The Lunar Harvest

[The Narrator]

Greetings,


Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am new to this website and to forum role-play, and seeing as I have not written anything in years, I thought it would do me good to try my hand at a short story of sorts in order to shake off the dust from my pen. I'll post more as the mood strikes and as I have time.


Take care and God bless.

• Prologue
• Chapter 1

• 
  
  
  Revised
  
  
  The Lunar Harvest
  
  ​
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  ​
  
  
  
  The sun began to dip behind the mountains throwing its last rays of light upon the fertile land of Gardendale. It was twilight, and colors of pink and purple pressed upon the tall stalks of wheat in a way that made the field look like an endless ocean of gold. Only dirt paths separated the vast expanse which had been beaten down by the villagers as they worked the land with impressive staunchness.
  
  
  They were so accustomed to their labors that their internal clocks ticked at the same time every day to remind them of nightfall. The farmers ceased from their toil and welcomed the breeze that traced its fingers along their flushed faces, brimming with a gaiety common to simple folks that could appreciate an honest living. “Work hard and play hard,” was their motto, and a motto every one of them understood to be more of a creed to honor and live by than a pithy saying.
  
  
  As the farmers began packing up the wheat that had been harvested, Julie stood up and brushed the sweat from her brow with the hand that held a sickle. The smudge of dirt on her face seemed to betray her loveliness, but upon closer observation it became clear that the dirt, sweat, and tufts of blonde hair spilling from her kerchief only drew attention to her charm when contrasted with her winsome good looks.
  
  
  The day had been particularly beautiful, and she could not help but feel her chest swell with an influx of emotion that left her on the edge of melancholy and elation. It was days like this that transfixed her faculties into pensive thought of the world beyond her small, rural town. The girl of sixteen told herself that these bouts of longing were typical of every girl her age, and through rigorous determination, she was able to sedate her inner curiosity and desires. Her home was here in the gardens and fields, and to pine for something more was naïve and sheer folly.
  
  
  “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” a soft and steady voice inquired from behind her.
  
  
  Julie looked over her shoulder and found Caylum securing the last bundle of wheat upon the wagon. Julie and Caylum had grown up together, and although he had always been her best friend, the years had steadily drawn them apart. The pain that bore down on her from their distance was like a splinter that pierced her heart, ever there, and impossible to remove. While most of the town took measures to avoid her, he had befriended her and quickly became her sole source of comfort and happiness. And the weight of her loneliness began to increase in increments the greater the distance between them grew.
  
  
  “Doing what?” she returned, slipping out of her daze and securing her own bundle before throwing it over her shoulder.
  
  
  Caylum paused and looked up towards the sky. “Dreaming.”
  
  
  “I don’t have time to dream—too much work to do,” she said as a matter-of-fact.
  
  
  The boy averted his gaze from the firmament and rested it upon Julie. His lips quivered in an effort to abstain from speaking until he considered his words more carefully. “We’d better head back and see if anyone needs help before things get into full swing,” he said, raising up and turning to face her. “Besides, you need to wash up if you plan on getting asked to dance by any boys tonight.” Julie scoffed then grinned, and the two of them headed to town together in silence.
  
  
  ____________ † ____________
  
  ​
  
  
  
  Gardendale had become something of a legend among the surrounding regions. Although the town was devoid of many merits, the quality of their produce was second to none, and this small blessing kept them afloat during times of famine and the declining economy.
  
  
  The soil was rich and plentiful: it cultivated crops and flowers in ways that no one could explain. It had always been assumed that in the age of the Ancients, the humble village had been blessed by angels that visited during the summer solstice. The scent of plum pies, pumpkin spice bread, and potato and leek stew mixed with aromatic flora and wafted through the air, beckoning their neighbors to visit regularly as if spellbound.
  
  
  However, for reasons they could not explain, and for the first time in Gardendale history, the landscape seemed to be drying up, and their crops were not yielding favorably.
  
  
  The success of this year’s festival was detrimental to the preservation of the town, and anxiety drew lines along the foreheads of the Elders in charge. For many years, the festival helped support the town, and most families depended on the income that came from selling their goods to those who came from the neighboring cities.
  
