The lonely lantern dangled back an forth, oscillating in the arms of a cloaked figure, illuminating a small amount of the scenery in the opaque darkness. Judging by the immensely round body frame and the crimped dark hair hanging loose on either sides of the hood, the figure resembled a woman. The grass champed under her boot sole as she ran. Darkness ruled above her head and her heavy breathing and panting were mixed with the harsh plummeting of rain drops on the soil. Her only source of light was the burning prostate crimson fire of the lantern and lightning which occurred in intervals. The frigid wind howled and raged along its path. The trees creaked at the wind's command. The cloaked woman reaches a monstrous iron gate, it paint chipped and metal rusted to filth, and gripped her gloves hand on the handle. Thunder boomed across the sky, a sound loud enough to wake up the morgues. The gate squealed open, obvious that its hinges had not been oiled for a decade or two. The woman turned behind to face the titanic mansion, engulfed in pitch darkness. Her hands clenched to fists as she gritted her teeth. Her eyes were still not visible. The trees stood naked, with only its bark and branches, dead leaves danced and swirled in the wind. Metaphorically compared to a king surrounded by women who danced beside him and his slaves stood before him, kneeling for mercy. It was a common stereotype this world has grown into. The woman turned back, facing the gate, and lightly stepped outside. She looked back one last time and, within a matter of seconds, she was long gone, the lantern trailing and swinging along her way. The gate shut with great force, a loose screw and a slab fell followed by a squeaking and banging. The slab's edges were chipped and a string was tied to knot on the top. In the center, there bore strange glyphs carved crookedly. At the bottom was the English translation - not just any English, but old English -:
"Pryeth Thy Soul."
