugging at the tall Celt's lips.
"I know many things, Salazar. I know that Helga has a crush on Godric, I know that the King of Burgundy will die soon, I know a solar storm is going to hit our planet in 994, and I know you are planning on leaving. The school." Baran stared, burning holes into Salazar's skull.
"H-how?"
"Irrelevant." Baran paused. "How do you feel about rats for your chamber Salazar?"
/ / / / / / / /
1499 A.D.
Thurgau, Switzerland
"Twelve!" Wernher Von Schauffhusen yelled as he pulled his sword from the corpse of a Swiss knight and swung it horizontally, scoring a deep slash in a pikeman's neck.
"Shite!" Götz Von Berlichingen yelled from somewhere on the chaotic battlefield, his voice faint.
"How many do you have?" Wernher shouted, kicking away a footman who'd come at him, mace raised.
"Ten! Wait, eleven!" The Imperial Knight answered with a chuckle.
Wernher laughed uproariously at his friend's reply, the sound echoing inside the sallet and bevor combination. He and Götz seemed to be the only knights in good spirits, seeing as the bulk of the Swabian army had fled sometime before, and the infantry of the Swiss Confederacy was advancing upon their now small force of six-hundred through a haze of smoke. Wernher clunked over to Götz; the man was fighting two Swiss foot soldiers at once, a pikeman whose nose was very noticeably broken, and a footman who bled heavily from a cut on his torso.
"Have at thee, knave!" Wernher yelled and kicked the footman in the groin before slicing his head off.
"You're sick, do you know that?" Götz looked disgusted.
"I know, and I'm proud of it," Wernher stated in a pompous tone as he stabbed a pikeman through the stomach.
/ / / / / / / /
1718 A.D.
Caribbean Sea
The ornate door belonging to the Captain's cabin slammed open. A tall, deathly pale, red-eyed, white-haired man attired in a black bifurcated tricorne hat, an unbuttoned black justacorps with silver embroidery and gray lace cuffs along with a plain gray shirt underneath, a long black cloak, long black breeches topped with a red sash, a bandolier with four pistols affixed to it, a cutlass engraved with the names 'Yhoundeh' and 'Lilith,' black cavalier boots, and a ring that depicted an upside-down ankh.
"Good morning Cap'n!" The one-eyed First Mate Edmund addressed genially; he too had white hair, deathly pale skin, and red eyes.
"Shut the hell up." Snarled Captain Hannibal; he was not a morning person. The pirate walked over to a cask and filled a tankard with a red gooey substance, which immediately disappeared down his throat.
"Any sign of that convoy?" Hannibal wiped his mouth.
"Aye Cap'n! They be near!" The man in the crow's nest bellowed.
"Set sail for 'em then!"
The Hangman's crisp black sails unfurled, and the ship lurched into action. Atop a flagpole that protruded from the stern flew a black flag with a white symbol of a vampiric skull between two bat-like wings in the center. The Hangman was a two-hundred-ten-foot-long one-hundred-eight-gun three-decker first-rate ship of the line painted a black color; its stern was lavishly decorated with elegant carvings inlaid with silver, a towering silver lodestar ablaze with a flickering orange radiance, and a copy of its figurehead a bipedal tentacled creature. The bow was tipped with a jagged metal ram, its sharp point cutting through the water like a knife; the ram was inlaid with designs of abominable eldritch creatures. The dread ship was always followed by a ghostly fog that glowed a deep red in certain spots; in the ghastly fog echoed the last screams of Hannibal's victims.
"Fire!" Hannibal shouted fifty cannons fired a barrage with a thunderous roar; the great volley splintered wood and killed sailors on a ship in the convoy. It looked like swiss cheese, and a mast was broken and lying half in the water; the Hangman sidled up to the wounded ship, crewmembers with milky eyes and decaying bodies flooded onto the deck of the other ship, the cacophony of swords meeting and the occasional body dropping covered the two ships like a cloud. Hannibal found himself surrounded by three living Spaniards and two dead ones; the Captain drew one of his pistols and shot one man in the chest as he stabbed another in the stomach, exposing the man's intestines when the sword left. The last pistol left Hannibal's bandolier, and the third man, who happened to be the ship's Captain, was shot in the leg, creating a wound which was then kicked by Hannibal, making the fallen man scream in agony.
