Blood Of The Faustus

A winged figure passes over the city of Wildcard. Only the flash of neon lights in the distance cast aside the shadows of the ever-restless night. The ebony wings of a raven are carried by the wind, as it touches down upon the roof of Moonlight Inn and drags its talons scraping along the windowsill. Thick mists roll through cobblestone streets, muffling the pounding of hooves and the rolling of carriages that resound from beyond. Scarlet eyes gaze back at the stars for only a moment as if lost in deep contemplation.

The raven peers into the lighted windows. Its gaze lingers longingly upon an emerald-haired young dancer as she sways in rhythm to unheard music. Not a single sway or pivot of her hips goes unnoticed. And all the while, its heart is weighed down by an inexplicable sorrow. Not even the whistling gales can keep the creature's curiosity at bay. Beady eyes watch her without relent, as if to undress the gymnast's flawless form.

It had played this role in secret for years. And now all that time spent in isolation was about to payoff.

My love . . . soon, very soon, all shall change. Even I cannot foretell what the future holds, but I cling to hope, however fragile. If everything indeed happens for a reason, am I wrong to conclude all mortals are but victims of fate? If so, then I shall be the one to sever these bonds. I know it's painful, but this shall be for the best. Today, you and I will rewrite out fate.

Miranda's movement was interrupted by a slight flutter. Her glance fell to the raven perched upon a far away windowsill. Rain had begun to beat against the inn. The ebony creature had come to rest under the roof overhead, shivering and puffing up in the relentless wind. Their eyes met. A cold chill rushed through the interior of the common room and caused her to shake involuntarily. But before she could even begin to gather her senses, the regal figure had fluttered off into the mists of night.

Why does that raven look so familiar? Looking at it is like trying to wake a dormant memory. I feel as if it is trying to tell me something. This is the third night it comes to perch itself on my windowsill. Why does it come? Why does it make me feel this way? It's only when I gaze into its deep onyx-colored eyes that I feel a warm sensation within; a feeling that makes me want to leave the innÐ'--as if life were beckoning me.

Diana, her best friend, entered with a tray in hand, casting a cheerful, exaggerated smile while she took her seat across from the gymnast. "Hot soup and apple juice coming right up," she said.

"Thank you. That's a very generous offer. Um . . . Diana?"

"Yes?"

"Did you . . . see anything outside, by chance? Like a bird or something?"

Diana shook her head. "Afraid not; there's nothing there. I doubt anyone's foolish enough to be caught out in that storm. And it's only going to get worse, I'll bet."

"Nothing? Really? Oh . . . never mind, then."

No. I know it was there. I saw it; I'm not imagining it.

Diana gripped Miranda's hand, as her fingers forced her lips to part into a smile. "Come on, cheer up! Don't think I'm going to let you carry on with this overbearing gloominess just because of the weather outside. Have a drink of your apple juice. That always perks you up."

"You're right. Thanks, Diana," Valerie sighed as she took a swig of the transient yellow liquid. The syrupy, crushed apples made her taste buds dance in anticipation for more.

Her gaze wandered over the low-lit and age-beaten