As seasons turned and generations passed, tales of his wickedness, brutality, and manipulation continued to haunt the world.
In the city of Elara, a vibrant festival was in full swing. Loud music, festive decorations, glimmering lights, and cheerful laughter filled the air. Nobles, commoners, and vendors mingled, their diverse statuses momentarily forgotten in the shared celebration.
"Buy now! You won't regret it!" one vendor shouted.
"News, news, news! Fresh news from the capital! The crown prince is engaged!" another hawked.
"Hello ladies, are you perhaps interested in charms?" a third offered.
Amidst the myriad attractions, the play about to begin captivated the attention of nearly every visitor. Elara was renowned for its story telling, which dramatized historical events and fictional stories alike. Attending a story telling was a must for any guest to the city.
"Clang, clang, clang!"
The bell at the city's center tolled, signaling the imminent start of the performance. Spectators hurried to find their places. Elara's venue was unique in its egalitarian approach. The stage, set in the heart of the city, welcomed nobles and commoners alike. All were considered equal as audience members and expected to behave accordingly, lest they be unceremoniously ejected.
Moments later, orbs floated into view, releasing streaks of light that converged on the stage. The curtains parted to reveal a young man in a flowing red robe with intricately embroidered sleeves. With a flick of his fingers, he seemed to disturb the very fabric of space, amusing the audience. This magic amplified his voice, ensuring that everyone within earshot could hear him.
Doom...da...da...doom...da
Drums rolled and strings played, creating an atmosphere of anticipation for the story about to unfold.
"TONIGHT," the young man announced, "a story that has been told for centuries, might be old...but instill a feeling of being taunted..."
"There was a man named Macellion Mallory," he continued, "he was very beautiful, very skilled, and so enticing that one fell into his trap without even noticing. Let us witness, 'The Whispers of the Darkness'!"
As all eyes remained fixed on the unfolding drama, a man in a black robe with subtle gold accents entered the city. His skin glowed, his eyes were charming, his nose was prominent, and his jawline appeared to have been sculpted by a master artist. His lips were naturally pink, and his raven hair fluttered in the wind, catching the moonlight as he walked.
Whispers and gazes followed his every move, filled with amazement, awe at his appearance, and envy from the gentlemen.
"Gather 'round, my friends, and listen to a tale of shadows and deceit, a story of how even the noblest heart can be corrupted by the darkest whispers. This is the tragedy of Governor Alaric, a man of principle, a beacon of hope... until Macellion Mallory sank his claws into his mind."
A man cloaked in black sat quietly in the corner, rubbing his hands together, a spark of dark intrigue in his eyes.
"Governor Alaric was beloved. He championed the poor, defended the weak, and ruled with unwavering integrity. But his virtues were seen as weaknesses by Macellion, who saw in Alaric a prize worth corrupting. Macellion arrived in Alaric's court as a mere advisor, a charming, ever-so-helpful presence. Slowly, subtly, he began to plant seeds of doubt in the Governor's mind."
"It started with whispers: a fleeting glance between Alaric's father and his most trusted advisor, a hushed conversation that ceased abruptly as Alaric approached. Macellion would murmur, 'Did you see that, Governor? A look of... pity? Or perhaps something more calculating?'" The storyteller paused, his gaze sweeping across the audience, gauging their reactions.
"The whispers grew louder, more insidious. Macellion fabricated evidence - a forged letter, a misinterpreted gesture - each designed to fuel Alaric's paranoia. 'Your family,' Macellion would say, his voice laced with concern, 'they fear your popularity, your strength. They see you as a threat to their own power.'"
"Alaric, a man of reason, initially dismissed these claims. But the constant drip of poison eroded his resolve. He began to see malice where there was only love, betrayal where there was only loyalty. His own family became strangers, their smiles twisted into sneers, their support perceived as manipulation."
As he listened, the man in black couldn't suppress a satisfied smile, a chilling expression that hinted at a dark understanding.
"Macellion offered Alaric solace, a shoulder to lean on, a voice of reason amidst the growing chaos in his mind. 'Only I understand you, Alaric,' he'd say. 'Only I can protect you from their treachery.' Alaric, desperate and increasingly isolated, clung to Macellion as a drowning man clings to a rope."
"Then came the night of the blood moon. Macellion, his eyes gleaming with dark triumph, whispered the final suggestion: 'They will never stop plotting against you, Alaric. You must strike first. Protect yourself... eliminate the threat.' Alaric, his mind shattered, his soul poisoned, succumbed to the darkness."
