The Crimson Raven's Flight (eBook)

Kelly Johnson (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025
165 Seiten
Kelly Johnson (Verlag)
978-3-69111-010-4 (ISBN)

Infos

The Crimson Raven's Flight is a dark, atmospheric tale set in a war-ravaged world where death has become the lands only certainty. At its heart is the enigmatic figure known as the Crimson Ravena cloaked, masked wanderer who walks the ruins of fallen kingdoms, guiding the souls of the dead across the veil between life and death. Neither hero nor villain, she is a living relic of an ancient betrayal, cursed to roam endlessly through the aftermath of mankinds hubris and destruction. As she traverses blood-soaked battlefields and scorched cities, she encounters the memories and echoes of those lost to war: kings, queens, thieves, soldiers, and childreneach carrying stories of sorrow, regret, and broken dreams. With only her silence, her obsidian staff, and her spectral presence, she brings a quiet reckoning to a world that has forgotten mercy. Through haunting landscapes and mournful reflections, The Crimson Ravens Flight explores themes of death, memory, redemption, and the fragile thread of hope that clings even to the darkest shadows.

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Textauszug

Chapter 1: The Ashen Sky

Ash drifted like snowflakes through the ruined valley, spiraling in lazy circles before settling on the broken spears and twisted corpses that littered the earth. Once-green fields were scorched black, their beauty lost beneath the charred remains of what had once been vibrant grass, now reduced to brittle ash and the stench of death. The land was a graveyard, one that the living had long abandoned, leaving it to rot beneath the weight of war. The air was thick with the odor of burning flesh, a foul miasma that clung to the wind like an old ghost, never truly leaving, never truly forgotten.

The crows had come first, their shrill cries cutting through the stillness of the valley like blades, a savage symphony that drowned out the once-peaceful hum of nature. Their wings beat in unison, a dark cloud that blotted out the remnants of the sun, casting long shadows over the land. They descended upon the dead without mercy, swarming over bodies with a brutal hunger. Their beaks tore through flesh and bone, raking at the remains of the fallen with frenzied abandon. They feasted on what was left, plucking eyes from their sockets, tearing at the sinew and muscle that once gave life to those now lost to time. Their cries echoed through the ruins, a harsh chorus that only the earth could hear, a reminder of how far humanity had fallen.

Then came the wolves, drawn by the scent of blood. They arrived as nightfall crept in, their bodies lean and sinewy, their eyes glowing with an almost predatory intelligence. The wolves howled, their eerie cries blending with the mournful calls of the crows, a haunting symphony that wove itself into the very fabric of the desolate valley. The land itself seemed to tremble beneath their presence, as though it too knew the inevitability of nature's cycle: life feeding off death, the hungry consuming the fallen. Their footsteps were soft, calculated, the thick pools of blood beneath their paws spreading like dark pools of ink. They moved in packs, circling the remains of the battlefield like scavengers in search of anything that still lived, though their only prey was the bitter aftertaste of a world torn apart.

Their howls filled the valley, a sorrowful cry that would never be heard by the living. They sang not of joy, but of the hopelessness that plagued the land. The cries rang out across the broken earth, bouncing off the jagged rocks and the crumbling remnants of what had once been proud fortresses. Their mournful sound was a reminder that no one—human or beast—was immune to the reach of death. And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming devastation, life persisted, however fleetingly. The wolves, like the crows, carried on, driven by instinct, by hunger, by the ever-present need to survive.

But when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the sky bled into a muted, blood-tinted gray, she arrived.

Wrapped in a cloak of deep crimson, the color of dried blood and old wounds, the figure appeared as though she had emerged from the very heart of the battlefield itself. Her cloak was frayed, its edges torn and scorched by the fires of battle, the once-rich fabric now faded and worn from years—perhaps centuries—of wandering the ravaged earth. The cloak fluttered behind her, moving with a grace that defied its tattered state. Despite its decay, there remained an undeniable majesty in its presence. It was the last remnant of something regal, something once mighty. It fluttered like the last banner in a war that had long since ended, a symbol of power carried by the wind, now draped over the corpse of a kingdom.

She moved through the carnage with an eerie fluidity, her every step purposeful, yet strangely silent. Her boots sank into the thick pools of blood and the jagged fragments of shattered armor beneath her feet, yet no sound was made. The earth, it seemed, was unwilling to disturb her passage, as though it too had bowed before her presence. Even the air seemed to hold its breath as she approached, her form a silhouette against the blood-drenched sky.

The Crimson Raven—a name whispered by soldiers in fear, spat by generals in disdain. Her legend had spread like wildfire, carried on the wind, reaching the ears of those who had long since left this world. Some said she was a reaper, an omen of death sent by the gods to punish humanity’s hubris. Others believed she had once been a princess, a royal betrayed by her own blood, cursed to wander the dying lands for eternity. The stories of her origins varied, but the one truth that remained was this: She was both feared and revered, a specter haunting the ruins of men’s arrogance. Her presence was both a curse and a blessing—though none would dare call it the latter aloud.