  
  While living was difficult and challenging in the territories, the people never considered themselves poor, feeling content, and at times rich with the simplicity of life and strong bonds that tend to develop among those who share a common struggle. Though concern over their failing crops was leading to uneasiness, and from uneasiness to worry, and by virtue of their own fortitude and grit, it was all they could do to ensure that worry never reached panic.
  
  
  The large dirt road that split the town was lined with decorative lanterns, and on either side were novelty shops, game booths, food stands that provided their staple dishes, and many other attractions.
  
  
  The townsfolk and visitors buzzed with anticipation of the merrymaking and festivities as they partook of the bazaars and delicacies. Children chased one another through the dusty streets as curtains of darkness closed upon them, and old-timers sipped patiently on apple flavored moonshine as they reminisced and relived their youth through adolescents making their way around the shops hand in hand.
  
  
  At the end of town, the melody of music could be heard as the musicians began tuning their instruments in preparation for the dance. The large gazebo constructed for such occasions resided at the edge of town in the valley. Twisted vines and sundry flowers adorned the modest structure, and faces beamed with delight as the dancing commenced.
  
  
  Julie loitered around the gazebo earnestly trying to convince herself to join the happy dancers. In times of great ecstasy, she found herself to be awkward, nervous, and an all-around mess. It did not help matters that she only dressed up a few times a year and felt utterly ridiculous when she did. Her baby blue dress had lost a little color over the years, but her petite body poured into it smoothly, and the virtuosity of the latticework along the sleeves and hem were still intact—besides, it was the only dress she owned.
  
  
  However, the music compelled her, and had an energy that possessed those who heard it like puppets, no longer in control of their bodies as if the band had fastened strings to them without their knowing. Julie could feel it too, and although she felt her heart begin to race, it subsequently sank as she noticed several people give her a look that made her feel abashed once she entered the gazebo.
  
  
  The young belle found herself standing alone, barely at a conversational distance, but still finding hopeful pleasure in watching the young and charming people twirl about with delighted expressions.
  
  
  However, as the night moved along, the fear of never being approached to dance dawned on her, and she felt a hot tinge of blush spread over her cheeks. In an effort to regain her composure, she made her way to the refreshments and helped herself to a ginger cookie and pear cider.
  
  
  Her inner voice told her that she could still save face if she left before people realized that she had spent the night without regard. It was a pity: the night was breathtaking and so full of hope, and she longed for someone to make it matter.
  
  
  ____________ † ____________
  
  ​
  
  
  
  Caylum heard the jovial sound of laughter blending with music coming from the gazebo. It never ceased to make an impression upon him how quickly the community could lose themselves in a romp after undergoing such arduous work. But he understood that the respite was a means to liberate them from the demands and pressures of life—even if just for a spell—in order to empty the stress that could easily overburden them if left unchecked.
  
  
  He would have joined in on the fun earlier, but his family was especially poor, even by the standards of the town, and he and his two younger sisters made sure to sell all their goods before allowing themselves to indulge in the pleasures of the festival.
  
  
  As he found his way through the crowd, he scanned the residents looking for familiar faces, but made little effort to socialize. He was not concerned with the general affairs of his acquaintances. He carried a distant air that made him seem withdrawn, and it was this very trait that drove his fellow residents to regard him as unapproachable.
  
  
  “It’s a funny thing seeing you here, Caylum” an amicable voice extended from a table that harbored a group of elderly men. “I didn’t fancy you as the type to seek pleasure at our little jubilee.”
  
  
  Caylum approached the table upon recognizing Kirby, and offered him a modest smile. The retired lawyer was one of the few people he felt any sentiments of warmth towards in the town, and although he would never say as much, he knew that Kirby was the one that had been leaving baskets of food on his family’s porch during times of destitution.
  
  
  He noticed the effect of the ale on the gentleman, and watched as he blew out a ring of smoke from his cigar. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes smiled beneath the round-lensed glasses that rested upon his stout nose. It made his neatly combed silver hair, thick mustache, and pale complexion more noticeable.
  
  
  “I’m looking for Julie, have you see her?”
  
  
  “What you want Julie for,” Waylon, a man with a sagging face and hollowed eyes interjected. He drew his mug of spiced beer to his eager lips and took a drink before nearly slamming it on the table. “Nothin’ but trouble, that lass, if you ask me. It ain’t natural how she showed up here, I always said so.”
  
