Lord Ethan moved silently across the grassy fields, his footsteps muffled by the dampness of the grass beneath him. The golden sun was just setting over the Scottish hillside as he approached Farrell mansion, the impregnable fortress rising several feet into the air. High above the town of Daine, it made the houses below look like miniature store rooms scattered across its backyard. A good mile from the town center, no one dared to venture towards the mansion at this time of the day. Even in the early hours of the day, the mansion still looked as menacing as ever. Anyone who accidentally wound up within the vicinity of the mansion after dusk reported hearing strange snarling and hissing echoing across the vast, empty halls.
Thirteen. That was how many times the townsmen had tried to get the mansion torn down. It had belonged to the Crastor family in the 15th century, being passed down from generation to generation. Sometime in the 18th century, during what the people had come to describe as 'The Dark Days', the Crastor family had mysteriously been murdered one night in the winter.
Anyone who wanted to hear the story of the Crastors went to Mr Brandon, the oldest man in Daine. He used to work as the gardener of the Farrell mansion, and even as the generations died away, Mr. Brandon remained as constant as the mansion itself; silently drifting through time, never changing.
On that particular night, Mr Brandon had just finished locking the stables in the night. He had picked up the bottle of imported wine which Mr Harold Crastor had so generously given to him after his return from the city of Astel. He had also given him a new saddle for his horse, Greyhound, and he had also given him a collection of Colin Beats miniature carved puppets for the plays he usually conducted for the children of the town on Sundays.
Mr Crastor was a generous man, always choosing to place others before himself. Coupled with his wealth and charisma, no wonder people were so naturally drawn to him. He was a renowned gentleman, and he lived a very quiet and secluded life, choosing rather to spend the day sitting in his garden and drawing the mockingbirds chirping around the trees than to join the townsmen in pubs, drinking beer all day until they were too drunk to go home on their own, and their sober friends had to drag them home, all the while thinking of which excuses to give to their wives upon their return.
As Mr Brandon dropped the keys to the stable on the hook by the door, he could have sworn he spotted a cloaked figure high among the trees surrounding the mansion. He rubbed his eyes and stared again, trying to decipher whether it was just a figment of his imagination, or he had really seen it. As he looked again, the figure seemed to vanish swiftly into the woods, never appearing again.
A sense of dread suddenly fell on Mr Brandon. Hurriedly, he'd grabbed his loyal horse and tightened the brand new saddle once again, then swiftly hopped onto the back of Greyhound, the old horse neighing in protest.
As he set off for the gates, Mr. Brandon stopped for some reason and looked back at the mansion. The curtains were shifted slightly to the side, allowing him to catch a glimpse of Lady Crastor playing with little baby William. She threw him high in the air, and the baby giggled energetically. Their teenage son, whom he liked to call Junior-lord Ethan was sitting beside the fire, engrossed in a book he was reading. Lord Harold Crastor was seated at the table, his pen moving swiftly across a sheet of paper.
Mr Brandon couldn't help but smile as he watched them; a perfect family. He felt an unusual tug in his chest as he realised how much he cared about the Crastor family. They meant everything to him. He was nothing but a miserable young man begging on the streets of Daine before Charlie Crastor, Harold's grandfather had found him and hired him as his gardener. Mr Brandon had devoted his life to the Crastors, choosing to spend the rest of his life serving them.
As he continued down the path leading to the town at a leisurely pace, something made him look up at the trees beyond the mansion once again. What he saw sent a fierce chill down his spine.
All around the perimeter of the mansion, he saw huge shadowy figures moving swiftly across the plain fields surrounding the mansion. A few of them were carrying strange wooden objects, while others carried torches, the flames casting ominous shadows on their faces.
Mr. Brandon was rooted to the spot, watching them surround the building he had just left. Several of them formed a semicircle around the gates, the rest spreading across the sides of the wall. They paused, as the thickening quiet of the night fell around them.
Suddenly, two of them rushed towards the tall metal gates and tore them down with barely any effort. Panic fell upon Mr Brandon, and he urged Greyhound forward, the horse galloping swiftly across the road, seeming to also sense the danger they were in.
As soon as he reached the town, Mr Brandon headed straight for the warden's office. He jumped off the saddle immediately he reached the front door, the horse galloping to a halt beside him.
He stopped dead in his tracks as he realised that the warden had retired at this hour. Almost everyone had already retired for the day, with only a few drunken youngsters wobbling around the streets.
Mr Brandon thought about marching back to the mansion and defending his employers. But alas, he couldn't do anything even if he went back, remembering how they had torn down the gates. Whatever they were, they were definitely not human.
As a sense of desperation fell upon him, he sought out the only other option he had.
The church.
Mounting his steed once again, he galloped toward the only building that could rival the Farrell mansion in size. The doors were closed, but never locked. He pushed heavily and they swung open, the cold air outside sweeping into the vast space, accompanied by snow. A blizzard was forming outside.
He moved swiftly past the rows of benches, his eyes set on the painted glass figure of the messiah on the altar. He hurriedly marched up the stairs, dropping to his knees right in front of the statue.
His hands were trembling violently, as he pulled off his cap and squeezed it tight.
