[Story] Beauty in Death
Beauty in Death
Artwork.
Darkened blood, splattered across the wooden floor.
Beauty.
Another masterful show of prowess.
Two victims. Two paintings.
Death carried such a wonderful beauty to him. He threw a couple of rose petals over their corpses. For most, it was a sign of madman, but to him, it was yet another performance, another spectacular show for his audience.
The man, if he could even be called that, sat down in a chair by the corner, near a cracked mirror. Adjusting his mask as he spoke, he pondered his most recent show. There wasn’t an audience, as always, but soon they’d show. Sad, really, that so many only saw the finale. They missed the privilege of seeing the three former acts. Bursting in, their cries of horror, the loud crack of the flimsy wooden boards as they scrambled away, only to find him waiting. And the shots, oh the shots! Utter beauty sailed with it through the air, slowly. First, the girl. She had chestnut brown hair, tied into a braid, smooth yet pale skin, and hazel eyes. She had a long, white velvet dress, with frills around the side. It hit her in the neck, letting out a stream of blackened blood that leaked across her chest. She made no noise as she crumpled to the ground. His first piece done, he turned to the elderly man. He had white hair, combed over, along with hazel eyes as well. In his hands was a chair, desperately held up for self-defense. Standing behind a mirror, the murderer saw the elderly man was wearing a suit - an expensive one, at that. It nearly rivaled his… nearly.
Quivering, the elderly man stammered, “P-please, I beg of you. Spare me. You’ve… you’ve already taken her, what more do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want! Land, money, anything! Please, just-”
Those were his last words.
The shot pierced his abdomen and went straight through, cracking the mirror behind. His blood, too, was tainted a grim black. Mouth agape, he fell to his knees and let out a single, quiet sigh, before falling to his side.
His show had been wonderful, the murderer thought to himself. The girl was quick to die, no words, no begging or pleading, nothing. While he was the type of man to appreciate the words meant but not spoken in silence, it became rather droll when they made no noise. Luckily, he had the desperate pleading of the man to add suspense. The audience would be grimly captivated as he was; trapped within the vortex of suspense and pain, just as he was.
As his thoughts drifted, he reached to a small embroidered pocket at the hem of his fine silk pants and removed a couple of bullets. They were carefully crafted and designed, and each had his insignia on the front - a lotus. Each bullet was handcrafted by him and enchanted with a power even he didn’t fully comprehend. Not that it mattered - he had no time to squander over such simple things, what with all of his performances he had planned.
Suddenly, the murderer was awoken from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on dirt. Damn it all, the guards! Why must his audience insist on showing early? No matter. If they were so eager to see his masterpiece, so be it. He would simply make them part of it, encompass them into his displays of grandeur.
A knock on the door, followed by a shout.
“Excuse me? Hello?”
A young man’s voice. A child, really. Even without seeing him, it was clear to the murderer that he had never seen carnage such as this before.
Another knock, quieter than the last. Then a thir-
Nevermind. That was him kicking down the door. How... quaint.
In came two village guards. The first one in was a man with black hair and brown eyes, carrying a scimitar. Upon entering he jumped back and nearly knocked the other man behind him over. Speaking of which, the other man. He seemed to be an adult; not elderly or frail, but also not a child. And his eyes, well… they were something else. He, too, had hazel eyes, but unlike the boy, whose eyes betrayed his naivety and innocence, this man’s eyes showed a life of hardship and sorrow. He would be an interesting addition.
“My god… what happened here?”, the boy asked nervously.
“The Golden Demon, no doubt. This has his marks all over it.”, replied the other man.
The masked killer, watching from a corner, at the sound of that name. “Golden Demon”, they called him. Really? Of all the names to refer to such a mysterious artisan as, they chose that? It could’ve been worse, he supposed, but it really failed to capture the elegance of his actions - it resembled something out of a local folk tale, the kind he heard passed around while working on stage with those who called themselves actors. Neither they nor their name for him were anywhere near the truth. He preferred to think of himself as the “Fleur Mortelle” of Ionia, the “Künstler von Blut” of Zhyun. “Demon” was such a brutish term, a word thrown around as if it were a heavy stone. No, he was no demon; he was simply a misunderstood genius, a creator and innovator who used the denizens of this country as his private canvas.
“I… I heard the stories and all, but, I didn’t… I didn’t think he - er, “it” - was so… monstrous.”
That boy’s death would be slow, the killer noted. Very slow.
“No… something’s not right. I’ve seen enough of the Golden Demon’s atrocities to know that he wouldn’t just leave them.”
“How can you tell? It’s not as if you’ve ever seen him before. What could you possibly know about him?”