  
  The other inhabitants of the table either shifted glances at Caylum or Wayne, but by and large seemed impartial to their conversation. Most folks in small populations strove to keep out of disputes, and especially in communities that depended on one another for their livelihood. Towns like Gardendale were like intricate watches where every spring and cogwheel had a purpose, and mattered to the effect that it kept the apparatus running.
  
  
  Caylum fixed his steely eyes on him, seemingly impassive, and unusually composed for his age. It was no secret that Waylon had been indulging himself before the festival had begun.
  
  
  Kirby dismissed Waylon with the wave of his hand. “Knock it off,” he said resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. “We’re trying to enjoy ourselves and be civil here, so try not to damper the spirits with your sour attitude tonight, Waylon.”
  
  
  Waylon would have objected and put up a fight, but Kirby often used his influence to lighten his sentences when he was arrested for public drunkenness and disruption of the peace. He along with everyone else in town knew that Roger Farley was mayor in name only, and that the people looked to Kirby for direction and leadership during times of conflict or distress. The old lawyer had his respect, and so he held his peace.
  
  
  “I think I saw her earlier, but it appears that she has excused herself,” the lawyer began to explain. “Most likely grew tired after a long day,” he added, setting out to excuse her for either her sake or Caylum’s, for whatever reason he could not discern. “You might as well have a seat and enjoy yourself while you’re here. I’m sure she is fine, and you can catch up with her tomorrow.”
  
  
  Caylum moved over to the railing and watched the dark clouds drift by, casting shadows on the village as they drifted in front of the moon. He stood in deep thought, silent. “No, I think I’ll head on home,” he said languidly.
  
  
  As the present song drew to a close, the eastern wind began to wisp a melody of its own that took possession of the modest society. The wind seemed to say,
  
  Why do you sing?
  
  
  Why do you play?
  
  
  Do you not know Death is at your door this day?
  
  Then suddenly there was a wail that joined the symphony of music. It was the sound of terror—true and unmistakeable terror—and in the darkness of the night, standing unusually still, the party awaited for the second chorus of the shrill. Their eyes searched frantically for the source of the scream. It was clear that it had come from a distance.
  
  
  “That’s Julie!” Caylum shouted, his mind suddenly dizzy with anxiety and confusion. With that he leapt over the railing and dashed away, ignoring the protest behind him.
  
  
  “Hold on, son! Just wait for the sheriff and the others!” Kirby exclaimed. But it was too late, the boy had disappeared and he knew there was no stopping him. Though before he could ruminate a plan, he noticed an ominous fog billowing over the land. “My God,” he said, perplexed, unable to make further comment.
  
  
  The way the fog moved made it seem as though it were alive. The party regarded the miasma as something sinister and began to scream, scrambling to escape what seemed to be impending doom.
  
  
  Kirby was still awestruck. He considered himself an educated and well-informed man, but he had never read or heard about anything like this in all his years. It was something foreign, something dark, something from another place or another time.
  
  
  It was then that he noticed that the fog seemed to be coming from the abandoned castle that had been carved into the mountainside.
  
  
  The wind seemed to say,
  
  Why do you sing?
  
  
  Why do you play?
  
  
  Do you not know Death is at your door this day?
  
  
• 
  
  
  
  The Ailing Visitor
  
  Chapter 1
  ​
  
  
  
  Kirby fanned himself with a folded newspaper, rocking back and forth in a chair outside of the dry goods store. He knew that the energy he spent creating the artificial breeze rendered his efforts futile, but it was a blistering summer day, and the heat campaigned against him leaving him feeling lethargic. The lawyer felt like he was stranded at sea, desperate, and due to his helplessness, forced to partake of the saltwater that only made his thirst stronger.
  
  
  The town seemed to have lost its usual vitality as well. The people shuffled through the streets listlessly, methodically tending to their chores and responsibilities like the dependable hands of a clock. However, it was not the weather that plagued their spirits, but the newfound fear that gripped their hearts. The events that had transpired at the festival were still fresh in their minds, and had left an indelible impression upon them.
  
  
  Kirby looked at the others sitting at the scattered tables lining the porch of the shop. Frank’s Dry Goods had unofficially become the designated place for socializing among those that hung up their hats for good.
  
