A poster stays barely attached to a tree, soggy and already worn from being exposed to the elements. It is stapled to the bark and the text is clearly written using ordinary markers and colored pencils. 2 months of being exposed to the elements caused the staple wires to rust and weaken, just enough that a strong gust of wind was able to free the poster from its prison and let it free. But while it is a slave to the tree, it is now a slave to the wind.
It did a somersault, backflip as it followed the lead of the winds with little to no directions. Higher and higher it went until it was close to the clouds.
How it didn't get wet from the condensation of the clouds? We may never know. It may be attributed to moon magic, or simply water-proof markers and really, really good quality paper.
Regardless, the journey of the poster did not end in the clouds. The wind pushed it more and more south. It dipped down and almost touched the sea until another gust of wind pushed it up once again. Until it reached the shore of a foreign nation, just south of England.
The poster continued on its path, twisting and spinning, flying up and down until it reached the untouched and wild wilderness of Southern France. So deep from the city, no one dares to enter it unless you wish to be hunted by wild predators. The poster then slowly settled down until it was softly touching the ground of a clearing, as if it finally deemed this isolated spot to be a proper place to rest.
Fate has a different plan for it though, as a very human hand bent down to inspect what dares to trespass on this wild outlands and contaminate it with its modernity. Indeed, this figure would have just destroyed the poster and ended its journey there.
Until the figure recognized something. Silver eyes read the contents of the poster. The figure, like most of the world, learned to understand English. Then everything fell into place, the familiar yet foreign aura of the paper. It belongs to someone, someone it hoped to have never seen in hundreds of years.
Then, the memories start to surface, voices of those the figure holds so dear. Their last words echo in her mind.
-My lady!!
-Please! Help us!!
-He's everywhere! I can't get a good shot!
-How can he outrun us! He's a mortal male!
-I'm sorry I failed…my Goddess.
The last call of her followers, desperate for her help, yet she is outmatched by the foreigner who dared get in the way of her hunt. And the master of that foreigner, so similar to herself. But something she despises so much in the world.
Like a dark and corrupted reflection of what she stood for. Old, decrepit, cruel, foreign and a male.
As she stood burying the last of her fallen beloved, she swore to get revenge. On the foreigner and its Godly master. Maybe Nemesis has finally given her blessing with the arrival of this poster, indeed it seems that divine retribution has finally come.
The figure looks up at the bright sky. It is still noon and not the right time for her to travel. The sun makes her crescent crown glitter like silver. It is also quite convenient for this "Moon Knight" to put his number on the poster, maybe she'll make a quick call before she starts her new hunt.