Chapter V, Pt I

This is the day of the Sun. It is the day in which the rising will rise, and the falling planets will rest eternally. Some say in order for something to be gain'd, something must be given in return. This is the day of the Sun. This is the month of Rage.

In the far side of the sky, that blazing idol shows as it transcends to its daily journey. The night is fast receding, being push'd away by golden rays to toast the land as it does with a browning crumpet. Dawn is making its break into day, effulgence in its prime. The sky is clear, the breeze is felt only in the slightest, and a trio is seen in a decaying city. These are the slums, where the homeless roam free and the children sleep in sewage pipes because they can no longer afford to live in decency any more.

"Elsa, how close are we?" Said the gruff one, walking his horse and following behind the woman.

"We're almost there," replied the woman as she made her way over wooden ruins and small piles of garbage.

The third, a young man in his teens, says nothing. He is quiet and attentive, following and saying nothing. No question or comment arises from him, he only follows. Without warning, a chilling breath breathes down his neck, and the sound of a low, deep exhale is whispered in his ears, as if some apparition or some spectre had fog'd his senses. The gut of him tightens into a knot, a cold crawls over his skin. He quickly turns around.

Nothing.

Though that the appearance that nothing sight'd only heightens his thoughts in a brooding silence. That was the same breath he had felt years ago, before the death of his grandmother. She was an anemic and had to be properly condition'd her whole life, for the slightest disturbance or excitement could be too much to handle. However, old age always comes for every one, and her time was coming. On her last day as she lie in her deathbed, he felt that breath, that chilling breath. It was a thing that made his hairs stand on his neck, as if something was floating about the air and waiting to descend at the oppurtune moment.

Returning from his recollection in a bit of fear, the boy glances at the woman. She appears even greyer than before, grave and solemn. It could be that she felt it to, that gripping presence, the ominous feeling that brings sudden peace and still. She looks back at him, and says nothing.

Finally, the woman stops near an old church-house, beyond its age in usefulness. An overcast of gloom daunts the wooden planks from which it was built. The doorway is ajar, double-doors torn at the hinges and utterly useless. There would be fear in touching them, for the slightest stir may tear them down.

"Elsa," the old man gruff'd out his voice in an orderly fashion, "you stay here. Not fit for a woman to see what shall go on. Riccardo, you're coming with me. Ready your crossbow."

"Very well," said the woman, complying without any hint of opposition or regret.

"Yes'sir," the boy said, following as he is told, as he is always told, and has always done. Hardly the strength to do it, he makes ready his crossbow, pulling back on the string, bolt in hand. After about a half a minute of struggle, the contraption is load'd and apparently ready for use.

The older man lets his fingers slide along the scabbard of his sword slowly, ceremoniously, then slowly draws it out, a large thing with a broad blade, though he wields it with one hand.

"Let's go."