Zenit: Dawn

“It doesn´t matter where I find myself… The smell is always the same, the smell of burning steel, the smell of hot blood, oozing, distilling, filtering through the stones towards a land that will never more hold life, dead, assassinated, torn apart, violated in its deeper insides, a land that will never deserve the macabre gift of the corpses that now adorn it. A land that yells, a land that yells a name… a name that flies over the battle fields with raven wings, that cursed name, that comes out in death throes from the dried lips of the soldiers that will be corpses before dawn… that name, brutal, painful to pronounce, pregnant with blasphemous meanings… Zenit… In any language, in any reign, in any world, men, women, beasts, creatures of light and darkness, high spirits and dregs of rottenness… all pronounce her name in the same moment of dying, watching the truth out of the corner of their eye, and making out her essence just before expiring… that is her power, that is her irony … the power and irony of Zenit, the carrier of disaster, Zenit, the one that brings pain, Zenit, death, Zenit… war…

Zenit, like a bird of prey, jumping from one world to another, infecting them with her horrific essence, driving insane its inhabitants, forcing them to kill each other, to wreck themselves, inciting brothers to kill brothers, fathers to devour their children, lovers to stab the hearts of their beloved… Zenit, spreading her black wings over endless lands, dancing between dimensions, trampling on time lines, possible futures, pasts that never were… Zenit, the ungodly weapon that calls at war, born before time, without a soul without being, but full of wrath, infectious wrath that poisons, that stuns the senses, that provokes deaths without stories… Zenit, crossing time in her destructive eagerness, dancing from one world to another and leaving withered plots at her feet, never satisfied, always moving…

And I hunting her… I, that survived her influx, I that almost went crazy before her atrocities, I, that have sworn myself not to die until Zenit lies dead by my hands… I, the Pursuer, I, the Hunter, I, that thru centuries have reached the absolute power, I, eternal, I, relentless… A day will come in which I will brandish Zenit, not to kill, but to destroy her, to throw her into the fire, to notch her blade against the stones, to dull its edge, to rust her with the power of a thousand tides…  and then that day, all bleeding wounds will be stopped, all duels will finish, there will be no more wars, no more unnecessary deaths, no more children  crying over their fathers in the middle of a wasteland of corpses, no more lovers cleaning with their hair the bloodstained face of a soldier… that day, and only that day, I will have peace to die.”

Extract from the first book of  The Hunters Notebooks