"Will you yield?" Hannibal asked, holding his cutlass to the other Captain's neck.
"Yes! Yes! Yes." He whined.
*Seventeen Hours Later*
Hannibal sat on the Hangman's deck, whittling on a piece of wood. They were headed to Tortuga to spend some of the twenty-thousand doubloons plundered from the convoy; Hannibal discerned that they were near Margaret Cay.
"Ship sighted Cap'n!"
Hannibal looked up, "What nationality?"
"Spain! Looks like a merchant ship!"
"Set sail for that ship!" Hannibal set the piece of wood down on the chair he had been sitting on. The Hangman turned sharply, now heading straight for the merchant ship.
The Captain of said merchant ship, upon seeing the First-Rate ship of the line which, bristled with cannons, flew a black flag, and was heading for them, did what any sensible Captain would do and raised a white flag.
An hour later, the merchant ship's crew were lined up, one by one, their necks were slit, and they were hungover large casks. Once the blood had been drained out, the bodies were thrown overboard, and the casks were sealed and tapped.
*Two Hours Later*
"Land ho!"
"Why the fuck are you telling me!" Hannibal bellowed.
"There's a ship there, Cap'n!"
"What kind!"
"Brigantine! Probably a merchant ship!"
"Set sail for that ship!" Hannibal stood up, pointing imperiously.
"Do you have to say that?" Edmund asked.
"Yes."
/ / / / / / / /
1795 A.D.
Paris, France
"This will make a fine addition to my vault," Nyarlathotep said. He lifted the glass covering the Scepter of Dagobert and threw it away where it smashed in the next room. The Crawling Chaos, scepter in hand, faded from the museum, gone without a trace.
/ / / / / / / /
1815 A.D.
Waterloo, Belgium
"Just send in the cavalry, Wellington's retreating; they'll break him." Camille Barthet whispered into Marshal Ney's ear.
"I don't know about this," Ney said.
"There's an exodus in his center; it's preparation for a retreat. Imagine it 'Ney the Man Who Won Waterloo.' The cavalry will be enough." Camille whispered silkily.
As if a spell had been cast on the Marshal of the Empire, "Yes, yes, the cavalry will be enough."
/ / / / / / / /
1854 A.D.
Balaclava, Crimea
"Here, let me see that." Thomas Day snatched a piece of paper out of Louis Nolan's hands before kicking him in the rear end.
On the paper was a clear and concise message that even the most beef-witted person could understand. Thomas crumpled it up, took out a clean sheet of paper, and wrote a vague, unclear order upon it.
"Take this to Lord Lucan."
"B-but."
"Move it!" Thomas yelled.
/ / / / / / / /
1882 A.D.
Bodie, California
Snow caked the streets and houses of Bodie; the date was March sixth, 1882. A grizzled-looking man wearing a black bolero hat with a rattlesnake skin wrapped around the crown, brown pants, black riding boots with the pant legs tucked into them, and a brown ulster coat stood in the middle of the snowy street. Slowly he unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a red bib-front shirt, a tattered red sash, a black bandanna, and a gun belt with two holsters, each holding a Colt Walker revolver; across from him were two men both wearing US Marshal badges.
"Rattlesnake, I won't even ask you to surrender because we all know you ain't doin' that." The older of the two Marshals said.
"Well, come on then." Rattlesnake said with a cruel smirk.
The two Marshal's hands shot towards their guns; they didn't even get close. As in the space of one millisecond, Rattlesnake drew both his Colt Walkers and pulled their triggers. The two Marshals fell like a marionette with its strings cut, blood running freely from the holes in their heads.
*Four Days Later*
1882 A.D.
Pomona, California
Wanted!
Dead or Alive
'Rattlesnake'
Age, Unknown. Height, 6 foot 10 inches. Weight, 235 lbs. red hair, brown eyes, and five scars going vertically across both lips. Wanted for Murder and Bank Robbery in California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico.
Reward
$20,000
Rattlesnake tossed the crumpled-up wanted poster to the floor, the Sheriff he currently had one of his guns pointed at let out a small whimper.