"In the name of the Father and the Son, and the Holy spirit." He made the sign of the cross, and brought his hands together, raising them to his lips as he furiously began to pray.
"Protect your servants through this night. Let no evil befall them, oh Lord. May our enemies be defeated while we triumph over them. Save us, oh Lord. Protect us through the night. Protect us through the night. Protect us through the night..."
On and on Mr Brandon prayed, the intensity of his prayer growing stronger as the minutes wore on. He continued to pray for his employers energetically, until suddenly, just a few hours past midnight, loud piercing screams were heard echoing across the hills. Mr Brandon froze, his blood turning cold. Even though a storm was raging outside, he was sure he had heard a scream. A female scream, in particular.
Sure enough, the scream came once again, this time louder and more drawn out than the last. Several people were woken up by the scream, a few brave ones even daring to venture out into the storm. Among them was Mr Brandon. The sight that beheld them shot through his heart like a shard of glass.
Farrell mansion was burning. The huge fortress was being engulfed in massive flames leaping high into the air. The shocking part was that the flames were bright green, and they burned fiercely even in the raging storm. In fact, they seemed to grow in the abominable weather.
Mr Brandon collapsed on the ground, as he saw his entire life going up in flames. All his life was tied to the mansion. He had no purpose if it no longer existed.
A sudden wave of madness befell him, and he staggered to his feet, running towards the mansion. Several townsmen rushed to stop him, but the fire in his heart burned as strong as the fire consuming the mansion. He rushed past them and headed up the path, his lengthy strides making a dull thud in the thick snow that had fallen on the ground.
Just as he reached the gates, he was knocked over by something huge that had snuck up behind him. Though later he told the townspeople that he only swayed a little, Mr Brandon had been swept clean off the ground. His cap flew into the snow several feet away from him.
With great difficulty, he propped himself up on his elbow, the storm making it difficult to see past his nose. He squinted his eyes and tried to see better, but to no avail. As he began to crawl to his feet, a heavy boot collided with his midsection, knocking the wind out of him completely. As he fell to the ground, several other boots descended on him, stomping so hard that he felt his ribs cracking under the pressure.
"Leave him!" a deep voice snarled, cutting through the storm. Wincing in pain, Mr Brandon tried to twist his body upward to catch even a glimpse of his attackers.
"He's worthless. Grab what we came for and let's go," the voice commanded. Mr Brandon felt the ground shake as several figures swept past him, a few of them stomping on his figure as they walked past him.
Just as he started to slip into unconsciousness, he finally managed to turn over and he laid his eyes on the person whose voice he had heard. He would never forget the look on the boy's face when their eyes met. It was the same person whom he had seen just a few hours ago sitting comfortably with his family, engrossed in the book he was reading.
Lord Ethan.
Mr Brandon tried to wrap his head around the situation, but a swift boot to his face by his employer's son sent him into darkness.
The next day, the townsmen bravely marched up to the gates and saw an almost lifeless Mr Brandon leaning against the destroyed gates of Farrell mansion. He was swiftly taken to the local shaman, while the rest of them dared to survey the insides of the mansion. The once beautiful building was now utterly destroyed. And mysteriously, the Crastors were nowhere to be found. Not even their lifeless bodies were found.
In the days that followed, the town of Daine seemed to be covered in a cloud of despair. Not even the children could be heard laughing. The sun was hidden for several days, and even the white snow that decorated the town annually had ceased completely. All the while, Mr Brandon lay in the ward recovering.
A few days later, people began to mysteriously disappear. Entire families went missing suddenly, and no trace was left behind. The people were so scared that several of them decided to leave the town. Daine became a ghost town. Only a few people remained, several of them being old people who didn't wish to abandon their homes. Others remained because they had nowhere else to go. Among them was Mr Brandon.
Lord Ethan smiled to himself as he remembered the glorious days. When his kind were free to roam the streets as much as they wanted. The days when the Purebloods ruled over the entire continent, striking fear in the hearts of men.
The pale ones, they called them.
Shrugging off the nostalgia, he stepped into the destruction that had once been his home. The walls on which his family's pictures had once hung was reduced to nothing but rotten wood. The vast entrance hall was nothing but a plain heap of rubbish. Making his way into the even larger study that once belonged to his father, he stopped in the middle of the room and swept some of the pieces of wood and dust away, forming a large circle in the center of the room. Taking the large piece of chalk he had brought with him, he drew the ancient sign of evil which the Purebloods used to summon their master.
Completing the symbol, he stepped several feet away and muttered the ancient words into the air, "Valas en Draco!". The air around the room seemed to thicken with the feeling of despair. Lord Ethan trembled slightly, dropping swiftly to his knees. The shadowy figure of his master emerged from the earth, glowing an ominous red. Lord Ethan didn't dare look up.
"Is everything going as planned?" his master's terrible voice thundered across the vast emptiness, reverberating off the walls with renewed force.
"Yes, my Lord. Everything is going smoothly, exactly the way you wanted it," Lord Ethan replied quickly.
"Very good. Do exactly as I told you to, or you shall face my wrath." His master cackled, making him wince in fear. He nodded swiftly, and the shadow descended once again into the earth. He stood up hurriedly and dusted his knee, stashing the chalk in his pocket, safe for future use.
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