Legend holds that a rider on a black stallion rides mercilessly through the fields of Royn. For two hundred years, this rider has carried off men and women, young and old alike, its reasons mysteriously unknown. The rider itself has never been seen. Only the stallion, the Phantom Stallion, has any grip on legend. But a rider it has, and a blade it carries as can be defeated by no mortal. Of those it has removed from society, all have this in common: a bloodlust for flesh. Young couples, passionate in bed, vanish, their moans of pleasure becoming terrified groans as the blackest of shadows rolls over as a plague. And then silence. A married man or woman, caught in a steamy affair with street trash, gone, as if wished away. And once, long ago, a couple, newly wed, gone. The only difference was not their lust for what they did not rightly possess, but their passion. Passion, it seems, drives the rider. A passion of the dark revenge.

“For every shadow and lie hides a blade, that blade be death. Revenge it seeks on all whose lust could enchant such a blade. Ride it shall and seek to find all the lost souls. For once it fabled lost the love of life, for life was not so kind. Lover still an affair it seemed, far from touch, too far to be seen. Yet saw it did, the Rider there! Oh watch, young child. BEWARE!
-R”

I was walking one night. It was late, the ground slightly damp and cool. I, carrying a torchlight and a notepad, had ventured out into the dark forest to be alone. This was land seldom explored, for it belonged to the Rider. This night, it was rampaging through the town, clearing out all those adulterous prostitutes, leaving a highway of black through the Governor’s Halls.

Walking silently through the dark mirky wood I came to a fallen stump beside an old game trail and sat down, trimming the light so it set a dim glow of orange to the surrounding oak. My pants, slightly tattered, hung on a twig which I snapped off to use as a writing utensil. I was poor and alone, an orphan from birth with little hopes of more than a street maiden. I would likely die of the Rider’s hand, having no one to look after me besides these greedy lustful women. I was outcast by society but had hopes of greater love. All seemed lost so I ventured out. Out, being the only place to go, was the Wood.

Thunder rolled, though it never ceased. It grew and grew until the trees around me shivered as if a hand itself individually shook each one at its base. A black hurricane barreled past, blowing my lantern out and my notepad clear across the country I’m sure. Then silence.