The Undertaker, Prologue

Prologue



The wind howls throughout the land, forcing all the denizens into their homes. Everyone is hiding, expecting the upcoming storm.

"Fools," a soft, yet rough voice speaks, sitting cross-legged on top of a mountain peak, observing the city below. "Fools, fools." The hooded person stands up, untouched by the wind, and descends into the city, landing softly as if put down by a large hand. The person suppressed a laughter, and walked down the main road towards the main keep, castle, or whatever it should be called.

A bird appears out of the darkness, circling above the hooded person's head. The person pays no mind to the feathered creature, continuing the trek to the keep.

"You are being dramatic," the bird shrieks and descends lower and closer to the person's head.

"I have a sense for it," the person whispers, and picks up the pace. The bird shrieks again, following. There are no guards, and the person passes freely through the closed, heavy, wooden door.

Magic.

A voice whispers all around the two, sounding like the voice of magic itself. The arcane sound wraps itself around the hooded person and follows it all the way. Arcane magic barriers are all around the keep, for sure, to keep interlopers away. This person, however, is unaffected. Even the magic fears.

The person, the interloper, moves upstairs with quick movements, as if the countless steps are equal to nothing.

Soon, the hooded person and the bird reach the top floor. There are about five of them, at least. One large keep. "Indoors, it is so troublesome," the bird shrieks in a lower voice, flapping its wings helplessly in the large, yet not large enough hallway. The person waves a hand at the bird, making it lose even more balance. "Why, thank you," the bird says, finally landing and deciding to hop and walk after the person, who continues towards the end of the hallway without a word. The person stops in front of the last door, a heavily ornate door that even has a golden tag on it indicating it is the King's room.

"How amusing," the person whispers, cloaking in shadows and entering the room without opening the door, again. Magic. The bird curses inside his head, remaining in front of the door.

The room hiding behind it is a large, oval room with even an enormous oval bed, not to forget the baldachin. The King, an older man of forty to fifty years, is sound asleep in the middle of the bed, covered with several layers and types of sheets. The hooded person clicks their tongue, folding their arms over their chest. "Look at you, you big baby," the person says in a normal voice, but the King does not budge. The person removes the cloak of shadows, approaching the bed. "Wake up, you." The person stretches out a slim hand covered with a tight black sleeve and a small leather glove. Dark violet and black smoke-like matter winds from her arm and towards the sleeping King, tickling his cheek. Magic.

The touch of death wakes up the King, who jumps up in a sitting position, staring straight at the person before him. In the darkness of the room, all he can see are glowing, frost blue eyes, and he knows what it is. Frost blue is a colour of death, a colour chosen because of the coldness of stiff, dead bodies. Frost.

"Y-you…why are you…here?" the King shivers, pulling the fallen sheets up. Coldness creeps into the room.

"Is it not obvious?" the hooded person says in an obviously bored voice. Such questions, from people who know, are annoying. "What do you think, why am I here?" The King says nothing. "Good boy, seems like you do know why I am here. Then, do not ask such stupid questions." She moves a steps backwards. "Comfortable there?" The King frowns, but nods at the even more sinister gleam that appears in the interloper's eyes. "Impatience is my other name," the person says, and, with a rough sigh, stretches out the hand again.

"Can I see your face, at least, Impatience?" the King says, eyes locked on the hand. The person grumbles and removes the hood with a swift movement of the other hand, lighting up the room after that. Magic. Her white hair falls around her slim face, the ends of it blackened. Her frost blue eyes are large on her slim, but seemingly drained face with slightly visible black smudges here and there. Her eyebrows and eyelashes are both white and black, and somewhat grey. Her lips, instead of a reddish colour, are a pale blue. She is one face of death. "Oh."

"Now, enough of this," she hisses, letting death magic ooze from her hand again, the shadows wrapping around the King's throat. Magic. He yelps quietly. She clenches her fist swiftly, the movement followed by the cracking sound of the King's spine. The person frowns and approaches to body, touching it. She feels nothing.

Something is wrong.

"Indeed," the bird shrieks outside, listening to the thoughts of his owner.