  
  “Heck of a day,” Blain said pushing a checker across the board. “I’ll be surprised if two or three reapers don’t get heatstroke—especially since that grounds startin’ to put up a fight.”
  
  
  “Never seen nothin’ like it,” Mort added, studying the checkerboard.
  
  
  “What do you think, Kirby,” Blain asked, before slamming his checker at the end of the board with a shout of triumph. “King me!”
  
  
  Kirby sighed and stood up, placing his hands behind him as he arched his back. He walked over to the ledge and placed his hands on the wooden beam that served as railing. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” he began to say, letting the words roll off his tongue, savoring each word as if he was about to impart something of great significance. “I think,” his train of thought suddenly derailed as he stared out in to the distance. “I think,” he tried once more, trailing off.
  
  
  The waves of heat played tricks on his eyes, only permitting him to make out the vague shape of a horse and rider. Descending the hill that led into the valley, the visitor slowly made his way into town with an economy of effort.
  
  
  “Moving awful slow, ain’t he?” Blain mused to himself, joining the others as they lost themselves in thought, ensuring not to miss potential gossip that would make their presence all the more welcomed in society.
  
  
  The traveler was adorned in black arraignment, hunched over his horse as if on the verge of escaping the world to sleep. As he glided by the onlookers, their lips parted, but no sound escaped. His complexion was unusually pale—especially for the harsh climates of the southern territories—all the while his dark hair swam down his back adding to his eerie presence. The young man seemed to be ailing and frail, and it seemed a wonder that he could ride a horse let alone on such a scorching day. He was a snowflake in the desert.
  
  
  The dark rider drew his stead to a halt at the tavern, sliding off his mount with no small effort. After pausing a moment, he tethered his horse that was so black it appeared to have been born out of darkness.
  
  
  The young man eased his way towards the tavern, supporting himself with a hand that traced the siding until he reached the swinging doors.
  
  
  “What in the blazes is someone like him doing out here,” Blain asked, not really expecting a reply from the others as he was sure that he was merely echoing their thoughts. However, whether he asked due to the condition of the visitor, or from the unnatural air that emanated from his presence, he could not say.
  
  
  “I asked him here,” Kirby responded, staring at the tavern with a look that struggled between consternation and confusion.
  
  
  
  ____________ † ____________
  
  ​
  
  
  
  Kirby pushed the swinging doors open and entered the tavern. The old lawyer stood still, blocking the sunlight behind him as he surveyed the room before settling his gaze upon the young man sitting at the bar.
  
  
  The visitor had both elbows on the countertop, and leaned over in the posture of a man that had exchanged sense for drink.
  
  
  Whispers crowded the lawyer from behind. He could feel the press of villagers looking on from behind him with a curiosity common to small towns. The bar was bare, only entertaining a few patrons given that the majority of Gardendale was working the fields in preparation for winter.
  
  
  Kirby approached the pale youth and took a stool beside him. “I’ll take a shot of bourbon, Jimmy,” he addressed the bartender, removing his panama hat and taking out a cigar.
  
  
  “Sure thing, boss. Anything else I can get you?” Jimmy asked while pouring the dark liquid into a small glass and sliding it to Kirby.
  
  
  Kirby looked at the youth beside him, lighting up his cigar. “Want anything,” he asked the visitor, expelling a cloud of smoke.
  
  
  The out-of-towner lifted a hand and shook his head, still recuperating from something or another.
  
  
  “You the one I sent for,” the lawyer asked, squinting his eyes curiously, and scrutinizing the mannerisms of the guest as he awaited a reply.
  
  
  “I am,” the man said softly, tranquilly, but with a ring of steel that strangely betrayed his physical state. He straightened his posture and prepared for discourse. “Has there been any change,” he questioned, straight to business.
  
  
  “No, things are still—” he began to explain, but was startled by the tumultuous entrance of the sheriff.
  
  
  “What the reapin’ harvest is going on here, Kirby! I heard you hired someone, and I can guess just what you might be up to, old timer!” the lawman exclaimed, gesticulating, his eyes ablaze with white-hot anger. He paced around, shaking his head and combing back his sandy brown hair back with a hand. “So let’s have it—what’s he here for? I wanna hear it!”
  
