Festival of the Dead

Chapter 1: The Trio

Lucan knelt down on the grass and placed his hat beside him. He was wearing his best clothes, as he always did when heading out to someplace important. He had on his cleanest white dress shirt with ironed trousers and a pair of polished brown loafers. In front of him were two tombstones, with the names "Fabian Amodeo" and "Edana Amodeo" engraved on them. Lucan had been visiting them every day in the week since they died. It wouldn't be right if he didn't. After all, they were his parents. They had left him their wealth after they had died, but he didn't think he deserved it. He feared that it was him who caused them to die. He had gotten angry at them, for what he later realized was a senseless reason, and said something hurtful. He ran away to the bookshop where he was apprenticed, thinking that the books would calm him down. When he went back home, he found their mangled bodies on the kitchen floor. The police never figured out who, or what, killed them. Lucan realized that he wouldn't be able to change the last thing he had ever said to them. He would never get to apologize.

Lucan found himself thinking about his past almost all the time, no matter how hard he tried to forget. He remembered how sometimes, his father would jokingly remark that they picked him off the side of the streets, but this just as well could be the truth. Whereas his family was pale skinned and dark haired, Lucan had light hair and slightly darker skin. His straight, close cropped hair was so light in color that it looked white, with a slightly darker roots. His eyes were a stunning amber color that looked like liquid gold. His skin was a light tan with no flaws, and it was soft, almost feminine. But the thing that stood out the most were his ears. They were pointed, like an elf's. Lucan looked like he didn't belong, which was somewhat true. His classmates and other children made fun of how different he looked, to the point where he had no friends. He didn't really care; as long as he had his family. But now that they were gone, he was hit with the full realization; he was completely alone.

Lucan delicately placed the white carnations he had been holding on the grave. He rose, picked up his hat, and walked out of the cemetery. The gray sky contributed to the gloom inside him. He trudged along the road, feeling the same emptiness he felt every day.

A loud clang broke his train of thought, and he looked towards the source of the sound. Before him stood a large stone shack illuminated by a medium-sized flame that crackled in the forge. Scraps of metal were lying around the stone floor, along with misshapen tools and weapons of varying lengths and sizes. Another clang brought his attention to the tall man standing in the midst of everything.

At first glance one would feel intimidated by his broad back and shoulders that showed years of flattening iron and steel. His olive skin glimmered under the droplets of sweat that started to form from the heavy heat that came from the forge. The white shirt he wore was already glued to his skin which made everything transparent. Deep scars were lashed against his back. A black tattoo in the shape of a dragon made effort in covering them but failed to do so. His sharp piercing green eyes squinted down focusing on the task at hand. Medium length black hair stuck to the sides of his already wet face avoiding the light gash across his cheek. He rose a large hammer above his head with his muscled arm and slammed it against the sword causing sparks to fly. He threw the hammer to the side and held up the sword to admire his own work. A dimple appeared on his right cheek as the sides of mouth turned up exposing his surprisingly white teeth. He then put the sword in its sheath and put it to the side. Another man came by asking if the sword was done. He replied in his deep voice that it was and collected his pay. The man covered his nose from the unmistakably strong stench of coal. He hurried away careful not to ask anymore questions to enrage the blacksmith's well known temper. The man sniffed himself then shrugged, not noticing anything out of place. He adjusted his black pants and sat down on a wooden chair and stared up at the sky, from which little droplets had started to fall. He grumbled to himself in his native language.