Mystic Island /// PART-6...The Hellish FullMoon Race

The full moon was not simply hanging in the sky.
It loomed there — heavy, sickly pale, like an eye forced to stay open far too long.
Its light fell upon the shores of Mystic Island and turned them into a battlefield of silver and shadow.

The island was awake.
And it was hungry.

A deep rumble vibrated through the ground, as if something beneath the earth were grinding its teeth.
The Sky Maw pulsed like a heart on the verge of bursting.
And on the horizon, the Devil’s Tornado began to grow — slowly, deliberately, like a predator studying its prey.

Then came the thunder.

Not the thunder of a storm.
But the thunder of hooves smashing the ground apart.
The Fair Riders – White as Broken Bones

Their armor gleamed in the moonlight, but the light looked wrong on them — too bright, too pure, as if mocking them.
Their horses snorted, but even their breath was unnaturally cold, as though the island had drained the warmth from their bodies.

Seraphin Vale rode at the front.
His face was beautiful, yes — but it was the kind of beauty one finds carved into a gravestone.
His eyes were emptier than usual.
Perhaps the tornado had torn more out of him than he dared admit.

“Ride,” he said.
It wasn’t a command.
It was a prayer.
The Blackriders – Black as Forgotten Graves

They arrived without a sound.
Headless bodies moving like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.
Their horses cast no shadows — the moonlight simply passed through them.

Captain Mordrain led them, his flesh‑hook hand twitching in rhythm with the heartbeat of the island.
A sound came from his torso, something like laughter — or the cracking of bones.

His carriage was a rolling coffin, cold mist pouring from its seams.
The wheels left no tracks in the sand.
The Red Zombies – Red as Burning Wounds

They surged forward like a living plague.
Their bodies half‑rotted, half‑burned, smoke rising from open wounds.
Their eyes glowed like burning coals inside hollow skulls.

Bella Zomba rode at the front, her cloak whipping behind her like a blood‑soaked banner.
Her whip of burning chains hissed through the air, scattering sparks that burst in the sand like tiny explosions.

“Let them burn,” she whispered.
And the island listened.
The Start — The Island Decides

There was no signal.
No call.
No starting shot.

The island itself gave the command.

A crack tore through the ground — long, deep, gaping, glowing red from within.
A scream echoed across the beach, a scream that was not human.

The carriages lunged forward.

Sand flew like shrapnel.
Waves broke like bones.
The full moon flickered, as if it were afraid.

The Fair Riders charged with desperate precision.
The Blackriders with unstoppable force.
The Red Zombies with blazing fury.

It was not a race.
It was a sacrifice.
The Beach Turns to Hell

The ground began to live.
Black hands of sand reached for the wheels.
Waves formed faces that screamed before collapsing again.
The wind carried voices whispering:

“More… more… more…”

Seraphin Vale ducked as a wave with a human face snapped at him.
Bella Zomba laughed as one of her own undead was dragged into the depths by a sand‑hand.
Mordrain tore a piece of shadow out of the air with his hook — and the shadow screamed.

The tornado on the horizon grew.
It was no longer a vortex.
It was a mouth.
The Climax — The Island’s Judgment

As the carriages reached the final stretch, the tornado began to glow — red, white, and black all at once.
A sign.
A verdict.
A hunger.

The ground split open.
The sky tore apart.
The beach became a maw.

Seraphin Vale stood in his carriage, eyes wide with terror.
Bella Zomba swung her burning whip as if she meant to tear the sky itself.
Mordrain raised his flesh‑hook hand, ready to shred anyone who stood in his way.

But the island had had enough.

One single, colossal breath from the tornado —
and the race ended.

Not with a victor.
But with a scream that ripped the night apart.


 

After the Race – the Triumphant End of the Full‑Moon Saga

The night has grown quiet, the storm has faded, and the Devil’s Tornado now glows only faintly on the horizon.

In the foreground stand the Schönlings Riders, exhausted yet victorious. Their white horses are steaming, their armor coated in water and dust, but the moonlight makes them shine once more. The blond leader raises his hand toward the sky while the other riders lower their weapons — a gesture of peace after the chaos.

Behind them lie the Blackriders and Red Zombies, defeated, their carriages shattered, their energies burned out and scattered across the sand.

The full moon reflects on the sea, now calm again, and the island seems to breathe — as if it, too, has survived the race.

• Autorensteckbrief von Harry Schloßmacher
• E-Mail senden an Harry Schloßmacher