The Creator fell for what seemed like an age, until finally his head bounced down off of a mass of rotten flesh and bones. When he finally came to a rest it was between what was left of an arm of one of his many victims and the skull of another. By the time he’d settled into his position the Twins had already seemingly departed from above.

He was alone.

He wished now that it had been his nose and not tongue that the Hipplong had taken, the stench of death and decay so strong that he could not think without it dominating his every thought.

It was hours before he even attempted to think back on his life, for what else could he do now. Time was the only thing he had plenty of.

Grend was correct, the Creator could not remember the first of the Beastlings he’d cast down into the pit. It was so long ago now, he thought, everything has changed. All of it.

He supposed there had been three stages of his life in the tower. He could scarcely remember anything before that.

He remembered when he had first started his experiments, how people had came from miles around to witness his creations first hand. How they had applauded him, marvelled at his genius. Then the break outs started to occur. One by one, each one more deadly than the last. A farmer killed when out in the fields, a boy snatched down by the water’s edge. A girl taken from her mother’s arms. He did try to keep control, try to make the people understand, such innovations and developments as he was creating were bound to result in some accidents. Of course they didn’t understand, they never understood him. He remembered the horde of flames and pitchforks ready to annihilate him and his Tower of abominations. He remembered too how they had fled before those very same abominations, one self righteous villager hiding and cowering behind the next.

That had been the start of the second phase.

He recalled vividly the burning desire within him to conquer, to rule and decimate any who stood against him. The local Baron had sent out many expeditions, each one greater than the last. When eventually a small army of about 2,000 soldiers had been sent out against him he had finally been able to watch on gleefully as his much smaller force of about 200, made up of of wolflings, bullings, bearlings and a host of other Beastlings had ravaged through the humans. He remembered that moment fondly, the tigerling cutting down all 6 of the Baron’s supposed elite bodyguards before tearing out the man’s entrails. He’d still been alive when the Creator had came upon him after the fighting. That was a special moment, he smiled as he thought back on it. He laughed silently to himself. He had wanted to conquer the world at that moment. No one could stand in the way of his Beastling army.

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No one could have stood against them, but it was not to be. Controlling large numbers of Beastlings proved too great a challenge. A mental and physical toll that even he could not manage. 200 was the most he could keep control of at any one time. And then only for days at a time.

After the defeat of the Baron entire towns had been decimated, many of which he had little say in, his Beatlings running wild of their own accord.

The collars had been needed then, a method of maintaining his spell over the Creations without too negatively affecting his own power. Perhaps he could have worked further on them, even with the collars it was still not always comfortable having too many of the Beastlings outside of their holding pens. Had he dedicated some time to them he might actually have been able to create the army he once dreamed of. But it was only a passing desire, he had no real passion for war or conquest, it was fun at times, and watching his own creations showcasing their own power so masterfully was always a beautiful sensation. But it was a passing one. Without any real aim or ambition his passion for war had quickly burned out.

Then the final stage, for he supposed that was evidently what it was. A stage of drunken debauchery, full of psychedelic elixirs, stimulants, alcohol and a host of females, human and otherwise. Truthfully, he couldn’t remember much about that stage, only that it was by far the most fun. Too much fun, he realised. The foxling escaping him should have been a warning sign. The disaster with the Hippoling twins merely the culmination of too many consecutive nights of depravity and reckless abandon.

It is strange, he reflected, but having been at fault for my own downfall is somewhat satisfying. The Hippolings may have been the ones to finally put an end to me, but I signed my own doom when I first went down the path I did. If I could only die, he realised. If I could only die I would be satisfied and happy to do so now. If it wasn’t for that silly bet. There had been no need to prove my body impervious to damage. I should never have allowed myself to be so stupid. Oh well….now all there is to do is wait. Wait and wait and wait again. I’m fairly convinced I’m already somewhat mad, it shouldn’t be too long before I’m completely gone. Oh well….

A sudden tremor rocked the Creator from his spot, sending him sprawling across the shards and pieces of forgotten bodies. The whole place was shaking, the Creator was confused, he didn’t think he had gone mad yet, why then did it feel like the entire Tower was shaking. With each tremor he was thrown to a new side of the pit, soon becoming buried under a mound of his failed experiments. Faces flashed before him, cruel, hideous half formed faces. Flashes of bodies upon experimentation tables, screams of pain and terror. The Creator closed his eyes, why can’t I just die?