"He moved through the castle like a phantom, his sword dripping with the blood of those he once loved. His father, his mother, his siblings - all fell victim to his paranoia, their pleas for mercy lost in the storm raging within his mind. He turned his once-proud clan into a charnel house, torturing those he suspected of disloyalty, his reign of terror fueled by Macellion's lies."
The audience gasped, the familiar tale still capable of eliciting shock and horror. The thought of a man driven to murder his own family was a chilling reminder of the power of manipulation.
"But as he stood amidst the carnage, the blood still wet on his hands, a flicker of clarity pierced through the darkness. He saw the truth, the horrifying reality of his actions. Macellion had played him, manipulated him, turned him into a monster. His family had loved him, his people had trusted him, and he had destroyed them all."
"Overwhelmed by guilt and despair, Alaric raised his bloodied sword one last time. Not against another innocent, but against himself. He ended his own life, a final act of defiance against the puppet master who had orchestrated his downfall."
"So remember, my friends," the Storyteller concluded, his voice heavy with sorrow, "Macellion Mallory doesn't need swords or armies to conquer. He conquers minds, twists hearts, and turns the purest souls into instruments of destruction. Beware the whispers of darkness, for they can lead even the noblest among us to the most horrifying of ends."
The man in black chuckled softly, a single, unsettling sound that cut through the silence. "Such a touching story," he murmured, clapping his hands slowly, "though perhaps a touch more dramatic than I recall. But then again, dead men tell no tales."
With a flick of his wrist, the sky cracked open, and a torrential downpour descended upon the city. Panic erupted as the crowd scattered, seeking shelter from the sudden storm. Soon, the city center was deserted.
The man in black walked with an unnatural grace, seemingly untouched by the heavy rain. He approached the stage, his eyes flashing crimson as he noticed a figure hiding behind the thick curtains.
The young storyteller trembled, his breath ragged. 'It can't be... but it is. The face from my grandfather's sketches... Macellion Mallory. Is he here to kill me? Why now? Why me? The story has been told for centuries...'
As if toying with him, the sound of footsteps stopped just in front of his hiding place. He held his breath, clinging to the fragile hope that the man would simply move on.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for deliverance. When he dared to peek again, the feet were gone.
Relief washed over him. 'I'm alive! Perhaps the angels are watching over me.'
He scoffed, remembering the tales he'd heard about Macellion Mallory. 'Maybe the stories are exaggerated. It's not like he's scary himself; it's his manipulation that's frightening. I've never heard of him getting his hands dirty.'
A surge of confidence coursed through him. 'So, if someone is aware of his tricks, they're immune?'
Bolstered by this thought, he stepped out from behind the curtain, only to find the man in black standing with his back to him.
Straightening his posture, he stood beside the man, a newfound boldness in his gaze.
As the man turned, the storyteller froze. The rumors were true; he was breathtakingly beautiful. But his smile... it was too wide, too unsettling, and his eyes held a chilling emptiness.
"What did you say about me?" The voice was a cacophony, a chorus of thousands of different voices echoing from a single throat.
The storyteller stumbled backward, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached the edge of the stage, the wooden planks slick beneath his feet. He expected to plummet into the empty space, but instead, the earth itself seemed to writhe. Hundreds of hands, gnarled and skeletal, burst from the ground, their fingernails like shards of bone. They grasped at him with unnatural strength, their touch cold and clammy against his skin.
"No! AHHHHH! IT HURTS! STOP!"
His screams echoed through the deserted city, swallowed by the relentless rain. The hands tore at him, a grotesque parody of affection. Some gripped his limbs, pulling him in opposite directions, while others clawed at his face, his eyes, his mouth. He felt the sickening tear of his skin as it separated from his flesh, the agonizing snap of tendons as they were stretched beyond their limits.
The hands burrowed into him, their bony fingers probing and exploring. He could feel them sliding between his ribs, squeezing his lungs, and crushing his heart. His vision blurred with pain as his body was slowly, meticulously, disassembled. His screams turned into gurgling sobs as his tongue was ripped from his mouth, his eyes gouged from their sockets.
Piece by piece, he was devoured by the earth, his consciousness fading with each agonizing moment. A leg here, an arm there, until all that remained was a crimson stain on the stage, quickly washed away by the rain.
As if sated, Macellion licked his lips, a thin trail of blood glistening on his tongue. He clasped his hands together, gazing up at the stormy sky with an expression of serene satisfaction.
"May this meal fill the bellies of the starved population." His eyes closed before opening them again.
"Amen."
...
The night was silent, as if the gruesome events on stage were nothing more than a nightmare. No trace of the storyteller remained; it was as if he had simply vanished into thin air, or perhaps returned home unnoticed.