"The keys." Rattlesnake said. The Sheriff shook his head, and Rattlesnake's pistol moved closer until it touched the skin between the Sheriff's eyes.
"The keys!"
Rattlesnake unlocked cell door after cell door; Murderers, Rustlers, Bank Robbers, and Horse Thieves were set free. At last, Rattlesnake returned to the Sheriff's office; he reloaded one of his pistols in an almost lazy fashion; without warning, Rattlesnake cocked the gun and fired, the Sheriff's head snapped back, gray matter and blood painting the wall behind him.
*One Day Later*
1882 A.D.
Crystal Cove, California
Rattlesnake kicked in the doors of Crystal Cove Savings & Loan, all occupants jumped as if the sound of his kick were an explosion. The outlaw strolled up to the teller and pointed one of his guns at him and the other at the doors, hammer cocked back.
"Two-hundred thousand dollars, or your life." The teller was either a coward or recognized him because the man gave Rattlesnake the cash immediately. He ran from the bank, a sack of money over his shoulder, Rattlesnake's horse Gypsy was in sight. A shot rang out, and a small plume of dust rose up in front of the outlaw, without thinking Rattlesnake drew one of his pistols and fired, the sound of a body dropping rang with a certain finality, his head turned, the ex-Sheriff lay in a growing pool of blood.
Two days later, Rattlesnake sat in his hideout, the Low Sanctum, puffing on a cigar and counting his ill-gotten money. The price on his head had been raised to four-hundred thousand dollars; it seems that town really loved the Sheriff he killed; every two-bit gunslinger would be coming from miles around for a chance at that money.
"I'll need more bullets." Rattlesnake chuckled.
/ / / / / / / /
1897 A.D.
Klagendorf, Kingdom of Swaustein
Queen Rosalinde von Hertzfeld sat on her throne in the ancient castle of Mödenhof, a dark medieval citadel encompassed by the capital city of Klagendorf in the Harz Mountains. She was a young woman of ethereal beauty who had white hair which was up in a short bejeweled pouffe, deathly pale skin, and red eyes; she was clad in a crimson low square-necked bodice of byzantine silk and decorated with silver embroidery, an opulent black lace-trimmed silk skirt which was split down the middle to reveal a highly decorated black shot silk taffeta kirtle, a colossal black open-front ruff, a long Fur-Pilch made from the hide of some terrible beast, and an elegant necklace made of silver with black onyx and a gigantic red diamond in the middle. Her claw-like nails were painted a sanguine color. Each had an equally jagged but unique ring around them, her lips were painted a blood-red color, ornate silver pendants decorated with red beryl hung from her earlobes, and upon her head sat a spiked crown made of silver; it was inlaid with red diamonds, black opals, pearls, and featured a carving of an upside-down ankh.
"Renfield!" She said in her Low German accent, instantaneously a stooped figure in a deep red hooded robe and an expressionless white mask appeared out of a nearby shadow.
"Yes, mistress," Renfield spoke in a dull tone.
"When will the Kaiser arrive?" She started fanning herself with a black lace fan that had materialized from nothing.
"Two hours, mistress." Renfield hesitated.
"You have a query, Renfield?"
"Yes, Mistress. Might I inquire as to why you perpetually comply with his desire to come here? All he does is propose betrothals between you and his son." Renfield's head tilted slightly
"The German Emperors and their continuing attempts to gain possession of Swaustein amuse me." She smiled, exposing her elongated fangs.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the chamber, a coat of arms hung above a large fireplace. The von Hertzfeld coat of arms consisted of a black background, a red cross, a gray frog-mouth style helm within the cross, a dark gray crown, and a gauntleted hand each above and below the helm, a rampant crimson wolf in the top left corner and a silver raven in the right. Along with that was a painting of King Gotthard von Hertzfeld, the first ruler of the Kingdom of Swaustein, and numerous swords hung on plaques each was the personal sword of the past Kings and Queens.
Meanwhile, on the German Royal Train…
Kaiser Wilhelm II paced; the sweat on his brow belied his nervousness; not even the constant pitter-patter of rain on the roof could soothe him.
"May I ask why you're trying to wear a hole in our carpet?" Kaiserin Augusta Victoria queried.
