I still hear him as I sleep, and fear him as I rest
He’s there, he’s here, he breaks the laws of sense
When anxieties come crashing down like hurricanes by the sea,
He finds pleasure in listening as my heart beats, like the thunder of an army
But there was no sound, there was no man-
Only My Lovely Shadow of Agony.
words herewords here
Diabouls knew from the moment he laid his eyes on him that this was bound to end unsightly. Their pride was far from perfect, far from peace. He abhorred with all his might this pathetic display of masks, of appearances. He hated the role that he was playing, the role of a perfect leader, organising and ruling in a dream-like state these rocky, sunkissed lands. Every second he had to lose by sparing him a glance it brought a different type of pain in his body, it made his eyes bleed to the point he wished he could have dug his own claws and ripped them out of his skull. Why would those blemished gods create such an irritating glow to this creature? How was he allowed to have his paws step on the same ground as the other cursed ones? How could PsychoKiller and his rainbow footprints follow the same tracks as himself?
His entire childhood and teenage years went by slowly, like a test of patience, akin to the worst tortures he could have ever suffered. Forced to wake up every day, hear the loud screams of certain females echo through the sky before the sun could even rise as they’d tear each other apart for a chance to earn the “blessing” of what they called “a king”. Meanwhile, that same rotting shimmer of the rainbow-kissed primal would appear from the top of the kill, a loud chuckle escaping his lips as he’d simply enjoy the show. Diabouls watched everything, feeling his own blood start to boil in his veins every time another three, full of themselves lionesses, would strut their pastel tufts before his face, their high-pitched, degrading laughters would drum in his ears.
“Imagine bringing into this world a cub that can fade into the darkness of the night! Oh, his poor mother”
“I am surprised he survived all along if he ever got lost! What a stressful situation!”
In this foul pride, anything considered as ‘bland’ faced crazy discrimination conducted by the upper ranking, more colorful variants, which ruled over the land. Neighbouring lands would whisper secrets about them, talking about the eternal tranquility that is brought here, in this reverie, led by no other than the charming PyschoKiller, a charm which Diabouls never saw. All the lions he met throughout his life were nothing else but disgusting hyenas dressed in a crystal like shine, illy-perverted to the naked eye. Anyone else which did not meet the requirements would be sent to work, to harsher training, to exploring dangerous vast lands, as the others gleefully continued their narcissistic display of what can be only called ‘ass licking’. And the rancid neon sparkled creature would only cause more issues.
But, unbeknownst to the rest of them, Diabouls was planning his revenge, his own version of showing art. With no bound to hatred and no understanding of what is good and what is right, he decided that no one else fits the spot of justice. He was but just 2 years when he attacked, his sharp, eldritch orbs widening with adrenaline as his onyx claws cut through the colorful pelt of his enemy. He was but 2 years old when he felt the warm, puritan blood drip down his paws. He was but 2 years old when his fangs ripped apart the throat of the previous king, right before he could let out any sound of alarm. He was but 2 years old when the holy, rainbow-like light faded right before his eyes and turned as dull and boring as he once called him. He was but 2 years old when he finally got the throne and became the ruler, the one bound to bring a new age to these hexed, sunlit rocks.
His return came to a shock to everyone around. He had to wash himself through a river, all the scent of blood lingering in the air attracting the attention of near-by predators. He knew that the body would soon be no more as the deep hunger of the coyotes and hyenas would spare no one. He sunbathed for the last time in plain sight, allowing his darkened coat to soak up quickly all the warmth until everything was dry and the signs of murder would disappear just as the soul of the unlucky. Diabouls walked back into the heart of the pride, standing taller and bigger than ever before. His huge, rough mane never seemed more royal, while his cold and unimpressed voice surfaced, calling onto the living. The news were mysterious and sudden: the body of PsychoKiller was found laying in the savannah, greatly damaged and impaled after an elephant mother felt the safety of her baby was at risk. Gasps of horror echoed while more whispers started being shared. He waited with no empathy, nor emotion in his eyes. No one knew who could take the spot, but before any lowly beings would dare to offer, Diabouls quickly pounced and pinned one of the sons of the previous king to the ground, the same claws that killed his father now making crimson blood roll down from his head and into his vision. He trembled under him.
“I will rule over the lands. A new Age is coming, one of the cursed, one of the imperfect, one of the darkened. We shall be the very phantoms hunting in the night that everyone made us be!”
The minority which used to be close to slavery roared, their voices never heard before, but more thunderous than a storm. With Diabouls stepping with confidence in front of the whole group, ill-mannered laughs sang as they turned against their once-tormentors. That night, the first hunt started, dozens of crimson stained shadows bursting like crazy out of their hides and sprinting with hateful intent towards the rest. That first equinox night, multiple shining bodies of fake gleam fell to the ground, never to be seen again. That same night, the once sunlit rocks were covered in metallic stains and gloominess.
Ever since then, the pride grew night by night, more members joining from around, others being kidnapped, many others born. The shining sin was no more and no cub was ever birthed in seas of color, but baptised in abyssal liquid. The hunts never ceased to exist, but continued, more meticulous and violent than ever, the force of Diabouls’ reign shredding through the enemy lines in search for bigger, stronger damned souls, as only the crimson shine of rage could mark the fur of its predecessors