Macellion entered a humble inn and paid for a night's stay. The receptionist, utterly captivated by his otherworldly beauty, mistakenly stamped his receipt for a week instead of a single night.
He offered the flustered woman a dazzling smile, his melodic voice thanking her for the generous "upgrade" before ascending the creaking stairs to his room.
The women tending the front desk giggled and blushed, their hearts aflutter from the brief interaction and the enchanting sound of his voice.
"Do you think he's a noble?" one whispered.
"I doubt it; his clothes are far too simple," the other replied.
"But what if he's pretending to be a commoner? You know they do that in stories!" she playfully nudged her companion.
"Ugh... you read far too many romances, darling."
They dissolved into another fit of giggles, spinning fanciful theories about the mysterious stranger.
In the corner, a young boy wiping down tables watched the beautiful man's ascent, his hands trembling as the horrific images earlier in the night replayed in his mind.
...
Inside his room, Macellion sat on the edge of the bed and extended his hand. A grotesque creature, a malformed thing that defied description, crawled into his palm.
"Why don't you go out and make things interesting?" he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement.
The creature slithered off his hand, its form shimmering and distorting until it perfectly mirrored the appearance of the young storyteller.
"As you wish, Your Lordship," it rasped, before slipping through the window and disappearing into the night like a chilling breeze.
Remembering the storyteller's words from earlier, Macellion's eyes flashed crimson with a surge of dark pleasure.
...
Morning arrived, but unlike the soft, gentle dawn that usually graced the land, this one felt tainted, heavy with an unspoken dread. Macellion was already outside the city walls, walking with his usual grace, his long cloak billowing behind him. But there was a new edge to his movements, a predatory gleam in his eyes that spoke of a hunger satisfied, yet ever-present. He surveyed the city, his lips curving into a smile that was anything but benevolent. He seemed to revel in the anticipation of the chaos he had set in motion, like a puppeteer admiring his intricate, deadly stage.
Back at the inn, the air was thick with a false sense of normalcy. The other patrons, oblivious to the horrors that had unfolded the night before, bustled about, preparing for their day. But the lingering scent of ozone and the faint, almost imperceptible stain on the floor of the common room hinted at the darkness that had passed through.
The "storyteller," now radiating an unsettling calm, presented the inn owner with a carefully wrapped container. He handled it with exaggerated care, as if its contents were incredibly delicate, precious beyond measure. There was something deeply wrong in the way he moved, a stilted, unnatural quality that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
The inn owner, a portly man with a perpetually jovial demeanor, beamed with gratitude. He eagerly accepted the gift, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. He tore at the wrapping with clumsy fingers, revealing a slab of meat, perfectly sliced and marbled. It looked incredibly fresh, almost unnaturally so, and the rich, deep red color was strangely captivating.
"His Lordship wishes to express his gratitude for your kind accommodation last night. He hopes you'll accept this gift as a token of his thanks," the young man stated, his voice an unsettlingly perfect imitation of the deceased storyteller. The words were delivered with a chillingly vacant stare, devoid of any genuine emotion. It was as if he were a puppet, reciting lines he didn't understand.
"Of course! Of course! It was our pleasure to serve such an esteemed gentleman," the inn owner gushed, his eyes glued to the slab of meat. "He was a most generous patron. But may I ask..." He paused, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. "...what kind of meat is this?"
The young man simply smiled, a chillingly empty expression that didn't reach his eyes. It was a smile that promised nothing but pain, a smile that hinted at unspeakable horrors. He didn't answer the owner's question. He simply turned and disappeared into the crowd, melting into the morning bustle as if he had never been there at all.
Shrugging off the young man's odd behavior, the owner turned to his staff, his voice booming with excitement. "We'll be having a feast for today's lunch! Prepare the cauldron! Get the spices! This is going to be a meal to remember!" Happiness was evident in every word, a grotesque parody of genuine joy. He hefted the slab of meat, its weight strangely comforting in his hands. He failed to notice the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers as he carried it to the kitchen.
As the staff began to prepare the "feast," a subtle shift occurred within the inn. The air grew heavy, the shadows deepened, and a faint, metallic tang filled the air. The meat, as it cooked, released an aroma that was both enticing and deeply unsettling, a blend of savory spices and something… else. Something familiar, yet deeply wrong. A subtle hint of sandalwood, perhaps, mixed with a faint, almost undetectable, trace of… old stories.
Unbeknownst to the inn owner and his staff, the meat was all that remained of the storyteller, meticulously prepared and presented as a gesture of gratitude. The feast was not a celebration, but a desecration, a grotesque act of cannibalism disguised as a simple meal.