The Legend of Mkristo

As the sun slowly slips into its evening dance and the colors of the sky begin to paint their pastoral picture of serenity, an ancient voice dripping with envy and hatred begins to softly whisper to the children sleeping peacefully in Africa. The voice belongs to the ever eloquent and seductive Prince Mkristo Fenyang.
Not all children will sink into their beds with prolonging fear of the dreaded “Christian Conqueror”, for only those in East Africa know the wrath, unadulterated loathing, and startling jealously which once stirred within the heart of Mkristo.
The year is 420 A.D. Prince Mkristo was at the peak of his reign, with only a brother to dictate his path, he knew no enemies and never had the opportunity to feel the bitter twinge of defeat. This year would change many things for the noble prince of Kenya-Tanzania, for in this year he would fall from the very highest throne near God, to the very pits of purgatory.


The new Christian priest was infamous for his lust of power, lapping it up skillfully where he could, thieving and siphoning it where his golden tongue could not buy it. Prince Mkristo’s rising fame and love by his people soon became a sore and growing bruise that the Priest could not ignore. The Priest finally, with a fiery vengeance, had Mkristo excommunicated from the church he had served for 25 years, with faithful prayer and unfaltering faith. The Prince’s seemingly innocent existence had been wretched from his hands as he lost everything with the excommunication.
Upon the lone plains of East Africa, Mkristo had nothing but time to grow bitter and wretched for three months, each day his anger grew persistently vengeful. Soon the very blood which had once only run through a pure mind, boiled into a condemned mixture of hellish fire and immortal cruor. Mkristo had awakened his inner demons and as reward, Satan baptized him in his crimson tears upon the ides of March.
Upon the fourth month, Mkristo was driven to the point of insanity, reduced to ranting in the wilds of Africa, he began to plot. He traveled long hours until he came upon the village which had ruined his life and stared deep into its heart with crying babes and sleeping children. He watched the priest and waited, a satanic smile playing upon sanguine lips, the cool touch of metal pressing against his thinned thigh.
Midnight came upon them as a cloak, sweeping its long folds around them, hiding Mkristo in its darkest depths. Finally he stepped in front of the Priest, with an infuriated growl, his rage encompassing him till he could think no more. He slit his own tongue in to symbolize the words and meaning he had lost under the unrighteous excommunication, then sunk long fangs deep within the priest’s neck to solidify his new commitment to the devil.
Before his people he had transformed, eyes and mouth red with blood and merciless rage, his fingers blackened, callous with the life he had been exiled to. His five year old son turned in fear, cowering before the new demon of Kenya-Tanzania. He took a step forward, roughened feet clenching to the earth as a gargoyle’s to its post.
The priest fell ill, ranting incoherently for two mortal days and nights until death finally swept him away in mercy. Mkristo was forever labeled as “Satan’s Hand” by the children who were forever haunted by his hands covered in holy blood.
Dizzy with his new power over fear and exuberant over his seemingly magic blood, Mkristo set out destroy the Christian Religion in retaliation against the Lord he felt had condemned and abandoned him in his time of need.
His loathing ran so deep; he began to hate all things that reminded him of his purer youth and simpler ways, preferring to skulk in the dark night of Satan rather than be bathed in the warm embracing rays of God. Mkristo found ways to focus his mind to cause mutations to his body, to force fangs out farther, and sprout wings which were crafted with a demon’s hide from the very deepest depths of purgatory. Soon his grasp upon his new powers was so immense; he could retract his fangs and wings till he appeared no different from a normal man. Later on, no tale could surpass his abilities to fly and kill, except for the fictional tale of Dracula, the Romanian Lord.
Mkristo began to rely so dependently upon the blood of the pure and innocent, it became an elixir and he could not survive without bathing his tongue and throat in the warm liquid. With every victim he bit, they mutated or died, his power growing till he could sit within the outskirts of town and call to children, luring them out into the mysteries of the African night. Mkristo managed to successfully mutate or kill 967,293,495 men, women, and children in Africa alone. The untold damage and chaos he caused in other continents has never been documented, no victims ever stepped forward, nor bodies ever found.
Upon Mkristo’s 267th birthday he went to visit the last and dying heir to his once powerful clan throne. As he gazed at the body from rafters overhead, tears of blood streaked his face, and for the first time in over a hundred years, Mkristo slept without a single ounce of hatred or bitterness.
While he slept, the local priest came forth and bathed his sleeping body in holy water, in hopes to turn the condemned soul to the Lord once more. It is said that they found the heart of Mkristo lay in hard, shattered fragments within his immortal chest and his beautiful oration of demons can still be heard turning the blood of any pure soul to the condemned mixture of purgatory within a mortal night.