The skies ruptured with a sound like the tearing of ancient parchment, and darkness poured into the valley. On the jagged cliffs overlooking the sea of obsidian waves below, a lone figure stood. Her hood, feathered like the plumage of some forgotten raven god, swayed in the howling wind. The crimson moon, fractured like shattered glass, cast its eerie light on the ruined temple behind her. Broken pillars, scorched glyphs, and a lingering trace of brimstone whispering of battles long lost centuries ago — this was her backdrop, a world on the brink of its final breath.
An arrow hissed through the night, aimed for her throat. Without even turning her head, she raised a slender, pale hand, and the arrow disintegrated into a thousand flecks of ash a mere inch from her dark cloak. She lowered her hand, exposing fingers adorned with black lace gloves, their edges embroidered with esoteric runes that glowed faintly in red. Her voice, smooth yet edged with menace, echoed through the darkness.
“Is that all?”
From the shadows emerged a band of soldiers, wearing armor mottled with the grime of both battle and desperation. Their leader, a warlord clad in dented steel and carrying a sword whose edge still dripped with fresh blood, stepped forward. He hesitated, his grip tightening on the weapon. “Are you the one they call the Feathered Harbinger?” his voice faltered against the oppressive air around her.
She turned to face him, her movements hauntingly fluid, as though her body moved with the ebb and flow of unseen tides. The hood of her cloak fell back just enough to reveal her face — elegant, unmarred, but painted with mystery. A red gem pulsed on her forehead, outshining even the broken moon. Her lips, painted a deep black-purple, curled into a faint smile, and her piercing violet eyes locked onto the warlord’s own. She looked both impossibly young and ancient, as if time itself wept against her presence.
“I am the Feathered Harbinger,” she said, her voice like a cathedral’s bell. “And you, mortal, will face the consequences of trespassing where the ancients once tread.”
Fragments of a Forgotten Past
Decades ago — or was it centuries? Time was fractured and fluid now — her village had existed on the outer fringes of the empire. A place forgotten even before the stars waged war against humanity. She was born beneath an omen, a comet that stained the sky with violet and red. Her mother called her Elryne. Her father, a sorcerer lost to the madness of his craft, called her “a vessel”—and that was all she became. The villagers feared her as much as they feared the blackened woods that clawed at the edges of their farmlands, and by her twelfth year, when her powers began to manifest, their fear turned into a roaring mob.
She remembered the flames licking at her feet, her hair alight in a shade of purple that mirrored the comet of her birth, as they dragged her to the pyre. Yet, before she could burn, the veil between this world and the next split open, and a voice older than the stars poured into her mind like liquid fire.
“You are mine now,” it whispered, and the they came for her with talons made of obsidian light.
The Wrath of an Immortal
“You’ve slaughtered my men,” the warlord barked back to the present, his voice braver than he felt. His warriors fanned out at his sides, one holding a glowing pike, another carrying a shield forged from an alloy weaved with dark energy. They were hunting her under the emperor’s orders, the emperor who believed slaying the Harbinger would shift the balance of the dying world in his favor once more.
She tilted her head slightly. “Your men are dust on the wheel of eternity. What makes you think you’ll fare better?”
“I’ll fare better because desperation makes us all stronger demons than you ever dreamed.” With a roar, the warlord charged her. The soldiers followed, a storm of furious blades and flails descending upon the woman cloaked in shadows.
But she did not draw any blade nor chant any spell. She stood perfectly still, eyes closed as arcs of violet and black energy rippled like waves across her feathered cape. The moment the warlord’s sword swung down, she unleashed it all. Shadows leapt from her being, claws ripping into steel, screams falling silent as her foes were swallowed into the void she carried with her. None remained standing but her, draping her cloak back over her head.
The Memory of a World Dying
The winds howled louder now, the ruins groaning under the weight of unseen tides of power. She turned to face the temple again. Inside, the last artifact of what remained of humanity’s hope floated in broken shards above an altar. It was alive, pulsing weakly as she approached. She extended her hand, and the entity that bound her power to her soul spoke.
“Soon, Elryne,” it hissed. “Re-dream this world.” And just like before Elryne beyond bone now could feel pulsed darker reality
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Embodying the Mystical Allure of Raven: Dark Hooded Cloak Cosplay
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