The older man turned to the poor boy with a stone-cold glare and gravely said, “More than you could ever possibly imagine.”
The murderer was impressed. This one was hardened to the sight of his work. And more notably, he was smarter than most of the guards he’d seen around Zhyun. He was able to pick up the fact that the show was incomplete with just a glance.
“Well then, what do you suggest we do? Stand here all day and talk about him like a couple o-”
The young man’s words were stopped short as the older man grabbed him by the collar.
“What you’re going to do,” the older man said evenly, “Is stay down here and watch for him. I’m going upstairs to search for any signs of where he went.” To this the young boy mumbled something indiscernible, likely along the lines of “Yes, sir.”, and the older man let go of him and grabbed the scimitar, now lying on the floor.
The murderer cursed under his breath. He had only moments before that man came storming up the stairs, looking to kill. This would be a most difficult design to make, with such… lively elements in motion. Some more time to prepare would have been nice, but if his art wished to be created so willingly, then he was a slave to its demand. Still, he knew he’d have to be careful. Such brutish characters were unreasonable and if he were caught… his work would be ended, and that was something that he could not afford to happen.
The older man started walking towards the stairs, sword in hand. The masked killer readied a shot into his pistol and aimed it at the top of the stairs. He knew that it’d make more than enough noise to alert the younger man below, so he took out a small contraption and threw it over the railing to the floor below, where it landed on the floor with a thud. Luckily, the loud creaking of the stairs masked the noise. After landing, it spread outward in the shape of a lotus blossom. Its serrated edges covered a delicate mix of black gunpowder and Ionian combustive. He had the gunpowder smuggled from Bilgewater, and the combustive was made from crushed leaves and torn scroll paper. Together, they created a large explosion that had the power to cripple or kill anyone unfortunate enough to get in his path… exactly as he intended. It was intended to keep any rebels in check, to ensure their cooperation in his show, be it as a participant or bystander.
The guard was almost at the top of the stairs now. His gun was quivering with excitement, and it took all his self control not to fire out of sheer ecstasy.
The guard reached the top of the stairs just as he fired. It went straight through his head, a clean shot that left a blood-soaked hole through the skull. Crashing down the stairs, the body tumbled to the feet of the boy. He screamed and turned towards the door, scrambling over the bodies. However, as he ran, the trap sprung beneath his feet, slowing him to a crawl as it expanded outwards. After a moment it erupted in a small explosion, spreading smoke across the room.
The murderer made his way downstairs through the smoke, careful not to step on any of the bodies. Shoe marks were rather poor decorations for victims.
As the smoke cleared, the killer saw the boy desperately dragging his body to the door. His legs were bent at odd angles, and one of his arms was torn open, exposing bone and muscle alike. Excellent. He would show this fool what it really meant to suffer.
The murderer descended on young guard, who immediately began writhing in terror at the sign of his mask. He readied his bullet, prepared to make the child suffer more, when he realized he only had one left. His pistol only carried four bullets. As for why, well… something about four spoke to him. The number almost carried a certain appreciation for cruelty. Because of this, he always prepared his fourth and final bullet in the clip to be even more powerful than the others. It would surely kill the boy, though, and save him the suffering. Perhaps it was meant to be... after all, was such a child even worth reloading for?
“Please, before you kill me, just tell me your name. Tell me! Who… what are you?”
“What am I?”, he responded. His voice was fairly low, and expressed great confidence. "I have risen from the filth and muck. I am the lotus blossom. I am beauty… and I am your demise."
With a click, the gun fired and pierced the boy’s lung. He gasped desperately for a moment before fading to nothingness.
Artwork.
Bodies, lying unmoving, ready as canvases.
Mastery.
Four victims. Four paintings.
Hanging them up by strings, they became puppets. The boy legs, he bent backwards. The elderly man he propped up with his neck snapped backwards, and a smile perched on his face. The older guard he left in his form; he, alone, was already beautiful. And as for the girl, she hovered above them all, arms splayed out. A guardian angel, the killer laughed devilishly to himself. How tragic that he didn’t have more time to prepare the rest of the room.
More footsteps on the dirt. A lot more. Looks like the audience was about to arrive.
He moved towards a door in the rear, amidst the screams of his audience at the sight of his finale. As he left the small home, he remembered the boy’s question, just before his demise. Speaking in a whisper, he uttered the following words.
“My name is the only part of me I will never fully mask. I carry it like a weight, yet even then I wear a cover for it. My name shall never be known, but you may call me the Death Blossom… the Virtuoso… you can call me, Khada Jhin.”
Thank you for reading my post above. This is a short story that I wrote after seeing Riot's new Universe Lore hub. Please feel free to give me any feedback you have on my story. I appreciate your input.