𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒽 | 𝒟.𝑀.

38 | ﴾ Not In Control ﴿

Within the sea and in close range of the otherwise grievously reticent Penwith Heritage Coast, where the brambles of vegetation were lush and compacted in the rural landscape, a road seemingly led to nowhere.

It deteriorated at the edge of a steep oceanfront bank, and if one were foolishly not paying attention, the way that the dirt path was purposefully graded and cut straight down, one would plummet to a traumatic death at the bottom of the jagged rocks below. It was an intentional and misleading engineered devastation.

In perfect clandestine fashion, the ancient Castle of Nott stood blackened and freezing with disintegrating architecture, on an island a short distance away from the deathly laneway that used to connect to a medieval bridge spanning the stretch between.

It was not visible or permissible to the naked eye - only by invitation, like a form of black matter described in muggle physics. It's insidious energy could be felt from miles away in one's bones, acting as the only indication that the area harboured evil somewhere in the vicinity. Penwith Heritage Coast was nearly unpopulated as a result, left as a lonely and forgotten nook attached to England and fraught with folktales of historical witch hunts.

The building was awfully gothic and antiquated, dating as far back as the thirteenth century with a ghastly resilience to the factor of time. The frigid ocean relentlessly sprayed as far as twenty feet up the side of the tall stonework over and over, leaving behind defenseless aquatic creatures to dry and bake to death in the cracks of the brickwork. A rusty guillotine remained in the central square - once a play toy for the ruthless wizards that had inhabited the demonic citadel and had taken helpless prisoners for game.

Ugly gargoyle's perched on the towers and above large archways into exterior courtyards, shaking off their concrete wings and growling in the rainy wind. Their glowing red eyes tended to put off the exceptionally rare visitor. However there was never an option to simply turn back considering once you were on the island, in a polarized twist, you could not leave without the same permission that allowed you entry.

The Nott's had descended ironically from the Creator of Soul, who was deviously responsible for the organized effort with the Creator of Death and the Creator of Life to produce the very triangle of existence; Life and Death, back and forth, with the use of Spiritual materialism in between, in one endless and unforgiving loop. While the few dozen that were truly aware of the Creators would naturally assume the wicked family would descend from Death, their true heritage had always been painfully obvious on the surface.

Their perseverant inventions reflected their instinctual understanding of thought, mind, soul, and the fabric of supernatural and superphysical mechanics that which moved between the realms just as freely.

They were indescribably manipulative, using the spirit of others against themselves to gain what they desired from innocent or weakened souls. The founder of both the Brain Room and the Time Room within the Ministry had been none other than Asmodeus Nott, and with what intentions still remained a common mystery.

It was with this historic relation that Theodore had won his way into level nine, and still had retained his employment despite several write ups for questionable behaviour.

To what degree Theodore Nott had truly been born malevolent would never be known, as the abstraction of nature versus nurture had not been a determining factor in his upbringing. Nurture had been irrelevant and nonexistent altogether.

At the ripe age of two his mother had passed from a horrifically disfiguring illness, leaving him alone in the expansive and morbid castle with his heartless and abusive father. He had practically raised himself alongside the rare aid of beaten elves, who were missing body parts such as eyes and fingers as forms of control and punishment from Osbert.