Post by YFWE on Dec 14, 2010 1:50:55 GMT -5
Sigh No More
YFWE
Prologue
The news of the boy’s death ran rampant through the magical community not long after it had first been reported by a lonely beggar who had been awake and scanning the streets of the Magus Bazaar at a particularly late hour. He claimed to have seen, while stalking covertly through the darkened streets, a band of dragons – the American Dragon at its forefront, carrying the lifeless body of what appeared to be a human teenager.
Meandering to the local bar, he alerted – to the dismay of the dragons, who had been hopeful that they could avoid detection at that time of night – to the occupants of the building that the dragons had somehow procured a dead human.
The bartender, an elderly witch known to her patrons as Mrs. Scratch, had rushed to the window of her cozy establishment in time to see the morose procession and to catch a glimpse of the body. The boy’s face was peaceful in death, but tinted slightly due to the bitter February cold. There were no signs of foul play, but judging by the subdued emotions of the accompanying party, he was surely dead.
Mrs. Scratch gasped, her slender hand making an attempt to cover an expression of shock plastered across her countenance.
“Another one dead, Miss?” casually asked a patron, an elderly man, from his spot at the bar.
“’Mrs.,’ Edward. I’ve told you many times,” breathed Mrs. Scratch. “And yes. One close to the dragons this time, I fear.”
Edward perked up at this. “Pray tell.”
“It’s Arthur Spudinski, Edward,” she continued. “Also known as Spud. One of the American Dragon’s best friends and closest companions. Oh, bless his soul…”
The man sniffed, taking a long swig of his ale. “That won’t sit well,” he mused finally. “Dark times, Miss. Dark times indeed.”
A light snow had begun to fall, pattering lightly against the windows of the small building and melting almost instantly when coming into contact with the panes. This only added to the slight amount of snow that had already fallen within the confines of the magical community. It was a serene evening, quiet and still, safe for the snowfall. A peaceful evening, if any, to die.
Nodding slowly, Mrs. Scratch turned away from the window, hanging her head as she closed the shutters over the grim scene outdoors. “That it is, Edward,” the woman said sadly. “That it is indeed.”
She grabbed a nearby glass and, upon her apron-like dress, began to clean it almost absentmindedly. “I only hope we can pull through long enough. Anyway, m’dear, last call. Must put the children to bed at some point this evening, I reckon.”
The beggar had stood idly by, in the hope that perhaps his information would earn him a free drink or two. When it became apparent that Mrs. Scratch was far too occupied with other tasks and other fixations within her mind, he tipped his cap to the bar’s lone patron, turned on his heel and walked out into the cold evening once more.
But before turning toward his usual spot on the bazaar’s main street, the beggar happened to glance down into the snowy road, through which the dragons had trod. Though they had passed only a mere minute or two prior, their footsteps in the snow had already been covered by a thin layer of snow, enough to the point that the traces of the dragons walking through were all but effaced from the lonely road. Once with those remnants as his only company on that chilly night, the beggar found himself alone once more.
Pulling his cap low onto his head and cradling his arms within his overcoat, the man walked briskly away, but not before speaking ominously into the silence of the night.
“Here one moment,” he whispered, “…gone the next.”
YFWE
Prologue
The news of the boy’s death ran rampant through the magical community not long after it had first been reported by a lonely beggar who had been awake and scanning the streets of the Magus Bazaar at a particularly late hour. He claimed to have seen, while stalking covertly through the darkened streets, a band of dragons – the American Dragon at its forefront, carrying the lifeless body of what appeared to be a human teenager.
Meandering to the local bar, he alerted – to the dismay of the dragons, who had been hopeful that they could avoid detection at that time of night – to the occupants of the building that the dragons had somehow procured a dead human.
The bartender, an elderly witch known to her patrons as Mrs. Scratch, had rushed to the window of her cozy establishment in time to see the morose procession and to catch a glimpse of the body. The boy’s face was peaceful in death, but tinted slightly due to the bitter February cold. There were no signs of foul play, but judging by the subdued emotions of the accompanying party, he was surely dead.
Mrs. Scratch gasped, her slender hand making an attempt to cover an expression of shock plastered across her countenance.
“Another one dead, Miss?” casually asked a patron, an elderly man, from his spot at the bar.
“’Mrs.,’ Edward. I’ve told you many times,” breathed Mrs. Scratch. “And yes. One close to the dragons this time, I fear.”
Edward perked up at this. “Pray tell.”
“It’s Arthur Spudinski, Edward,” she continued. “Also known as Spud. One of the American Dragon’s best friends and closest companions. Oh, bless his soul…”
The man sniffed, taking a long swig of his ale. “That won’t sit well,” he mused finally. “Dark times, Miss. Dark times indeed.”
A light snow had begun to fall, pattering lightly against the windows of the small building and melting almost instantly when coming into contact with the panes. This only added to the slight amount of snow that had already fallen within the confines of the magical community. It was a serene evening, quiet and still, safe for the snowfall. A peaceful evening, if any, to die.
Nodding slowly, Mrs. Scratch turned away from the window, hanging her head as she closed the shutters over the grim scene outdoors. “That it is, Edward,” the woman said sadly. “That it is indeed.”
She grabbed a nearby glass and, upon her apron-like dress, began to clean it almost absentmindedly. “I only hope we can pull through long enough. Anyway, m’dear, last call. Must put the children to bed at some point this evening, I reckon.”
The beggar had stood idly by, in the hope that perhaps his information would earn him a free drink or two. When it became apparent that Mrs. Scratch was far too occupied with other tasks and other fixations within her mind, he tipped his cap to the bar’s lone patron, turned on his heel and walked out into the cold evening once more.
But before turning toward his usual spot on the bazaar’s main street, the beggar happened to glance down into the snowy road, through which the dragons had trod. Though they had passed only a mere minute or two prior, their footsteps in the snow had already been covered by a thin layer of snow, enough to the point that the traces of the dragons walking through were all but effaced from the lonely road. Once with those remnants as his only company on that chilly night, the beggar found himself alone once more.
Pulling his cap low onto his head and cradling his arms within his overcoat, the man walked briskly away, but not before speaking ominously into the silence of the night.
“Here one moment,” he whispered, “…gone the next.”