Prolog

It was on a mild spring day, which was to go down in the history books as the sixth of April, as the gigantic shadow of the moon began to push inexorably in front of the sun and thus drew countless glances towards the sky. Away from the work that had just been done. Away from the people with whom one had whispered excitedly until just now. Away from the three lifeless bodies that had been hanging silently in the branches of a mighty old tree since dawn, swaying gently back and forth in the rustling wind. Really. A weary sigh escaped from narrow lips before their owner boredly lowered his dark eyes and fixed a sheet of finest parchment on his lap. The attention of the people in this village really left more to be desired from day to day. He hadn't slept all night to think up all these perfectly formed nastinesses and put them down on paper in the most beautiful words. And now no one was even listening to him. It was a shame what had become of this already unsophisticated place. But no one stood a chance against an omen of evil, which was about to literally overshadow everything. Yawning, the man sitting a little apart rose and stretched extensively. Well. At least he was able to get out of here without having to deal with the annoying whispers and chatter of the villagers. With the accusing looks, the intimidated fingers pointing at him, and the indignant faces. Smiling almost contentedly, the black-haired man raised his head once again and looked at the three dead young women who had hanged themselves in this beautiful, time-honored fruit tree somewhere along the morning hours. Who had chosen suicide in order to depart from life with at least a vestige of dignity. Who had voted their own annihilation, only to finally escape Madara's cruel mockery and scorn, which had mercilessly pursued them since the festivities of the previous week. How many poems had he written about these yokels? In how many lyrics had he mocked their clumsiness and lack of grace? With how much abandon had he made them feel all their shortcomings until they simply could not bear the countless humiliations any longer? Only out of the corner of his eye did he see the inhabitants of the settlement shyly turn to look at him once more as he finally prepared to leave. How they gazed back indignantly and yet disturbed at this man, whose genius was so far beyond their comprehension that not a few suspected him of being in league with the gods themselves. This man who had driven so many to suicide with his sharp tongue and frightening eloquence. This man who preferred to use his boundless talent to terrorize the world with his passionate spitefulness rather than to do anything useful with it. Madara had long since become the scourge of his homeland. A scourge that fed its wickedness from the experiences of the last war and a failed marriage, and brought only endless and irrepressible resentment to the people. A demon that no mortal was able to stop.