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Myth Taken

Chapter 1: Satanic Satyrs

By Rand EinfeldtPublished 2 years ago 3 min read

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. They would mostly dwell in caves like bats. In our history, they were utilized for war and were a convenient means of transportation. But it was that same Valley that was the beginning of their destruction.

It is rumored that these winged serpents are now extinct. All that remained in that Valley were shades of white and brown skeletal husks, fossilized eggs, and clear shedded skins from the fiery serpents.

Even though these winged creatures no longer exist, we still used their remains for their previous purposes. Their teeth were crafted into various weaponry for men’s gain in multiple warfare. Their shedded skins were washed and knitted into clothing. Their scales and eggshells were fashioned into various forms of helmets, armor, and shields. Lastly their horns were made into instruments of war and instruments in drinking ale to satisfy one's thirst.

But the thirst didn’t end there. The thirst for blood grew as men slaughtered thousands of unicorns left and right for their magical horns. It wasn’t until much later that it was realized that the horns lost its power as more and more of the unicorns began to die out.

We tried to save the creatures by breeding the remaining unicorns with horses, but all we got were watered down abominations that would much rather die than suffer through the pain of existence. On top of that, the half breeds were about as useful as a mule; made for labor work but not for procreation. The horns of these half-breeds would fall off once they’ve reached maturity, and dissolve into nothing but dust.

Drunken men became lustful towards female fair folks. Their new flesh and blood were magic-less half-blooded creatures. It turned out that their magic was inherently passed on and not learned. Over the years, their magic were merely cheap parlor tricks that were easily found out. Their profession became desperate entertainers performing in front of stiffnecked royalty.

Fair folk weren’t the only victims. Magical creatures were treated like products. Their offspring were human in likeness, but took on the traits of their magical parents. Some with horns protruding from the temples of their foreheads, others with hooves and tails for the lower half of their bodies, and the lucky ones kept their human facial features so that they could blend in with the peasants in the streets. I was one of the lucky ones. The name is Billiam, and I am a product of supernatural and unnatural design. To my loving mother I was her pride and joy, but to the zealous Christians I was the Spawn of Satan. I never knew my father. He did know my mother. I was told that he was burned at the stake for his heinous act.

From my childhood up until now I was raised by the remaining fair folk, and magical creatures. Their people and culture were rapidly declining, so I was absorbing as much as I could.

I had the best of both worlds, learning my mother tongue as well as the tongue of men. To be among men, I’ve had to hide my horns with the hood of my cloak, which draped perfectly over my hooves. I mean you had to do what you could to get food, even if it meant taking a loaf of bread. Which is exactly what I did. This perceived harmless act landed me in captivity under the rule of King Harold.

I was given nothing but moist leftovers of previous meals, and bitter dregs found at the bottom of used chalices to wet my whistle. I had a single room to myself, because not even the prisoners wanted to share space with a fair folk, let alone a half-breed. We were considered just as dirty.

For days on end it was like this. Guards standing outside my locked door would threaten to cut me up into tiny pieces, and pass me on as lamb meat if I braved to escape.

Within weeks of counting the rocks decorating my prison walls a bright light beamed in front of me. After the light dissolved into nothing, out came a dark hooded figure manifesting himself to be a magical wizard. A wizard who called himself Timn. He told me that he was organizing a “band of others”. The “others” he was referring to were abominations like myself.

I asked him, “Why do you need creatures like me to do your dirty work?”

He said with a half grin on his beard covered face, “ I don’t need you to do my dirty work. You need me to take you out of this shite before memories of your kind turn into legends and myths.”

I matched his smile and returned by saying, “I guess I was myth taken.”


About the Creator

Rand Einfeldt

I'm an inspiring story teller! When it comes to movies, books, music, you name it! I want to write about it, and give my own opinion on how they effect the human society that is constantly absorbed in nostalgic pop-culture!

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    Rand EinfeldtWritten by Rand Einfeldt

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