The Return Home

The night was dark, violent and wild. The sky was thick with storm clouds that hid the pale light of the moon. The wind whipped icy rain against the trees as if it were angry with them for simply standing in silent defiance. Then again perhaps it was not the trees that nature was so angry with but something beneath them, something unnatural. It moved silently within the darkness, like a shadow or a monster spat up from a nightmare to find the form of a man. Yet it was not a man...he was not a man. He was a creature born of hate and baptized in the fires of anger. Born here in fact, on this small green island in the middle of an angry ocean.

A crack of thunder rolled across the land and the sky lit up with the jagged dagger of lightning as it snaked toward the earth below. The flash of light revealed for a brief moment the figure of a cloaked figure standing at the edge of the forest's trees. The faint sound of fabric could be heard as the thick black cloth whipped about the creature's form. Deep within that darkness the dead brown of it's eyes looked on toward the warmth of light in the distance. The familiar sight of the castle's walls as they loomed against the dark sky was almost comforting in a strange way. It dared to defy the tempest of shadows that danced around it just as he, the creature, dared to defy death itself.

Again the flash of lightning and the roar of thunder, this time revealing the deathly pale features of what had once been a man. Four long scars ran down his face as if someone had raked their fingernails over that ghostly skin trying to claw their way inside. But it was not those light scars that would draw the eyes of any who might see that face, it was that terrible thing that twisted those pale lips. Only a madman would call such a thing a smile, or a truly evil man. Either way it wasn’t something that one would easily forget. The rest of his figure was shrouded in black, the clothing having been torn and ripped many times seemed more stitches than cloth. Almost as if someone had torn the man apart then sewn his corpse of a body back together again. The very idea was amusing, considering that it was closer to the truth than most would ever imagine.

Images of his past trickled into his mind, memories of his time spent here, time not so long ago and yet it seemed the span of a lifetime. These memories stirred emotions deep beneath the surface, dark emotions, that moved like leviathans in the dark depths of his torn and tattered soul but he fought them back. He bound his endless rage with the chains of his indomitable will until the time when it would be needed. His past flashed before his eyes, like lightning it lit up his mind to remind him of why he was here and why he had returned. There was no going back now, what he was could not be changed. What he had become could not be undone, not that he would have even had he been given the chance. Sarthas slowly shook his head in amusement. After all he had always been a monster, now the body matched the soul.

The rain and wind beat down with a vengeance upon the dark green of the grass that stretched out before him towards the stone walls in the distance. Nature fought him, beat against his shoulders with her heavy rain and whipped against his dead flesh with her angry breath. It was an effort in futility however, something as simple as a storm could could not hold a monster at bay. Words slipped from his pale lips to find freedom into the cold of the night air. “Home again...” That twisted smile widened further as his next words dripped in deadly venom. “How thoughtful of them to leave the light on for me.” The creature stood silently at the edge of the forest trees for a long moment. The storm raged around him, beating the trees and tearing at the grass in an angry wild rage that could not be tamed. At long last he stepped forward, his stride slow and deliberate as he made his way toward the courtyard in the distance.

The dark man made no move to conceal his approach, though the nature of the night itself did enough of that for him. Lightning tore at the night sky, revealing his slow path toward the castle. He moved over the grass, a dark blot in a sea of green. A patch of death in an ocean of life, unmistakeable and out of place in that field yet as undeniable as the coming of this storm. Emotion raged behind his eyes, a current of deep hatred that would drown any who might stumble into it's fathomless depths.

As he at last came to the edge of the fountain that blocked his path to the large oak doors, he paused. Words once more dripped from his lips as the angel's tears streamed down his pale face to fall into the pool of water at his feet. “What, no one to greet me...” Sarcasm dripped from his lips to twist in the air only to be drown out by the rise and fall of the wind and the heavy beat of the rain. Again his quiet voice danced in the air as he seemed to speak to himself. “Such a pity.” Slowly, once more he began his trek forward, working his way around the edge of the fountain and toward those doors....that terrible smile upon his lips.

Within the darkened corridors of the castle, dim lights casting their faint electric glow, a shadow stirred and paced the passageways. The quiet click of polished leather shoes carried the man to no certain destination as he focused more on the thoughts in his head than the world around him. He barely noticed the tapestries draped across the walls, the statuary stowed inside alcoves set in the stone, while they blurred at the edges of his periphery vision.

As he passed the University’s main entry, his previously confident gait faltered, and the Puppeteer paused. Without a doubt, he knew something was on the other side, no more than a few meters away. An entity so perverse, so disturbed, that its presence sent a chill down the bodysnatcher’s stolen spine. Beneath his fine black suit, he was quickly clothed in goose flesh as his skin tingled with the sense of evil and hatred that seeped into the foyer. As an ancient being himself, so well versed in the denizens of the world most men did not even know existed, not just anything could rattle the Puppeteer.

In an instant, his mouth went dry, tongue seeming to swell and stick to the roof of his mouth. Still in mid-step, his body seemed suspended in the air like a marionette on strings. There was terror seeded in his flesh, a weakness that had been roused during the long seclusion within the crypt where he’d drained much of his powers just to sustain himself, that begged for flight but yet held his limbs fast. Contradictory compulsions went to war within his body, and it took all his effort to quell them and slowly lower his foot to the stone floor of the hall.

The Puppeteer flicked his hand, fingers wriggling, and summoned his cane in a flurry of black thread that caressed the backs of his knuckles like an encouraging friend’s touch before retreating into the nothingness from which they’d come. Holding the thin black shaft capped by a silver bulb before him with the same intensity as primitive man clutching a totem to ward off evil, the Puppeteer felt reassurance devour his fear and left him with determined resolve to meet and greet whatever evil braved the storm to invade the haven Caislin Hallows had become to so many.

A small sarcastic smile split the Puppeteer’s lips as he pondered how he had become the stalwart defender. Instead of a sword, he brandished a cane. Instead of armor, he wore a suit. Instead of a helm, he capped his head with a stovepipe hat. Instead of a shield, he had… nothing. Oh, what a mockery fate’s machinations had made by twisting a tailor into a knight. How delightfully devious.