The King Crow

The King Crow

He was the King Crow. The Lord of Scavengers, the Master of Ravens, the Patrician of the Eaters of the Dead. No mightier of his kind had ever graced the skies.

Countless battles, disputes, and bloodsheds of all kind did he witness in his glorious time, perched on a tree branches or a windowsill, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to take for himself the bounty of death.

Countless messages did he deliver in his spare time to lords and kings, for the part of bearer of dark news rests upon the dark wings of the crows.

Countless corpses did he beak, countless eyes did he devour, a few from the living, most from the dead, whether they be from peasants or kings, for it was the task of the crows to clean up after Mankind’s mess.

There he would be, everywhere you looked, if you looked hard enough, big and black as the midnight sky, gazing at the world through two blood-red eyes, looking, searching, waiting for the next opportunity.

And when he took off to fly, his wings would spread across the sky, and his feathery black cloak of darkness would block the sunlight and turn the day into night. It was then when you knew that death was coming, bringing with it its minions and cleaners.

The King of Crows, so wise, so majestic, traveled across the world, to wherever he was needed, so much so he was, in a very intimate way, a vital part of the world itself.

That is...

Until, one day…

Some idiot picked up a gun and shot him.

Then, the King Crow, The Master of Ravens, Lord of the Scavengers, Patrician of the Eaters of the Dead, was no more.