Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

The Writer's Whisper, II.I: Sawt El-Hassan

2
THE SAHARA DESERT,
END OF THE WORLD
The Spider
Zerzura, The Lost City
May 19th, 2013
Time: Unknown
_____________________________

    Hellʼs teeth craved the taste of blood.

    Along the edge of Satanʼs backbone, the mouth of the dried up, dead riverbeds the Tamanrasett rivers opened up to the remains of the Captainʼs ship, de Vliegende Hollander. The two lone riders, the Captain and the Spider, pushed on as the sand and sea stung their eyes with dryness, abandoning de Vliegende Hollander with all hope. The Sahara was a candy-land for castaways. Often rocked with the anger of violent dreams and bloodthirsty nightmares, the Skeleton Coast spat them from its mouth canals, into purgatory. A paradise lost, Zerzura was a marooned land of a blood-red skyline, blackened alcoholic waves creeping on the sand dunes, and the cries of the damned grew louder. A far cry from the oasis it once was.

    The dark water and pearly sands stretched as far as the Captain and the Spider could see, but as the ominous storm clouds set along the horizon, the Captain knew the coast would awake soon, and when it did, the demons would dance. In the sky, the Breaking Wheel crucified little mermaids, their limbs condemned to an evil fate, where the Whimsic & Whimsical feasted on fresh flesh. Yet the Spider did not flinch at the carnage, whispering Quranic prayers under her breath, watching the sea and the sand surrender to haunting black holes, the piercing star.

    The Spider drew her hangman's knife, and the whispers grew louder, a demonic battlecry spooking their horses:

𝕯̵̨͉̣̮̥͗̏̎͝͝𝖔̸̝͝ͅͅ𝖚̸͍̏𝖇̵̗͔̱͋̈́́̍𝖑̷̰͋𝖊̷̛͓͖̣̯̼̊͊,̸͓̖̳̫́͗̌̚ ̸̡͍̜̂𝖉̸̲̼̱̈͐̌̃͝𝖔̸͈͍̒͗̕𝖚̶̲̫̓𝖇̸̖͖͆́𝖑̴̩̹̦̆̊̍̎͠𝖊̴̪̓́͘͘,̷̞̝̼͍̈ ̷̹̣̐͐͝𝖙̷̖̥̆̆̏͘𝖔̶͔͚̎͜͝𝖎̷̧͍͍̒̎͜𝖑̵̡̝̙̈́̽̐͝ ̸͔̹͛̈́̿𝖆̴̡̆̊͆̾𝖓̷̘͑̎̓͝𝖉̸̮̙͒̆̅ ̵͎̪̈́𝖙̷͎̗̞̭̄̒͑͜͠𝖗̴͇̟̓̍͑̅̓𝖔̵̰̜̠̺̿̇𝖚̷̨̳̅͑̿͌𝖇̴̧͚̝̬͌𝖑̷̟̹̜̥̍̕𝖊̶͙̞̰̈́͋̃͒ ̷̘̫̜̦̓̌̾̐̏
̴̧̼̥̉ͅ𝕱̸̢̞͌͋́̚͝𝖎̵̦̹͒̂͂͜𝖗̵͉͛̊𝖊̷̝̺͓͒̉̑ ̴̝̣̂͋͌𝖇̸̢͎̹̺̆́̇𝖚̶̺̟̦̜̐͑̚𝖗̷̝͇̫̓𝖓̶̡̠͔͓̒ͅ,̶̼͛̄̂ ̴̟̞̓́𝖆̸̟̈𝖓̸̢͔̤͉̈́𝖉̶̦̈́͐ ̶̣͈̤̑̓̊̆̽𝖈̸̡̯̯̫̳̂̊́̒̕𝖆̵̧̬̞̟̌̈́͒̒𝖚̵͓̌͌̐̂𝖑̷̢͔̖̠̮̄͗𝖉̸̠̠̟̄̆́͌͝ͅ𝖗̴̢̖̔̃́͌𝖔̶̳̹̤͓̓̒̚𝖓̷͓̭̣́͒͝͝ ̷̪͔͑͆̚͜𝖇̶̨̟̍̑𝖚̵̲͉̊̂̽͌𝖇̶̗̬̈́𝖇̴̛͓͓͍̹͑̒͆̉𝖑̶̛͍̦̭̱̀͘𝖊̴͈͚̝̄.̷͉̘̻̞̮̃
̷̧̗͆𝕴̶͍̳͑̊͝͝͠ ̴̧͇̈́͒𝖑̸͍͕͆̾̈́͛𝖔̴̧͖̪̖͙̒͘͝͝𝖔̷̬͔͕͓̦̈́̔𝖐̵̳̳͓̀̀̈ ̶̝̼͖̈̓̆𝖚̷̧̝̂̀̄̀𝖕̵̼̎̈́̈́́𝖔̸̠̟̱͙͐̂𝖓̴͈͇̜̥̽ ̷̗̈́͐͂̆𝖞̸̨̪̤̖̅ͅ𝖊̵͎̇̍ ̶̝̦̋̐̎͂̚𝖂̴̫̹̠̐̔̇͝𝖊̵̝̳̙͉̓ͅį̶̈̅̓͝𝖗̸̨̳͍̱̍̊̋͠𝖉̸͈͕̄͊ ̷̧̪͌͒͝𝕾̵̛̥͛̈́̕𝖎̶̧̝̣̟̑́̑̆͑͜𝖘̴̡̡͔̰̀͛͌̅͘𝖙̸̜̦̈́𝖊̴̥̙͌̾̈𝖗̵̡̦͇̒𝖘̷͈͍̫̠̎͛̐͝,̶̛͚͂̃̃͛͜ ̵͇̰̉͆̏̆̍
̷̬̱͖́͋̓𝕬̸͚̟̣̜̾̌̃̂̏𝖓̶̛͓͗̏̋̕𝖉̶̧̱̟̱̆̊̎̈́͠ ̴͖̲̝͙͗̔̇͜𝖒̴̓̊͜𝖆̴̨̠̜̥̒̈̀͛̐ͅ𝖐̴̨̘̝̻̝̐̑𝖊̸̡͚̗͉̏̋ ̸͕̋͝𝖆̴̝̾̇̕ ̵̛̗̦͊𝖘̶̮̱͔̆̉𝖎̵͍̠̐̑͘̚͜͜͝𝖒̶͕̪͌̊͐͗͌𝖕̶̺̞̀𝖑̸͔́̃͑̅̈́𝖊̵̺̊ ̶͇͂̆𝖕̷̢̦͕̜͑̃𝖑̵̛̱͔̫͋̏̔𝖊̶̦̦̤̰̄̄͋͊̉𝖆̴͓̤̩͉̆:̸̮͕̍̀͛͊ ̵̙̅
̶̢̩̬̃̆̊̅͛𝕮̸̘͕̣͖̓̍𝖎̴̩̩̿̀̚𝖗̸̦̋̓̽𝖈̷̮͍̦̈́̅͗̍𝖚̸̡̤̜͍̈́͂̕𝖘̴̨̥̹̪̎,̵̨̠̫̗̰͗͌͒́̍ ̴̰̼̫̽̂͊̽͠𝖔̵̭͉͉͈̈̑̆́̃ ̴̢̙̤̤̓̓𝕮̵̪͖̣̳̋̈́̄𝖎̷̪̞̦̒ͅ𝖗̷̳͎̮́̃̀͌𝖈̸̡͇̈̓͗̕͘𝖚̸̣̀͌͝𝖘̶͍̀͋̃̋́ ̴͈̹̏
̴͚̪̋͒͛̋ͅ𝕿̶̰̓̏̚͝𝖚̸̭́𝖗̴͙͍̈𝖓̸̨̠̜̎̐̾͜ ̸̡͖̗̤̯̍͝𝖙̶̡̤͇͚̏͝𝖔̷̖̥̦̱̹̽̊̀͐̉ ̴̳̺̦̂̃̇𝖙̷̢͇̭͙̱͆̉̔̓̀𝖍̶̧̛̥̫̻̫̋͛̇̕𝖊̴͔̟͚̲̤́ ̵̘̙̿̓̾𝖋̸̢̧͕̈́𝖔̸̖̱̜͎͝𝖗̵͈̀́𝖊̷̗̻̣̥̣̈́͒̕𝖘̴͇̦͉̙̖̿̕𝖙̴̯͎̦̮̘͛̅̓̌͠.̸̭̞͐̋͛̎̿
̴͙͔̰̓̏𝕮̷̰̹͍͝𝖎̶̨̺̟͓̍͠𝖗̵̰͆͌𝖈̴̫͐̀̃̈𝖚̷̩̦̪̞̀̇͛̽𝖘̵̧̳̗̘͐̍͆̀,̴̨̹̍̑̓͌̈́ ̷̨͚͖͐𝖔̷͙̱̗̀̀̓͗̇,̵̡̭̙̈́̄ ̸̗͖̮͋𝕮̸̭̥̳̔́̔̓̋𝖎̵̖͚̫̈̓͒̈́𝖗̴̣̩͔̂͊̿̃𝖈̵̢́̕𝖚̷̨̛̯̦̻͌̀̀𝖘̷̧̘̣̹̦͌̇͒̇͝.̸̨̼͉́̚͝
̴̛̤͇͓̉𝕱̴͇͂̈́𝖊̸̰̅̌̀͌𝖊̴͍̀͛̽́𝖉̸̧̺̫̰͒͋͋̓̚ ̸̡̡͎̚𝖒̸͖̹͈̏͝𝖊̸̢̛̼̮͇̣̌̋̈.̸͎̖̳͖̜̓̍̒̾̒

