Supernatural: A Fijian Experience

The mist came suddenly in Anglesea that night, thick as spilled milk and cold enough to bite through even the heaviest wool. It rolled across the sacred patch of ground where no farmer dared plow, where no children dared play, and where the oldest stories whispered of the ** Netnets **. The **Netnets** were creatures of nightmares, the kind of beings whispered about in hushed tones by old farmers and the kind of shapes that flitted through the edges of a child’s dreams. They were small, no taller than a young boy, but their size only made them more insidious. Their bodies were covered in patchy, matted hair, slick with moisture that seemed to glisten like swamp muck.   Their faces were grotesque—vaguely human in shape but twisted beyond recognition. Eyes, small and beady, shone black like pools of tar, giving away nothing but hunger. Their mouths were wide and unnatural, filled with two layers of teeth. The first row was jagged and uneven, perfect for gripping and tearing, but...

With Cliodhna in hand, the hunter hunted not beasts, but men. He tracked the marauders to their fortress and slaughtered them to the last man. Their screams echoed through the night as the blade fed, growing sharper and darker with every life it claimed. But Cliodhna’s hunger did not end with his revenge. The blade whispered to the hunter, guiding him to others it deemed deserving of its wrath. Each kill seemed to sap a piece of his humanity, replacing it with a cold, unrelenting rage. In the end, the hunter became a shadow of himself, more beast than man. He was found dead in a village he had razed to the ground, surrounded by the bodies of the innocent and guilty alike. Cliodhna lay unsheathed in his hand, its whispers silenced for the moment, but its hunger still unfulfilled. And so, the blade continued its journey, passing from one hand to another, its whispers promising power, vengeance, and blood to those desperate—or foolish—enough to wield it. ——-/———/———/——-/———/ if you enjoye...

The Devil imbued Cliodhna with powers both seductive and sinister: - Invisibility Outdoors , allowing its wielder to stalk and strike unseen. - Berserker Rage Indoors , unleashing the fury of a predator with no mercy. - A Hunger for Flesh, Blood, and Bone , ensuring that the blade would never be satisfied and that vengeance would never truly end. As the Devil handed Cliodhna to the hunter, he whispered one final truth: “This blade does not simply thirst—it whispers. It will guide you to your enemies, but it will demand more. And when you have given it everything, it will take what remains of you. Go now, and spill the blood it craves.” ——-/———/——-/——-/ if you enjoyed my story buy me a cup of coffee. https://ko-fi.com/orange38719 

Long ago, in an age when mystics and fairies roamed freely, their whispers carried the weight of ancient secrets and untold power. It was a time of enchanted forests and shadowed glens, where the line between mortal men and otherworldly beings blurred. In this world, grief and rage could summon the Devil himself. The story tells of a hunter , a man of skill and solitude, who returned home from a week-long hunt to find his world reduced to ashes. His homestead was ravaged, his wife and daughters slaughtered by marauders. Their blood stained the earth he had once called his sanctuary. Despair clawed at his chest, and vengeance seared through his veins. Haunted by his loss and burning for retribution, the hunter wandered deep into a cursed grove—a place said to be untouched by mortal hands and tainted by the whispers of fairies. There, under the canopy of ancient, gnarled trees, he called out not to the gods, but to the Devil himself . The Devil came, cloaked in shadow and malice, his voi...

Despite her warning, the innkeeper took Cliodhna to a blacksmith and had her melted down into six ornate charcuterie knives. He believed fracturing the blade would sever her curse. But the curse was not destroyed—it was simply fractured. Each knife inherited a fragment of Cliodhna’s power, spreading tragedy wherever they went.

In the dark heart of the ancient woods, chaos reigned, and shadows whispered forgotten truths. Time moved like a serpent coiled around itself, and the earth drank deeply of the storms that tore through its flesh. This was a place where the living feared to tread, where the roots of trees wove tales of despair and the wind carried the lament of lost souls. In the midst of this chaos, a fire was lit. Its flames danced not with joy, but with defiance, a fragile spark of order against the consuming dark. A father tended this fire, his hands worn and blackened by countless battles with the night. He whispered to his son as the flames rose, their light carving islands of safety in a sea of shadows. “The fire is life,” the father said, his voice heavy with the weight of truth. “But the dark will test you. It will lie to you, strip you of warmth, and fill your mind with despair. Yet remember this: the fire I have given you is more than flame. It is thought, it is will, it is the light of those...