A black, derelict manor, just a days walk from the small village, had sat in the corruptive influence of rumor for some time now. Submerged in its inky depths the image, in the minds of the towns people, slowly warped. As easy as wetted parchment curling at the edges, every story about the grand house distorted to amplify superstition. It was common knowledge that if one dares to stray too far into the thick looming forest, said individual would, to put it lightly, struggle to continue maintenance of a life. Though, depending on the temperament of whichever townsfolk decimated the information, one may find a description of graphic death with a tad bit less euphemism. The small, overgrown road that led to the estate was uncanny enough to steer most away. It was so off putting in fact, that the provincial minds of the towns folk had remained ignorant to the fact that the manner had an even smaller, even more overgrown pathway hidden just behind. It was on this decrepit path that an elegant, jet black carriage was hurtling forward.
A petite figure, illuminated by what little light that could stream through the black curtains, sagged in on themselves as they let out a sigh. Boredom, swiftly having taken over their usually strong willed character, had torn all positivity as a concept from them. The melodrama of such a thought went unnoticed by the boy, who remained blissfully un-self aware of his own eccentricity. Casting a sea green glare out the window he sighed again. Just as every day had been for the past moon, dreary swaths of melancholy bathed the sky in a flat mirth.
The boy was worried for his beloved plants, the poor babies had gone without the sweet kiss of sunlight for a worryingly long period of time. Even just yesterday he had witnessed his hydrangeas wilt and brown, as if they too were thrust into the deep moodiness of overcast sky.
"Damn it all," he ground out, soft featured face contorting into a grimace more akin to a wolf that had lost its prey.
"At this point I might as well screw the consequences and banish the weather altogether."
Though he tried not to, magic of this scale was sometimes a necessary evil to protect the thing he loved most. His garden, a shining pillar of pride. Starting from his cottage the meticulously planted flowers spread out for acres. With his hard work even exotic and colorful plants thrived and flourished, creating an ever changing ocean of vibrancy. It was what filled his days. The work, the care it took to cultivate and maintain. It was an outlet, one that had encompassed his existence. Normally he would have questioned the routine, but his yearning for philosophical thought had been cut from him with a violence he sooner sought to forget. The jagged edges of which, tore into him the moment he returned to speculate.
By the time the carriage, pulled along by some dark and unseeable force, had reached the outskirts of his property, the clouds had significantly flipped from the boring flat spectacle of midday. Hidden behind it all, the tired sun was finally settling down to slumber behind the horizon. its' final breaths of life, setting the sky aflame. Burning hot with pinks and reds and oranges and purples. It was, the boy thought, the best part about the incessant cloud coverage. The colorful light display that rivaled even the beauty of his gardens was simply, magnificent. The empty feeling which had crept over him in the course of his journey soon dispersed into wonder, and into inspiration.
Yes, the sun set was a perfect model to follow for his garden. Soon he became lost in thought, pulled back into his blissful distractions. His past seeping off him, like water rolling off leaves in a rainstorm.
Though, it was not just the past that the boy had become oblivious to. As if sensing his mistake, the boy shot out of his daydreaming, something wasn't right. Peering out of the circular framed looking glass, he saw that a thick fog had enveloped the grove at which his quaint cottage was located. Alarm bells sounded in his head, sending shivers up and along his back and causing hair to stand on end. The boy was a skilled magic user, as such the weather wards he had woven with his very soul's power, should be preventing the natural occurrence of what he had so eloquently deemed as "bad-for-plant". Which meant, the fog that was twisting its way through the fields of flowers was anything but natural.
*wrong*
a voice at the back of his head called. It was a voice he hadn't heard for years, an intuition that he hoped in vain not appear again. For with the revitalization of that ability, comes a need. And if he needed to know that which he could not perceive, the farce he had fought tooth and nail to maintain was coming to a close. He felt his soul clench and roil, and he knew that the coils of pure spiritual energy, that make up the basic structure of one's soul, were now unraveling around him. Spilling out of his eyes, glowing threads of green, blue, black, and grey spun around him. Not good. Though the boy looked frail, the intensity of his soul was the opposite. If these threads got loose, it could mean the end for his home, the manor, and even possibly the town beyond it.
"...c-come back." he ordered, vainly attempting to shovel the threads back into his soul
*wrong*
It sounded again, louder, so very much louder than it had been before.
The noise echoed in his mind, interrupting his efforts to reign in his chaotic energy. It hurt it hurt it hurt and he pushed and pushed his hands into his eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the pain, and the threads that poured out in response. In the darkness of his squeezed shut eyes, an image flickered over his vision. It strobed in and out at alarming speeds and he could only make out one detail. A chilling detail. A pair of golden eyes, so rich in hue they appeared made of molten gold, of sunflowers and daisies, or at least the color they give off while burning. It was the eyes of a killer. Cold despite the hue they presented. They were eyes that haunted his thoughts when they strayed from flowers. Eyes of a demon.
With the last tremors of the prophetic attack finally dissipating from his body the boy rose from the tight ball he had somehow ended up in. Without the pain blocking his senses, he quickly wound up the runaway spiritual threads and returned them to their source. Once more he scanned the area from the window.
He could feel something out there, yet saw only the swirling mists. Swiftly he deducted that the best possible course of action was to exit the vehicle as soon as possible. Sitting in a giant target didn't seem like an intelligent way to spend his time, and though "intelligent" wasn't exactly the correct word to describe his mental capabilities, he possessed enough common sense to navigate life without difficulty.
Carefully he shifted against the entrance, back flush to its dark, velvet surface. He sucked in a breath, bringing it deep within his lungs. Again he extended his senses, his hearing this time. Not even a bird sung. Perhaps they had all fled, perhaps they had been killed. The thought sent shivers down his spine. On his exhale he released the coiled tension he had been building in his legs and shot out the doorway. The door swung around with surprising force as the boy launched himself out, pivoting on its hinges before slamming into the exterior of the carriage. It gave out a loud wham upon impact but the boy paid little mind, still in mid air he twisted his body around so that he could see the ground.
With half a thought he flared out the delicate, iridescent wings that had been tucked neatly against his back. Catching a small updraft he was rocketed higher into the air. His wings began to flutter, faster and faster and faster until finally they almost appears to vanish. From his birds eye position he could just barely make out his cottage, which peaked in and out of eyeshot from within the mists.
"Damn its like trying to see through pea soup"
Though he wasn't too high up, trying to make out the ground was proving to be difficult when his vision was thoroughly restricted by the mists. Now that he had left the enchanted walls of the carriage, the small presence he had once felt was now almost oppressive.
Tracing the monstrous aura, he glided soundlessly towards the eastern border of his land, cautiously scanning the fields as he went.
There! A small disturbance among the flowers. Hovering closer to the ground he could see that said disturbance was a foot print, a trail of them. Landing softly next to the prints, the boy knelt down to investigate further. The impression was large, too large to be any women's foot. The intruder was a man, then, and as the boy touched the footprints, he saw that his fingers were smudged with red. Smudged with blood.