It is a small thing. When one hears of the horrors caused by those who have owned it, one thinks it something big and grand. If one heard no description of it, one would think that perhaps it is some massive blade that drinks souls. One might think it is a suit of armor that transforms the wearer into a dreadful beast. Perhaps one see it as the crown of a tyrant, a crown worn by heads that have demanded the blood of innocents time and time again. Whatever one hears of it, this ancient thing, dread and powerful, the Harbinger of Blood, one always knows what it is. A cursed, dread, and horrible artifact that transforms its owner into a monster that will do the evil bidding of the malevolent will that rages like an inferno within the confines of the artifact. Since before the days when Gilgamesh was king in Uruk, when the first stone of the first pyramid had yet to be placed, it has been a thorn in the side of civilization. How, one will say, how can it not be some great kingly item, something that a proud emperor and a desperate peasant will both want to pick up and use. But it is nothing like that.

It is so very simple, lying there upon a worn velvet pillow, in the dark cave that once served as a home to a powerful archmage that had wanted to protect the world from the malicious influence of this dread artifact. The name of this wizard, who every day resisted the call and draw of this accursed item, is forgotten, and yet for his sacrifice, mankind has known centuries without the horrid dread that is spread by this baleful item. And yet, it looks so very innocent. So very powerful. A polished rock. Nothing more. In the light of the torch, it shimmers slightly. No more, no less. It is not a gem of ancient power. It is just a pretty, polished, rock. Containing eldritch and misbegotten powers that the universe wishes to forget. Today, it is fated, that it will be picked up again. A thin arm holds a torch aloft, as the little thing whispers seductive words to the brain of a human girl. A tired looking waif of a human girl. Mayhaps no more than nineteen summers old in the flesh, though if exhaustion and world-weariness were years, then truly she is a thousand years old at least, possibly more. Thin and frail, she stands completely still, staring at the dread stone before her.

''You do not need to lie to me. I know what you are.''

Her voice is ragged, and worn. The stone is worried for a moment, the will inside desires to corrupt, to destroy, and to make monsters. It cannot do so if the person knows what it is, unless they let it in. ''Do not worry, instrument of doom and death, I am not here to prolong your imprisonment. Indeed.'' Her mouth twists into what could charitably be called a smile, if only as the kind of smile that a person who has never done so naturally would attempt it on purpose has. ''I will be your vessel, but in exchange I have but a simple request.'' If the stone could be full of glee, it would attempt this, but it was built to take the flesh of mortals into its will and rebuild them as monstrous things. It only knows that its purpose will be continued. That it, until its fated destruction cleverly prophesied by its maker in the age before the beginning of history to only happen at a time in the future so far ahead, will see its influence reign for millions of years before it ends. It does not know glee, or joy, or even happiness. But there is an evil contentedness in being used for its intended purpose.

''Twist my flesh, change my body, burn away who I was and replace me with a monster. But I ask only that you grant me my vengeance. Down in the valley below, the invaders have taken the home of my father. Have conquered the lands of my ancestors. And have claimed this realm in the name of their weak and insignificant pantheon. Use me to crush them. To break them. To end their world as they have ended mine. Show them what happens when a people is destroyed, in both their history and their flesh.''

An easy request to make. An easy boon to grant. An easy task for a stone that has always made the best monsters. Sometimes it is as simple as influencing a mind to do things that they have already considered. This is how the stone, the Harbinger, breaks those that are too strong of will to be truly controlled, and makes monsters of them, even if it is indirectly. Sometimes it is the slow mutation, the breaking of the idea, of the mind, of turning something that was once good over a long period into something monstrous. Those already monstrous, they are simply given a body to match their rotten souls. But this, this gives the stone something more. Yes indeed. It sends out a psionic agreement, an affirmation to the frail human, that it will indeed grant it all the vengeance and all the blood that she could possibly desire.

''Then I do this willingly, though it might curse me forever. I take up the Harbinger, damn the consequences, willingly and with no objections, for those who might once have objected to such a drastic choice, have been reduced to bones in shallow graves. Make me your vessel, and grant me and my people our vengeance!''

The hand not holding the torch reaches out, and takes the stone. It burns into her flesh, and she does not scream. The stone, the Harbinger, molds her like clay, twists her core concepts, her helix structure, with no effort at all. A torch is dropped. The first change comes. Though the body is too weak to accommodate more radical changes, it is enough to begin its task. There is no internal struggle as the monstrous body moves out of the ancient cave, past the dilapidated quarters of the long dead wizard, passing empty cots and empty tents, out into the world once more. Underneath a moonless sky, the monster moves. Down in the valley the colonists sleep. But their beasts do not. Screams emerge from barns across the valley, as the monster that was once a human girl feasts upon cattle. When the frightened men and women come to investigate, the beast has already fed. And it is moving. Soon it is going to the place where the slaves are kept. In their chains and in their filth, they are kept. But they see the monstrous beast, and they cringe away. But she knows that this is but one such valley, and that her foes are many.

She passes the curse along. Bite by bloody bite to each and every one in the place where her people are kept. When the slavedrivers open the gates to the squalid house, they are met by an enemy that is red in tooth and claw, an enemy that knows the hate, the bloodthirst, and the rage that the curse gives them. The stone, still embedded into the flesh of its first ever willing monster, feels the intensity of this hatred, of this vitriol. And it knows that it has finally found its truest purpose of all. Sure, some men of its own liking will die during this night of brutal slaughter, but the weight of innocent souls torn to bits by these angry monsters is far more tremendous than anyone could ever have imagined. From house to house, the monsters fight, always killing, their unready enemy taken by surprise has no chance for victory. When the red dawn comes, it is met by a town drenched in blood, and a queen-monster being praised by the countless former slaves, now lesser monsters, that have been spawned by the actions of this daring girl.