  
  Kirby lowered his gaze and put out his cigar in an ashtray. It seemed everyone was holding their breath in anticipation of his answer. He looked at the man behind him, then back to the sheriff. “He’s a hunter.”
  
  
  The people began to stir and exchange confused glances. They had heard of hunters, both thrilling and horrifying stories, but no one in the town had ever seen one or ever thought they would. In little communities like Gardendale, crime was nearly nonexistent outside of petty theft and disruption of the peace. Hunters made a living disposing of the sort of people and creatures that were the stuff of nightmares. And often these men or women left death and destruction in their paths, which ultimately made them the dread of everyone in the territories.
  
  
  The sheriff’s clear, blue eyes bugged out. They seemed to draw in all the light around him, and complimented his extremely tanned skin. “You brought a hunter, here, in my town?” he questioned vehemently. “Do you know how dangerous they are? You have put us all at risk, and for what—Julie?”
  
  
  The sheriff drew in a deep breath, desperately trying to control himself before he lost all composure in front of the town. “I know what you’re up to, old man, and you’re wasting your money.”
  
  
  “It’s my money, Sheriff,” Kirby retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you and I both know that Julie’s as much a part of this town as anyone else,” he said as a matter-of-fact. “It isn’t right how we’ve held her at arm’s length all these years, avoiding her like she’s the plague, and all the while the poor girl has no family to call her own.”
  
  
  The lawyer surveyed the others standing at the doors, knowing full well there was a score more outside. “You all know that I’m right. This town ought to be ashamed. How can we call ourselves good, honest people when we don’t even nurture a little girl just because of the strange events that surrounded her arrival to the town?”
  
  
  “It’s not just about one girl and you know that,” the sheriff said, slamming his hand on the countertop beside the old gentleman, leaning towards him. “We have to look out for the whole town. Just look at the condition of our fields, there are other things to consider besides her.”
  
  
  “Yes—and don’t you gather that the two are related? The hunter is here to look in to both matters.”
  
  
  “We don’t need a hunter, it’s just one girl! Me and my men can handle the situation. This is why I’m here, Kirby. Not for decoration, and not as a scarecrow.” The indignant man glanced at the stranger and scoffed. “He don’t look like he’s in much condition for the job in the first place.”
  
  
  The ailing visitor remained silent with his eyes closed, sitting still like a beautiful statue that was impossible to ignore.
  
  
  Kirby finally took a drink of his bourbon. It was clear that he was going to have to disclose his suspicions in front of the town—which he was reluctant to do out of concern for the villagers, knowing full well the kind of panic that ensued with these sort of assertions. “It wasn’t natural,” he said, finishing his shot. “The way the fog rolled over Gardendale—the fields, Julie, all of it, wasn’t natural. It’s beyond you, Sheriff.”
  
  
  He finally looked up at the sheriff with resolute eyes. “It might be the castle. I thought I saw the fog emerging from the castle.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible,” the sheriff said taken aback. “No one’s been in that castle for hundreds of years, and we live in the most southern part of the territories—away from such dangers.”
  
  
  “Be that as it may, I thought it necessary to take certain precautions, and so I invited our young friend to our humble town.”
  
  
  The sheriff glared at the hunter, nearly burning holes into him with his eyes. He shook his head and clicked his tongue, making his way to the doors. “Do what you want, Kirby. Just make sure he doesn’t get in my way or I’ll have him killed and you held accountable for endangering the town.”
  
  
  “As you say, Sheriff.”
  
  
  The rest of the onlookers parted ways shortly after the sheriff. The fear of the hunter or incurring the wrath of the lawman was enough to outweigh their curiosity. The old gentleman and hunter found a table outside of the visible range of the other villagers that frequented the tavern.
  
  
  Kirby began to analyze the condition of the man. The hunter seemed weak and ill, hardly the kind of man that lived up to the reputation of his profession. In this respect, he almost found himself agreeing with the sheriff. “Are you sure you’re up for this, young man?”
  
  
  “I’ll get the job done,” the youth replied, his tone soft yet sure. “Tell me about the girl.”
  