"The Queen is a very," The King of Prussia paused, "unnerving person, I had hoped that I would never have to be in her presence again. And that castle."
"What about the castle?"
"Mödenhof, is, well, it's haunted." Wilhelm II said.
The Kaiser saw her lips quirk, "Oh, you'll see, you'll see." He growled.
Later that Night…
Deep booms echoed from the hall, like some great drum being played by a giant; they moved up and down the hall, occasionally stopping outside their door.
"I told you." the Kaiser whispered. Ghoulish moans and muffled words started coming from an inhuman-looking tribal mask hanging on the wall, and the room just got colder and colder until the Kaiser and Kaiserin were shivering under four layers of blankets.
/ / / / / / / /
1899 A.D.
The Moon
Nyarlathotep rolled what looked like a gigantic naval contact mine up to the edge of a giant hole in the moon's surface. The Dark Pharaoh kicked the ball; it immediately began to tick ominously; another swift kick sent the ball over the edge, through a glass-like forcefield, and into the darkness.
"Take that selenites!"
Down in the caverns beneath the moon's surface, the ball began to emit Dhoxide Gas, which quickly spread through the cavern, killing all life within.
/ / / / / / / /
1916 A.D.
Thiepval, France
Corporal Gustav Eibenshütz sidestepped a Canadian soldier's bayonet slash; unsheathing his trench knife, the German soldier stabbed the Entente soldier in the side. Gustav grabbed the man's Lewis M1914 and took off running through the trench, rapid booms issued from the machine gun, many a Canadian soldier dropped dead, blood pooling beneath them. A final bang rang out as the Lewis gun ran out of ammunition, Gustav threw it to the side and ripped his feldspaten from his pack, an Entente soldier fell to the muddy ground after being hit with the spade, Gustav hit the enemy soldier again and again until the man's head was an unrecognizable mess of bloody wounds and his chest moved no more.
"Ernst!" Gustav yelled; his friend stood on the parapet shooting enemy soldiers.
"Where the fuck's your rifle, dummkopf?" Ernst shouted. He did a double-take at Gustav's appearance. "And what the fuck happened to you!"
"Lost it in the first enemy wave." Gustav wiped some blood from his face. "I've been roaming around looking for you, had to kill some people."
Gustav suddenly sprinted around one of the trench's many corners; a minute later, he came back dragging an enemy soldier in a headlock; a deafening crack sounded from their vicinity; Gustav had broken the Canadian soldier's neck.
"Where the hell did you learn to do that!" Ernst was slack-jawed.
"Places," Gustav answered simply. He walked over to nearby MG 08 and detached it from its mount; the German soldier cut a long piece of fabric from an enemy soldier's uniform and made a makeshift handle for the machine gun barrel.
"Come on, you fuckers!" Gustav hopped up on the parapet, firing wildly.
/ / / / / / / /
1919 A.D.
Château de Prangins, Switzerland
A shadow door materialized from nothing in the former Austro-Hungarian Emperor's chateau. Out of it strode Nyarlathotep, coming to a stop in front of a large safe; the Outer God casually grabbed the handles before ripping the door off in one fell swoop. Inside were the crown jewels of Austria-Hungary along with the Florentine diamond.
"Hello, my pretties." He said.
/ / / / / / / /
1943 A.D.
Royal Jade Hotel, Bracknell
Crown Prince Randolf von Hertzfeld and Crown Princess Marianne Windsor, eldest daughter of George VI, lay entwined in a spacious bed, their nude bodies covered in a sheen of post-coital sweat. Randolf pulled the sheet up over them; Marianne sighed in absolute bliss; she could feel his eyes upon her; he never seemed to sleep.
"Randolf?" Her eyes flickered up to his; she idly played with a strand of his long white hair.
"Yes, my Zhygrah?" He said, calling her poppy in what he said was a language called Azaekkesh.
"Will you marry me?" Marianne asked, biting her lip and looking down, afraid of what his answer would be.
"After my homeland is safe from the fascist menace, Zhygrah, I promise."
"You do?" She looked deeply into his red eyes. He nodded, pulling her frame closer, making goosebumps erupt across her skin. Marianne's heart fluttered as his lips met hers; the crown princess's fingers eventually found themselves tangled in his silky hair.
