Darkness had fallen over Manta Carlos. A deep, wretched darkness that knew no ilk or peer. It was cloying, clinging, desperate to drag those that walked through the streets deeper and deeper, away from the light. It was an unholy thing, whatever it was, that sunk deep into the streets, the skin and the mind.
The small family home was a pretty place, a tricycle was stationed in a place of honor to the right of the front door. The blinds were all drawn but there was a warm light coming from within. Music played from a stereo system inside, a happy tune that reminded one that winter was a time for family.
A single drop of red blood slid out from the crack beneath the front door. It dripped to the ground, and splashed quietly, its ferrous scent masked by the puddle of water left behind by the last nights rain. Beyond that door, something stirred, and then was made motionless. A heated breath escaped lips, lips that did not breathe again afterward.
Inside, a man stood over a body, clutching a cleaver. Blood clung to his hair, his face, his hands, his skin. His breathing was labored, intense, exhilarated. He watched the corpse at his feet twitch it's last, a sanctification of his own soul. At last, he was free. He was free to do whatever he wanted, he was free of his rage, he was free of everything.
He turned his head, the light from the kitchen catching his blood-soaked face. His skin was deathly pale, veins of black crisscrossing his features.
"Beautiful." Came a voice like a knifes blade over blood caked ice.
The man turned, looking up into the face of horror, but in his state, he could not even blink. Eyes like pinpricks of white light leered down at him. Gleaming eyes that were sunken into bottomless pits of darkness. The face of the thing was twisted and wrong, pale skin stretched taught over nonexistant bone. It's mouth broke its head in half, going all the way to the back of where it's skull should have been. Teeth like razorblades peeked out, glittering.
It's body was gaunt, tall as a tree, it curved over the man like a willow. Its arms stretched out like branches, long, thin fingers clasping and unclasping. Each finger ended in a talon that dripped purple black liquid. It did not have legs in a traditional sense, instead the blackness that made up its body seemed to shift and bend in a way that reminded one of walking. Its body twisted and tensed, drawing itself down closer to meet the man's eyes.
"Decorate." It said slowly.
The man smiled a mad smile, and turned to the body. The body of his wife. He raised the cleaver over his head and began to cut. He drew out blood and gore, organs he spread over the walls, punctuated with his new sticky red paint.
The creature itself watched, basking in the moment. It followed him throughout the house as he decorated it with the remains of his family. His wife, his children, his parents. He had destroyed everyone he had ever been connected to in life. He was free, wasn't he?
The blood splattered drawing of a child fell to the ground as he dragged the remains of another victim into the kitchen. Light spilling over the corpse. He was breathing harder, the infection spreading through his body. His veins were growing darker.
"Not long now..." The creature whispered encouragingly.
The man looked down at his waist. A knife. When had it gotten there? When his wife had struggled, he surmised. She had stabbed him? How long ago? He was bleeding, but why didn't he care? The man looked up at the creature that loomed close by, just out of reach of the light of the kitchen. He sank to his knees.
"That's right..." The creature called out to him.
"Your wife murdered you, took away your freedom."
Hate, hate was all the man could feel as he died. Hate, hate and misery.
The creature on the other hand, was jubilant. So much darkness pooled in this place, it was like a feast. It madly danced about, swirling and crashing into things. Though the moment it made contact it's body burst into smoke and reformed. It staggered this way and that, drunk on the malevolence it had consumed before turning each light in the house out. One. At. A. Time.
Every mage is married to the Flow, his tutors once said, but what happened when a mage was cut off from the Flow?