  
  “Julie,” he began to explain as he leaned back in his chair. “Three weeks ago she went missing. The town was throwing our annual festival, and during the dance, we heard her scream. Caylum, one of our young men, took off after her, but neither he nor the sheriff and his men were able to find her. I fear the boy may be growing restless.”
  
  
  “You said something about strange events surrounding her arrival to this town.”
  
  
  The retired lawyer found himself unable to take his eyes off of the hunter, and strangely enough, unable to look at him for more than a moment. His countenance seemed to have been sculpted by an artisan of renowned skill, drawing him in and terrifying him all at once. He felt a pang of pity for the man. He was like a rose that could never be plucked due to the perilous thorns of which he was arrayed.
  
  
  “Yes, strange indeed. The girl was left on a stone slab near some ruins between the town and the castle sixteen years ago as an infant. The people immediately let their imaginations get the better of them, and started formulating ill-conceived notions such as the poor girl was left by a cult in league with the Dark Ones, or by someone actually from the castle.”
  
  
  “Do you believe that it’s true?”
  
  
  “Not in the slightest.”
  
  
  “Is that all? It seems unlikely an entire town would shun someone over such a slight, albeit mysterious, circumstance.”
  
  
  Kirby unwilling let a grin etch into his lips, sensing that the hunter was perceptive. “No, you’re right, there’s more. The nearest town is twelve miles away, so we’re tucked snugly in this little valley of ours with limited entrance routes. It’s a bit perplexing how someone managed to enter our town unnoticed and with a crying baby, no less. We have people on guard all throughout the night on the lookout for people who want to steal our produce. Though even that is an extra precaution due to our defense system that surrounds the city limits.”
  
  
  The old lawyer sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. “But perhaps the strangest thing of all is that outside of the town’s defense system, near the castle, many malevolent creatures lurk,” Kirby said, pausing for a moment to let the hunter absorb everything. “And yet, the babe lie throughout the night undisturbed and unharmed. It’s the strangest thing. Many say she’s cursed, but I believe it’s just as plausible that she’s blessed.”
  
  
  The youth listened without interjecting. He had leaned back and closed his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. “I see,” was his sole reply. “You mentioned that the castle had been abandoned—how can you be so sure?”
  
  
  “Well, no one has seen any activity for one, but our historical records have been silent on the matter for nearly three centuries.”
  
  
  “Do the records mention the master of the castle?”
  
  
  “Briefly. I’m afraid our records weren’t sufficiently preserved, and so a great deal is missing. However, there was some mention of the former master being particularly interested in the sciences. Apparently someone found schematics and documents about his research, but the science was too advanced for us to understand.”
  
  
  “Can you get me access to the documents?”
  
  
  “Sure, shouldn’t be a problem.” Kirby stretched his arms in the air, then began fanning himself with his hat. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
  
  
  “Yes, just one,” the young man said coolly. “The Sheriff said something to the effect that your fields are suffering to some extent.”
  
  
  “I can’t prove it, but it’s the fog. The night Julie went missing, that fog rolled over our fields like the breath of the Grim Reaper.” He shook his head, clearly disturbed as he recalled the night. “Anyhow, the next day most of our crops had wilted and died. The trees shed their leaves—in the summer! Even the grass has lost its emerald sheen, replaced with dull colors of brown. It’s like the earth has been granted a will and no longer wants to give us succor.”
  
  
  “I understand. But my responsibility is to find the missing girl and look into the source of her disappearance. I can’t make any promises that I’ll be able to provide you with answers or help pertaining to your fields.” The pale hunter slowly stood up and nodded to Kirby.
  
  
  Kirby picked up the half-smoked cigar that he had put out earlier as he watched the youth excuse himself. “I suggest you grab something to eat and get some rest—I’ll take you outside of the security system first thing tomorrow when we’ve got good light. The inn is on the left side of town near the end, and you get grab a bite across the street.”
  
  
  “I’d like to take a look around tonight.”
  
  
  “Fair enough. It’ll be dangerous, but I’m sure you’re fully aware.” He began to lose himself in thought, but something suddenly occurred to him. “Oh, pardon my lack of manners. How can I address you? What’s your name, stranger?”
  
  
  The young man stopped at the doors and turned his head just enough to meet the eyes of his benefactor. He paused for a moment, his eyes devoid of emotion. “Abagail.”
  