"But first, the Crown Prince must get the reigning monarch's blessing. My mother is not easy to please." Randolf added.
"We'll worry about that later." Marianne wrapped her legs around his waist; she let out a small squeak as Randolf's hand seized one of her breasts.
"You want more, my Zhygrah?" He said in between, planting kisses on her neck.
"Yes." Marianne panted; she felt him smirk against her skin.
*Two Years Later*
1945 A.D.
Mödenhof Chapel, Kingdom of Swaustein
The chapel in Mödenhof Castle was alive for the first time in many years. The gigantic chandelier was blazing with light, and in the many pews sat members, relatives, and family friends of both House Windsor and House von Hertzfeld. And the Zweihänder wielding knights of the Königlich Schildwachen dressed in their ceremonial steel plumed burgonets, billowing slashed doublets colored black and red, steel cuirasses, steel gauntlets, and vambraces, black and red paned breeches, pointed steel sabatons, and steel greaves.
Randolf and Marianne stood side by side, King George VI, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, and Queen Rosalinde stood behind them.
"Randolf Elric Volkmar Erwin von Hertzfeld, Marianne Elizabeth Anne Windsor, if it is your intention to share with each other your joys and sorrows and all that the years will bring, with your promises bind yourselves to each other as husband and wife." The minister said.
Randolf and Marianne turned to face each other, "I take you, Marianne Windsor, to be my wife from this day forward, to join with you and share all that is to come, and I promise to be faithful to you. Until death parts us." Randolf said.
"I take you, Randolf von Hertzfeld, to be my husband from this day forward, to join with you and share all that is to come, and I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us."
Randolf slid an opulent silver ring with a red diamond in it onto Marianne's finger. "I give you this ring as a sign of my love and faithfulness."
Marianne slid a plain silver band onto Randolf's finger. "I give you this ring as a sign of my love and faithfulness."
"Randolf and Marianne, by their promises before God and in the presence of this congregation, have bound themselves to one another as husband and wife." The minister announced.
Twenty minutes later, everyone sat at a long table in the Great Hall; Renfield played the organ up on a balcony overlooking the tremendous chamber. Servants rushed in bringing platters full of food of all kinds, spit roast pigs, roasted venison, baked rabbits, roast chickens, roast turkeys, roast geese, roast pheasants, roasted ducks, roast peacocks, dressed crab, roast lobsters, baked oysters, poached sturgeon, whole roast pike, whole roast salmon, seethed muscles, braised red cabbage, watercress salads, roasted potatoes, roast partridges, grilled mackerel, soused mackerel, confit of parsnips, and glazed turnips galore. The bride and groom drank a type of wine made from the Blood Plums, which grew around Mödenhof Castle, as was tradition.
/ / / / / / / /
1946 A.D.
Tokyo, Japan
Sgt. Coldy Bimore strolled up to the front desk in the Mejiro police station; the man there peered at him with suspicion.
"Sgt. Coldy Bimore from the Foreign Liquidations Commission here for the swords." The sergeant said.
"Yes, of course." The man sighed.
A group of officers came in from a side room carrying the fourteen swords.
"Good. Put them in the jeep, please."
/ / / / / / / /
1952 A.D.
Near Redding, California
Clinton Hood sat in his armchair by the fire. A vicious thunderstorm battered his little cabin up in the hills, lightning flashed, illuminating his decor, photos, wanted posters, and articles either of or about the legendary outlaw only known as Rattlesnake, one, in particular, stood out.
Rattlesnake is Alive! In Redding!
The press was coming the following day for an interview, in which Clinton Hood would be immortalized as Rattlesnake, the most infamous outlaw to ever exist.
A loud knock came at the door; Clinton stood up, walked over, and opened it. In the doorway stood a tall figure shrouded in darkness, just a silhouette in the faint moonlight.
"I hear talk of Rattlesnake livin' here." The man said.
"That's right," Clinton said, shifting uneasily.
"You don't look much 'im."
"How would you know?"
"I think I know what I look like." The man moved into the light; it was as if the man in one of the wanted posters escaped from the paper.
"R-rattlesnake," Clinton whispered.
