Moonlit Prelude

Death is not for Immortals...

Never been tagged in one of these, so thank you HVR for tagging me! And thank you Labyrinthia Mythweaver for the prompt!

Originally an untitled prologue for an unwritten story, the following writing fits this prompt amazingly well.

In the square box of a door-less room with only a roof made of massive bars forged from gleaming black adamant was a the figure of a man—or perhaps it would have been a man if his appearance was not so alien to the human eye: the figure boasted perfectly slicked back hair that seemed profane above its manlike face with glowing, pupil-less yellow eyes. A twisted mouth might have been smiling if there had been any mirth attached to the expression. Long, reptilian hands, each digit tipped with razor-sharp claws, clasped and unclasped in endless repetition as it rocked its crouched body back and forth on broad, scaled, and clawed feet. Lashing from the crimson slash marking its mouth in the dull amber epidermis was a long pink tongue only to slide back between pointed teeth. This produced a strange moaning, hissing sound with the figure’s breathing. The figure began to tremble, its body slowly vibrating until it tilted its head backwards, releasing a queer cackle that might have been a laugh had there been anything more than malice in the sound.

“You fool,” hissed the figure. “You beautiful fool!”

The figure’s head tilted back to expel another ghastly sound as the full moon appeared above the black bars forming the roof of the door-less room. The full moon was not like that known to Earth, for its size was nearly ten times the Earthen moon’s diameter. The figure sprang upward, catching the black bars with one clawed hand, and strained through the bars to claw at the moon with the other in a vain gesture of defiance, cackling and hissing,

“Defeated I may be, but dead I am not.
All the world will see, the trees break out rot. 
Great shall be the fall when blood spills deep red; 
See crashing down walls: man and moon are dead.

Picked clean are the bones, yellowed shafts breathing.
Dead are the warm stones, the worms are seething.
They long for sweet flesh, the merciless ones. 
Those draped in black mesh, they imbue vile sons.

The truth holds no fear, they cannot but rule.
My revenge is near, sweet revenge, you fool!”

The figure fell back into its prison, croaking its horrible laughter until it was rolling back and forth. From wall to wall, the figure flailed in its hysteria until its form was convulsing. Foam spewed from its mouth. As the figure slumped, a single croak trailed out of its throat like a death rattle.

After a moment of perfect stillness, the figure thrashed to a crouching position, its claws lashing at the pearl white walls. The blows showered the door-less room with sparks but the walls themselves showed no trace of the abuse. The figure came to rest in a crouch, rocking back and forth on its broad, scaly and clawed feet. It muttered and hissed between licking its lips, clasping and unclasping its clawed hands in endless repetition….