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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Supernatural · #2232572
A griffon spirit with a terrible plan
         Humanity is a curse on my existence. No, I am not a demon or an angel. Such creatures pale to my spiritual majesty, and I have no interest in their spiritual quarrel. One thing excites my ectoplasm, the thrill of battle. I lived for it in life. The adrenaline, heavy blows, strategy, and opponents strong enough to boil the blood, is never forgotten.

         My soul wanders because the gates of the heavenly ones denied me. It was an insult. I did more for the wretched monkeys than they ever did. When armies invaded, my powerful form guarded their fragile bodies, did they not watch? My iron-like beak defended honor in word, even when the hairless ones spit venom at me, was it not noble? There aren't numbers high enough to count the broken enemies left in the wake of my ebony talons. Wings of majesty and wonder carried the ground walkers to safety, were their eyes not on me then? I refused to humble myself in front of the divine. I bowed to no man in life and refused to do so in death.

         "Everything you did was for yourself. Behind every unselfish act was a selfish motivation. You are doomed to wander until you commit a single unselfish act."

         A thousand years have passed, and my soul still wanders the earth. It is a crime against the afterlife to leave me stranded. I long for peace, to be with those I loved or thought I loved according to the divine. I will show them my worth, but how?

         I have a plan, one that will satisfy my visceral needs and elevate one of these silly apes to a higher status. My essence will join theirs and allow them access to my considerable power. I could experience the thrill of the fight in the flesh, and they would learn the joys of being a griffon. The plan is foolproof.

         All I have to do is choose the lucky recipient. Lots of humans slip through the cracks of their imperfect systems. There is bound to be one no one would miss. The warriors hide behind their ranged death, and the gangsters lack discipline. I will have to take a child. He/she will learn to be a proper warrior with my guidance.

         It is pointless to take these lesser children from their shining homes of love and care. I need someone who has stared into the abyss long enough to know it stares back. In the burned-out sections of a dingy city is where I will find what I seek. The dregs of society gather in the dark places of where society forgets them.

         These are more pathetic than those in the safety of homes. Hopelessly addicted to the poison in their veins, lending my power to them will only see their body broken like a deer with a snapped neck. I need to aim just a bit higher.

         A group of homes in the area should prove fruitful. Its a place where the hopeless either fall further into a pit of despair or rise above their helplessness. The young are like hatchlings who step on each other's tails, even one as mighty as I can enjoy the laughter of children. However, none of these will do either. Some use their strength to subjugate the others in a fashion unbefitting a leader.

         What's that under the canopy of the oak? Another child? He sits on the fringe of the other's content to be alone. He keeps one eye on the group from afar. He reads while the rest of the pathetic sheep bury their faces in shiny baubles of little significance. The determination The determination in his eyes excites me. Perhaps this one will offer me a proper host.

         Throughout the day, I discover he has many names. To his teachers, he is a "poor thing." His peers refer to him as "bed wetter." The parents have affectionately named him, "That little bastard." Children are supposed to be the hope of the future; this one is having his stripped away.

         Possessing children is perverse in the eyes of the heavenly host. Once I do, there is no going back. Given the child's circumstance, there should be minimal blowback for it. Where are they going? I wonder if the parents have any redeeming qualities.

         The confusion of human entertainment is disorienting, bright lights, hucksters shout to unload their cheap wares. A makeshift tavern lies in the center. "That little bastard" is abandoned by his parents in favor of the bottle. Why do humans think the solutions lie at the bottom of it?

         I sense evil. Its dressed like a man of the cloth. The stench of his misdeeds comes off of him like a pile of hippogriff manure. I can smell the innocent blood on his hands too. That little bastard better watch out

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