The Curse of Lor'Ada Prologue: His Weak Mortal Flesh

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The woman who crouches, rimmed by the night that falls in his bedroom window, has lovely hair, silky, shimmering in chocolate waves like the nearby waterfalls on the harbor’s cliffs. The moonlight glints off her skin, and her musical eyes enchant his mind, his weak mortal mind. How could he not stare, not wonder how the girl he had once adored had become his enemy, so magical and awe inspiring, so horrible? She looks at him now, her yellow eyes barreling deep into his soul, his weak mortal soul. But still he sees her as the one he loved, who could never hurt anyone, least of all him. He has forgotten how she has changed, and therein lies his mistake, his weak mortal mistake. He remembers when those eyes were blue, celestial blue, calling to him, begging him to fall in love with her. Only now does he realize his error, that an enchantress has tricks, and will take her revenge on those who try to hold her back. Still the last tendrils of a forgotten love clung to the man’s heart, his weak mortal heart. But she is not bound by such human matters as guilt and a good soul any longer. She shakes her head and smiles, teeth filed to deadly knife-sharp points. With an unearthly screech she leaps from her spot, her waves of dark hair billowing out behind her like a dark angel’s wings. The speed at which she moves is not human, and for a good reason. She is no longer human.

So as another man is killed and his remains taken, leaving only bones, gnawed clean, the city of Lor’Ada awakens. And the creature, the monster, hurries home, taking with her his body, his weak mortal flesh. And the city calls for a vengeance, one they will never receive. Not if the Priestesses of the Titan’s Goblet have anything to say about it. Lor’Ada is doomed.