Why is there fog? It would have been a normal question for a little girl of five. A mother, in her kind and gentle voice would answer the girl to her best ability and the girl would retort with a barrage of whys and hows, something expected from a young child. Tonight would have been the perfect opportunity to ask such a question. The fog rolled in from the north like a tide crashing down on a rock formation, the darkness creating the illusion that the fog would never end and keep the mountain towering over the town covered forever.No answer would come tonight for the child. Laying in the back of a horse drawn carriage, she rides to the end of childish questions. She rides to the end of her life.
The road was rocky and sent shocks through out her tiny body with every bump. She reaches up to remove a sharp piece of hay from her similarly golden hair. Her eyes do not leave the sky as she grasps the hay in her hands. She slowly places the single piece of hay with the ceremonial, black rose given to her to hold at the beginning of the pilgrimage. The petals were dipped in black tar and then, blessed by the village pastor. This was only the second time the ritual had ever been performed. The first time, a fire broke out and burned the village church. This time, however, a personal tragedy befell the people. The preacher's virgin daughter was taken in the night.
Many in the village had been slain in recent months, the preacher's daughter was the first to be taken. Protective measures were taken to ensure her safety, including a personal bodyguard. Alas, he was no match for the force behind the abduction.
Blood was spattered from the door, to the white trimmed windows almost fifteen feet away. Entrails and other bodily fluids littered the floor, walls and ceiling. Red rivers of blood streamed down the walls to form puddles at the base of the trim. The only visible part left of the bodyguard was his head, placed neatly on the bed. The preacher came in after hearing the commotion. He was discovered by a concerned congregation member when we didn't show up for church the next morning. He was found in the corner of the room, covered in blood, and clutching his daughter's nightgown while weeping ferociously.
Only one name flew in the wind with the rumors that spread like wildfire across the village.
"Spiritus Raptor."
Her hand shot to cover her mouth after the deadly words seemed to slice the very air in front of her. Even the fact that she was chosen to die by the beast, she still feared the use of it's unholy name.
The wheels began to slow and the horses came to an agitated stop. A man clad in a dark black overcoat and a white undershirt, clung to the side of the buggy. He removed his golden watch from his left pocket, checking the time and catching a chill as he placed it back in his coat. His face had taken the feeling of loss and transformed it into a visible image. It was cold and lifeless, but yet if you had the chance to dissect it, you would witness horrors of the mind not meant to be experienced outside the gates of Hell.
The group began to form a semicircle, letting the carriage where the restless girl lay fill the gap. The preacher stood at the helm of the towns people, his face still emotionless, yet horrific.
"Bring forth the lesser sacrifice." His voice was stern and came straight from the depths of his chest. The sacrificing ritual always started with an animal sacrifice, a lesser life than one of a person. It was supposed to appease the entity that the towns people desired protection from until they prepared the main gift.
