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The Girl Who Sells Misfortune

Entire fic will contain themes of religion and generally canon typical death and violence.

Note: Woman in this chapter is not Y/N.

-England 1868-

Raining.

Those accursed heavens crashed down upon the Earth, accompanied only by the gelid wind forcing itself into the vicinity, like sharp knives from the North. Misfortune laced herself about the air, bringing about a sweetly poisonous humidity, singing her lament. The skies themselves wept in their sorrow, an unspoken divinity about the words they uttered, language unknown to man. Hymns that could only be trepidation for the future.

The fall of a bloodline. And all it took was an inattentive driver and a miry road.

He emerged from the darkness of the forest, a balding elder man of stocky build, leering over at the grisly sight. He grinned. Like vulture to fresh road-kill. "Hey. Look at that wreck!" He cackles, a shrill, violent sound that rips from his throat. The death-stench all around seemed to provide more amusement than disgust for the sick individual.

And well. His companion almost threw up on the spot.

She was awe-struck, far unlike the man she'd come along with, gagging violently at the vile early stage of rot.

Not a pretty sight to behold.

What once was so beautiful was now something so terribly unsightly. Where once had stood strong support and brand-new shiny paint were regiments of spears sprouting from the ground like fresh bamboo.

And what had once been a happy family was a mere spatter of sanguine saturating the ground.

How dreadful... But the money involved wouldn't be.

The elder re-adjusted his hat, eagerly making his way down from the muddy slope, nearly clawing his way through the carnage to get a better view of it all. Damned be the grime accumulating on his shoes and cloak.

His mind was one track. Racing like blood-hounds at a whiff of deer's blood. 'Money. Money. Money.'

Delicately, the woman, merely half his age followed suit. A petite thing, young enough to be his daughter, carefully lifted her purple-skirt as though she were born noble (she certainly hadn't been) and too travelled down. Albeit with far more apprehension.

She could not help but have her pallid features be stained by the event – haunted by what was transpiring. Nausea threatened once more to bubble up here throat. Steadily increasing as she closed the distance between herself and the wreckage.

The two halted for a second, now unsure of what to do next, both soaking and drenched in mud.

Then! A spark glinted in the man's eyes!

A body with dark blue hair, corpse-pale, motionless with a thin trickle of blood trailing from his mouth down to his neck. Dead. Surely.

Jackpot.

"They must've slipped into the mud and fallen off the cliff," the elder explained, flashing a toothy grin.

She nodded in return; shuddering.

He only smiled further, inspecting the garments donned by the recently deceased, "boy. These nobles sure do have some fancy clothing." A little soap and water would do the trick. But this wasn't nearly enough.

"Look! That woman inside is dead but the baby is alive!" The woman caught the attention of the elder, cringing at the gore, knowing well how excruciating that must've been. "She... must've protected it..." The woman's voice melted in her throat, noting that the baby had been unscathed, perhaps God really did provide the occasional miracle.