Her face was hidden beneath a mask, black and twisted, shaped like the visage of a raven. It was crafted from iron, its surface polished and smooth, yet dark and unyielding, gleaming like obsidian in the dying light. The mask was an enigma, its sharp, angular lines giving it a terrifying, almost predatory appearance. Feathers were etched into the metal, delicate swirls that seemed to ripple with the winds of death itself, as if the mask had been forged not in a smithy, but in the very air that carried the spirits of the departed. Behind the mask, her eyes glowed faintly, a violet fire that flickered with an otherworldly intensity. The light pulsed through the narrow slits of the mask, drawing the attention of the restless souls that hovered nearby. It was as if the flames within her eyes ignited their final memories, drawing them toward her like moths to a flame.

She carried no sword, no traditional weapons of war. Her power did not lie in the blade, but in the silence she commanded. The silence that surrounded her was profound, almost absolute. It swallowed the cries of the wounded, the groans of the dying, and the clamor of a world torn asunder. Her presence silenced the valley, as if the very earth were compelled to listen to her. There was no need for words; her silence spoke volumes, louder than any shout or scream. It was the silence of inevitability, of acceptance, of the crushing weight of death’s grip. And slung across her back, the only visible weapon she carried was an ancient relic—a staff forged from obsidian, its surface as black as midnight. The staff was carved with intricate, winged glyphs, their edges shimmering faintly in the gloom. They seemed to pulse in time with the beating of her heart, each symbol a story of power and sorrow long since forgotten.

The staff was more than a mere weapon. It was an anchor—something greater than a simple tool of war. It tethered her to something beyond this world, connecting her to the spirits of the dead, to the vast chasm between life and death. It hummed softly as she walked, a low, almost imperceptible thrum that resonated through the air. The staff felt the weight of the souls gathering around her, felt the pull of their endless wanderings, as if it too could sense the ghosts of the past that trailed in her wake. She was not merely a figure moving across the battlefield; she was the embodiment of the land itself, a reflection of the ruin that had come before her. And when she arrived, the world held its breath, for she was both the end and the beginning, the bridge between worlds that would never again meet.

As she walked, the crows fell silent, their cries stilled in her presence. The wolves, too, ceased their howling, their eyes following her with a mixture of fear and reverence. Even the land itself seemed to bow before her, the winds dying down as if to pay homage to the figure who strode through the desolation. The Crimson Raven had arrived, and with her came the final reckoning for all those who had dared to tread the path of destruction.

As she moved through the battlefield, the ground itself seemed to whisper—a chorus of broken voices, faint and sorrowful, echoing up from the blood-soaked earth. The whispers coiled around her boots like mist, tugging at the hem of her cloak, brushing her ears with ghostly breath. The land remembered. It remembered every scream, every sword strike, every final, ragged breath. The soil had been fed by pain, and now it spoke in the only language it knew: mourning.

The souls of the fallen clung to her like shadows, trailing behind in a slow and solemn procession. They rose not with anger, but with longing—a mournful tether to the world they had once known. The lost ones—soldiers in dented armor, kings whose crowns had crumbled in the dirt, thieves whose blood still stained the blades they had once stolen—all drifted behind her. Some moved as though underwater, their forms weightless and hazy, while others appeared almost solid, the marks of war still carved into their flesh and spirit alike.

Their faces told the stories they could no longer speak. One had a jaw shattered by a hammer’s blow; another still clutched the phantom remains of a banner torn from his hand in death. A queen walked among them, regal even in death, a lance piercing the space where her heart had once beat. Some were scorched beyond recognition, nothing but outlines of flame, and others were little more than voices—sound and memory, looping in sorrow.

Each one reached out toward her, arms extended, fingers trembling. Their voices formed a rising hush, like wind rustling through hollow reeds. They called to her for release, for peace, for redemption. For something she could not always give.

But they knew better than to expect mercy.

She was not their savior.

She was their guide.

Their tether. Their passage between worlds. The one who walked with the dead so they would not be alone in the dark.

A cold wind swept across the plain, stirring the fog of souls...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 16.5.2025
• Verlagsort: Vachendorf
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Schlagworte: Ancient Betrayal • blood-soaked battlefields • broken dreams • children • Cloak • Crimson Raven • Curse • Dark Fantasy • Death • Destruction • echoes • endless journey • eternal wandering • fallen kingdoms • final peace. • forgotten mercy • fractured world • Grief • haunting landscapes • Hope • Kings • Life and Death • Lost Souls • mankind's hubris • Mask • Memories • mournful reflections • obsidian staff • Queens • Reckoning • Redemption • regret • Ruins • scorched cities • shadows • Silence • silent guardian • soldiers • Solitude • sorrow • souls • spectral presence • Thieves • timeless curse • veil • Wanderer • war-ravaged world
• ISBN-10: 3-69111-010-X / 369111010X
• ISBN-13: 978-3-69111-010-4 / 9783691110104