  
  Kirby’s eyes slightly widened as he watched the hunter leave the tavern. He lit his cigar, puffed a few times, and then smiled.
  
  
  ____________ † ____________
  
  ​
  
  
  
  The moonlight was particularly bewitching as it bathed the town in a luminous glow. It was so washed in moonlight that the villagers could have worked all through the night if their bodies had any strength remaining. The wind even seemed to pay tribute to the enchanting night, or was it for the youth that stood silently against the large oak tree? The wind seemed to say,
  
  Why are you here?
  
  
  Why do you stay?
  
  
  Do you not know Death is at your door this day?
  
  “I see you’re already here,” Kirby said as he approached the hunter waiting next to the security fence. The state-of-the-art barrier was the only thing in town that reflected great expense. It was regularly updated and could ward off most minor creatures, and some of the more deadly beasts of the territories. The buzz of high voltage electricity sang with the wind and the inferred lights danced to the tune.
  
  
  “Okay, Sheriff,” the lawyer addressed the man standing on watch at a nearby tower, and nodded to affirm that it was time to disable the system. The lights cut out and the hum of electricity came to a halt.
  
  
  Abagail made his way through the gate silently, but out of courtesy, waited upon the old gentleman who was finishing up his discourse with the sheriff. The lawyer carried a lantern and kept pace with the hunter.
  
  
  “Did you get a chance to look at those documents I had sent to your room?” Kirby raised the lantern to get a better view of Abagail, but once his lantern lighted upon his features, the old gentleman’s blood turned to ice. He could not help but notice how remarkably different the youth appeared. He no longer had the look of a frail and sick man, but instead seemed alive with vitality and strength to the likes that his very aura seemed to suppress the elements. It was though the air had grown thicker and gravity heavier, and it was all that he could do to stand in his presence. He suddenly felt the first inklings of fear claw at him, wondering how the hunter could undergo such a drastic transformation and overburden him as he did.
  
  
  “Yes,” Abagail said, knelling down and grasping a handful of soil. He sifted it through his fingers and studied the earth.
  
  
  “Where would you like me to take you first,” Kirby asked, feeling uneasy.
  
  
  “Take me to the place the girl was found when she first arrived to the town.”
  
  
  “Sure, it’s about a mile’s walk from here.”
  
  
  The land leveled out and reached the foot of the mountain. Tall blades of grass bowed back and forth with the wind, reaching their knees. In every direction jagged pillars of stone jutted up from the ground. It was apparent that the area used to be the location of a prominent structure. As the hunter found the slab of stone where the townspeople found Julie, he grew silent, tracing the marbled carving with his fingers.
  
  
  In the light of the moon, Kirby noticed the elegant longsword strapped to the hunter’s back. It was unusually thin for a sword with a width of a mere two inches, and even the hilt seemed to be constructed with a minimalist design. He thought it unusual that the man had not taken advantage of more advanced weaponry, but kept his thoughts to himself. “Find anything?” he asked, breaking the silence.
  
  
  “It’s a proclamation seat,” Abagail calmly said, still in deep thought as he continued to study his surroundings. “Or at least it used to be when the master occupied the land. It’s hard to see due to its dilapidated state—vandalism from the villagers over many years, most likely.”
  
  
  “You mean where the master of that castle informed the town of the edicts he or she had put into effect?”
  
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  
  “Do you think it has any significance to our plight?”
  
  
  “Maybe,” Abagail said, his mind already in motion to consider another piece of the puzzle. “You said the girl screamed from somewhere in the town, correct?”
  
  
  “Yes, so I did. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  The striking young man looked across the plain, drawing in the scent carried by the wind. It was lovely: it smelled of wild flowers, foliage mixed with flora, and the scent of blood.
  
  
  “Because I smell blood near the mountain ridge towards the east,” he said, making his way in that direction.
  
  
  Kirby was speechless. He was torn between despair and fear. Had Julie been slain? It certainly made sense in light of the fact that three weeks had already transpired. But then another thought crossed his mind: he knew that hunter’s had certain strengths and abilities that defied the scope of common men, but how had he been able to detect the scent of blood half a mile away?
  
