Chapter Text
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore.
- Edgar Allen Poe.
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There he stood with pride next to his black stallion, which started to kick its polished hoof against the ground, snorting as it desired to leave; however, a murderer must first take a moment to appreciate his work that he has done yet again.
Fresh blood painted the snow in small droplets.
Oh such precious blood that keeps one's body so warm and alive.
It made his very own blood dance, bones ache, brain clouded by lust, but also with his veins seething in anger.
He leaves her there to rot, to become one with the putrid soil as it has been always said....
-
Darkness was all he could see.
The darkness enveloped him, cradling him tenderly like a mother would with her crying babe.
As he started to awaken, he heard the abrupt cawing of a raven in the distance, his eyes fluttering open while an excruciating pain throbbed in his temple.
The man's gaze wandered over the quiet cemetery, and he placed a gloved hand against his forehead and let out a grunt.
What happened to him? Did anyone take the opportunity to steal the lantern he was holding?
Flins began to wonder a little more then he held his hazy vision above, shifting his sight to the ever so bright moon and stars that were glimmering in the night sky.
“What beauty….” He whispers in a gentle tone, the full moon above which cascades him with such a soft light.
With a groan, Flins unsteadily turned onto his stomach, one hand firmly placed on the ground. His long locks of hair cascaded over the cobblestone floor.
When he stood, his knees began to buckle slightly.
He scanned the cemetery again, finding his lantern next to a tombstone; the frozen moss obscured the text.
He paused, pursing his lips and he lets out a long breath.
“Hm, perhaps I should head to bed soon...”
The raven caws again.
However, this time it sounded more like a warning.
He raised his head and saw a raven sitting on top of a nearby tombstone cross in which was veiled with a thick blanket of snow. It held his attention as if it were, at the very least, spying on him. With magnificent glossy feathers that flickered slightly to extend its wings, the bird’s single beady eye gazed down at him from the side as it has his head tilted low.
Ignoring the raven, he turns to retrieve his lantern, which had been placed delicately close by, his back turned.
The raven observed every movement he made.
Flins’ other hand that was free of an object suddenly raised along with his arm, as if waiting.
A minute passes before he hears the distant flutter of wings, and the raven sinks its claws into the sleeve of his arm, yet Flins disregards the ache starting to arise.
Odd.
No bird, let alone a raven, would ever come close to a human.
Upon close inspection, it seemed well-kept.
His jaw tightens.
Flins observed the raven until he noticed a tag attached to the bird’s right foot.
Curiosity piqued, he leaned closer. He tried to decipher the letters but when his gloved fingers reached out to grasp it, the raven lunged at him, nearly biting his one finger off.
The Lightkeeper flinches, face scrunching up a bit.
“Come now, don't be so rude.” He sets his lantern next to his heeled boot, extending his hand towards the raven once more.
Carefully, he reaches for its neck and starts to stroke the raven, a smile spreading across his face before it abruptly fades.
“Hmph, you are spoiled,” Flins grouches. His eyebrows furrowed together. And though he lowers his hand to the raven's leg, he finally held the tag, flips it over, and raises an eyebrow.
Flins' mouth dried, this was an unknown language he has never seen in his life.
“Zanni?”
The creature grew agitated, cawed once near Flins’ ear, then flew away so swiftly that he had to squint to see the large bird soar off into the distance.
Flins picked up his glowing lantern and began walking toward the graveyard’s gate, gradually emerging from the fog that thickened Nasha Town at night.
-
Along this such late hour, few mortals were present, typically the intoxicated sailors or officers and prostitutes who roam around the taverns.
They offer solace and warmth to those in dire need of it because the winter has become so harsh this year.
As he started to walk onto the main street, he observed a group of women looking directly at him.
They began to whisper among themselves and giggle like a bunch of little girls, wearing pounds of heavy makeup that reminded Flins too much of clowns you see in local fairs or bazaars. Their cheeks painted in bright shades of pink and lips coated with many layers of the ugliest hues.
“Well, well, isn’t the town freak?” One tells the bunch, a smirk crawling on her brisk face.
She surely had too much to drink.
He stopped dead in his tracks, and swiveled his head towards her, maintaining a stoic expression but inside he felt the turmoil brewing within.
She was holding a drink with her frost-bitten fingers.
Upon closer inspection, it was evident that it had been made with a concoction of ales to help her get intoxicated more quickly.
She brought her ruby-red lips to the pint of ale, taking large gulps.
Another young woman pushes her away from her side, cackling as she does so. The scrawny prostitute carrying the ale nearly fell flat on her face on the snowy ground below. “Leave him alone, Marie! Don’t let him come closer or he’ll suck your blood!”
The group laughed so obnoxiously loud that Kyryll believes his eardrums are about to burst and bleed if he stayed any longer.
He chose to walk away from them, with the tavern’s interior light appearing merely as a speck of glow in the distance.
Freak.
Revolting.
Monster.
All words he has managed to block away.
No longer troubled by any he hears.