"Boy, you've made me real mad. You don't even have my scars; you're nothing but a hack, a fraud."
"B-but-"
"No! There is no excuse for this!" Rattlesnake surged forward, grabbing Clinton by the collar and dragging him out into the pouring rain.
"W-what are you gonna do?" Clinton screamed.
"Why, I'm gonna hang your corpse from this big oak over here." Rattlesnake stated casually.
In a flash, one of Rattlesnake's colt walkers was in his hand, a bang, a puff of gunsmoke, and Clinton was dead.
/ / / / / / / /
1968 A.D.
Vietnam
Lance Corporal Tommy Mueller struggled to keep awake at his post; the jungle sounds and the river near their camp provided a tough challenge. Just as his eyes drifted shut and all thoughts of how he was most definitely going to get chewed out by Sergeant Doyle left his mind, a twig snapped.
At once, Tommy's eyes snapped open, and he automatically brought his M16 to bear, "Identify yourself!" He yelled, his heart thumping rather loudly in his chest. A gust of cold air passed through the clearing, making the Lance Corporal shiver, mostly from the cold, the sound of footsteps grew louder and louder, and the sound of wings beating filled his ears, before nothing, the incessant noises stopped. Tommy felt a hand, ice-cold, wrap around his neck when he was yanked up into the empyrean darkness, never to be seen again.
/ / / / / / / /
1981 A.D.
Godric's Hollow, England
Lord Voldemort blasted the door of Godric's Hollow in, expecting to meet any resistance. The Dark Lord stepped in the killing curse on his lips, but as the smoke cleared, the corpse of one James Potter became visible. A few diagnostic spells cast over the body revealed nothing, no injuries, very similar to a victim of the killing curse but at the same time, not.
Voldemort shrugged and made his way up the stairs and into the boy's room. Another dead body, Lily Potter, same as the other, no injuries, the brat let out a rather loud wail, Voldemort's red eyes flickered over to the crib.
"Hello, Tom Riddle." An unseen person said.
Voldemort whirled around and came face to face with a mummy, something straight out of those muggle movies they'd show at the orphanage from time to time.
"I've been watching you for quite a while, Tommy. You've managed to cause even more chaos than my little disciple Grindelwald ever could, and without my help to boot."
"Who are you." Voldemort hissed.
"I've gone by many names over the years, Decius, Baran, Wernher, Hannibal, Camille, Rattlesnake, Rosalinde, Gustav, Randolf, Coldy, all are Nyarlathotep, who is me."
Voldemort immediately recalled the name from an ancient tome he once had the pleasure of reading, Nyarlathotep, Father of the Darkest Magicks, Immortal Lord of the Dreamlands, He who shall one day destroy humanity and wipe the Earth clean of all life.
"I know of your lust for power, Tom, and your greatest fear." Five items emerged from the floor, a diary, a locket, a cup, a diadem, and a ring. "These crude vessels will not give you true immortality; not even a phylactery could."
"And what could give me true immortality?" Voldemort asked.
A gigantic black book materialized from a cloud of shadow in Nyarlathotep's hands, "Sign the book, and you shall live far past the date when the stars cool and the last black holes disappear into nothing."
Voldemort clearly saw what this was, a contract of servitude, "I will not be bound to your will!"
"Then die." A ball of flames that instantly made the room's temperature go up by twenty degrees appeared in his hand.
Voldemort immediately raised the most potent shield charm he knew, the ball of flame pierced through it as if it was spiderweb. The flame hit his chest and started spreading across his form, leaving ash behind; in an instant, the most feared dark lord in the history of the wizarding world was nothing but a pile of ash.
"Now for you. I needed a new avatar anyway." A black mist streamed from Nyarlathotep and into Harry through his ears and nose; before long, the Dark Pharaoh faded, and Harry's eyes took on a new light.
"Excellent." He said in his high squeaky voice.
So that's it, how Harry became an avatar of Nyarlathotep. If anyone's confused about the Vietnam scene, it's based on the stories of GIs running into black-eyed fanged creatures who'd try and abduct or bite them. And the Rattlesnake imitator I took influence from J. Frank Dalton, who in 1948 claimed to be Jesse James, and also Brushy Bill Roberts, who said he was Billy the Kid.