  
  The moment they reached the ridge, Kirby searched in vain for the blood, expecting the worst. However, he could not see as much of a trace despite scouring the area with his lantern. For the hunter to have noticed the scent, he was expecting a copious amount of blood.
  
  
  “Here,” Abagail said, directing his attention to the side of the ridge. His thin pale fingers glided along the ridge until stopping along a streak of dull vermillion.
  
  
  “Is she dead,” was all the lawyer could ask in a crestfallen tone.
  
  
  “No, it doesn’t seem to be a fatal wound,” he said scrapping off a flake of dry blood with his fingernail. “This isn’t enough to cause her serious bodily harm, but it’s her blood. The brittleness of the blood indicates that it’s nearly a month old.”
  
  
  “I see, that’s good—”
  
  
  Kirby found himself delving even deeper into trepidation. The eerie young man had placed the flake of blood upon his tongue and closed his eyes in what seemed to be deep concentration.
  
  
  Abagail’s mind opened up and another world replaced his consciousness. He could smell the aroma of grilled corn on the cob, feel the coolness of the wind, and hear the cheerful sound of music and laughter.
  
  
  He watched in his mind’s eye as a young girl, simple yet lovely, came running towards the edge of the town, falling to her knees behind the inn in tears. Then the beguiling sound of a nocturne played upon a flute aroused her from her sorrow. It was hard to resist, beautiful. The maiden walked towards the security fence as if in a trance, her eyes full and absent. The system shut off and the door opened of its own will as she passed through unnoticed, continuing through the fields.
  
  
  Then he saw—no felt—another presence near her. They were both by the ridge when the melody became silent. It was then she noticed the presence and screamed, but he could not make out her abductor. He only saw a blurry silhouette and then they disappeared.
  
  
  Abagail opened his eyes in puzzlement. His newfound companion had a look of puzzlement of his own.
  
  
  Kirby swallowed. “Are you—?”
  
  
  The air stirred. He could not bring himself to finish his question. However, as if to relieve him of his anxiety and discombobulation, his faculties directed him to something else, something more disturbing, something in the distance.
  
  
  The hunter had already sensed as much and had fixed his gaze upon the monolithic mountain behind him. Towards the peak of the mountain, in the blackness that stretched along the horizon and across the fields, dim lights could be seen peeling away the darkness from the windows of the castle.
  
  
  

 

[Bone2pick]

Not bad. You painted Gardendale nicely with consistent details, kudos. IMHO I would include even more description about your town-of-focus and the people in it, really attempt to make a connection with the reader and Gardendale, and then simply end with the spooky wind's melody.


I'd leave out the vague history of the looming castle. That would make the sudden threat more mysterious and potentially original.

 

[The Narrator]

I appreciate your compliment and advice. I agree that it needs to be polished and a little neater, and I plan to rework it later when I have time. When I read it again, something seemed off, so I can agree in part with your thoughts. However, considering the plans that I have for the next part of the story, I do not believe that I will flesh out the people of the town since they are not detrimental to my story and only have a minor role.


I am considering putting the castle in later, however. It may work better later in the story, so thank you for the advice.

 

[Bone2pick]

Yeah the reason I suggested fleshing the people of Glendale out a bit more is to give the reader a stronger reason to care about them. The more they care, the more the threat is actually scary.


I read a scifi story where in a single chapter of the novel the author introduced us to a character, he detailed a lot of his history and present life, and then he detailed how well trained his company was; only to have them all slaughtered by the end of the chapter. The characters weren't important to the main plot, but he (the author) got the reader to care about them anyway. That was just something I appreciated and wanted to share.


Anyway, keep at it.

 

[The Narrator]

You make a good case, and you have convinced me to take a closer look at the scene. I appreciate the feedback - it seems that time away from writing has dulled my attention to detail, although I confess I still have much to learn. Thanks again and take care.

 

[Grey]

More promising than a lot of what I see posted here.


Competently paced, maybe a little lacking in descriptive flair. Bone is right about more detail and investment being potentially of great value - you need to be engage by page one, afterall.


It feels like it's going to be a storm of fantasy cliches, but so far nothing to make me go 'oh boy this again.' And familiar tropes can be used well, of course.


I think you should allude to the castle and a dark past, rather than have an expository dump.

 

[The Narrator]

I've inserted the first chapter for anyone that might be interested.