    "At-Târiq," the Spider hummed simply. "This is the place."

    de Vliegende Hollanderʼs played a shipwrecked pirateʼs shanty, their flutes of rotten reeds crying out in warning. In the distance, rotten signage for MYSTIQUEʼS CARNAVAL VOOR MAGIE & MYSTICISME harbored the stranded cries of the spirits. The night circus was a breeding ground for the undead, with towering tents of dulled gold and crimson hanging in the bloodthirsty waves of the sky and an elaborate wrought iron-fence keeping trespassers out. Overhead, a vortex of darkness swirled around the Circus. Hot, searing flames slithered across the floor of the Skeleton Coast, consumed in a blazing glory.

    The Captain steered de Vliegende Hollander into the bay's jaws.

    "Iʼm afraid this as far as I can take us," the Captain spoke. "The edge of the world."

    "First you burn, then you bleed," the Spider spat, from the warnings in the waters. "And the man who made a deal with the devil says he canʼt wander further."

    What lay in the shadows, beyond the smoke and sand, was a Doll Woman, laced up in wedding white, confectionary as cake. Gray was her skin, peeled patchy paper, snowy was her hair, to match a cold demeanor. Maybe once the Doll Woman had a simple beauty: nubile young body with soft skin to match and painted lips to put any German or Dutch suitor to shame, but all the Spider saw in the heart of the desert was a decaying soul molding away to ash and bone.

    A cautionary tale: come no further.

    The Spider readied her knife.

    "Miss," the Captain warned in Dutch. "You do not know what lies ahead."

    "Hell is empty," the Spider replied simply. "Time to wake up, captain."

    And with that, she sank into the darkness.