Succumbed to the rust, the front garden's gate creaked in accordance with a set of light footsteps, crunching over untended earth and dead leaves to create a generally ominous atmosphere.
A portly, well-to-do man - once stood upon the cobbles of the winding path leading up towards a huge manor house - clutched a sheaf of papers between his pudgy hands and turned on his heel to address that of a darkly-clad woman striding forth towards his side.
A confidence in her gait, each step was more determined than the last as her ivy eyes lifted to greet the visual of the blackened manor house looming before her. A grey intermingling of old wood and ancient stone, with a hexagon-shaped tower on the left-hand side. Mold-stricken windows, gnarled and twisted foundations. The pointed-peak roofs were collapsing in on themselves, likely allowing slithers of the milky sunlight to slice through into the dusty interiors. The house appeared to have a character of it's own - a great gaping mouth in the form of two vast double doors with peeling, black paint and dozens of eyes dulled by the dirtiness of it's windows.
Very much like the front garden, consumed in weeds and thorned, overgrown shrubbery, the house was equally as neglected.
"Madame Lafaye!" exclaimed the gentleman, looking comically shorter as the woman came to a halt at his side, her eyes still roving the front of the house. In the cast of the wintry sunshine, the house echoed nothing short of a perfect, gothic horror setting.
"Please..." Her voice cut the air like a barber's blade: cold and serene. "Ashaia will do just fine."
"Witchwood House," He continued briskly, both of their breaths fogging out from their faces and curling away into the rays of the white, distant sun, "You've been briefed on the history, I take it?"
"Barely," She replied shortly. The little man cleared his throat, reshuffling his papers upon switching his beady eyes back towards the house. Everything growing in it's surrounding vicinity was twisted and dead. Naked trees and gnarled branches wrapping around the greyness of the atmosphere in claw-like shapes.
"Well...-well, the manor was victim to a fire several years ago. A number of people died within it's walls. A businessman, his wife and their seven children all perished in the flames," He explained, sifting through his notes as he went, "The house does need to be renovated in some respect, the fire seemingly consumed a lot of the family's belongings. Reports say that most villagers dare not go near the house following said fire-"
"-Good." The two of them shared a glance at her interruption, to which she swiftly added, "...Continue."
"The...the villagers believe - forgive me for sounding so ludicrous madame - but most Bree-folk believe the place to be haunted."
At this, Ashaia took a step forward, fists balled and set upon her hips. The hem of her long, dark coat disturbed the final resting places of many fallen leaves as she shifted ahead. Her figure, imprinted against the house, already appeared as if it suited very well. A darkened shape of a person stood before a crumbling house seemed as though it belonged in an oil painting hung above a captain's desk. Or decorated upon the glossy surface of a tarot card signaling the uncertain fortunes of death or despair.
"Hushed whispers suggest that the sounds of children's laughter has been heard in the dead of night. Shadowy silhouettes whipping passed the trees. And a...ah...a grey lady has been witnessed in the topmost window. To the right there, in the attic."
"How very dark indeed," Ashaia nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as if only impressed by the house, "I'll also assume that there's a bloodletting chamber in the basement?"
There came a resounding silence, her words dissolving in the air as she glanced over her shoulder to the note the short man ogling wide-eyed at her.
"I'm...sorry?"
"I do enjoy the sounds of ghost children cackling in the morning, Mister...?"
"Hobbleston, ma'am."
Ashaia arched an eyebrow, swallowing a laugh at the back of her throat and opting to gesture idly with her hand, "This'll do. I'm too exhausted to ask about the two murder-scenes in the drawing room. I'm back from a long trip, you see."
"Oh?" added the man curiously, "A good trip, perhaps? Somewhere sunny? Much to do?"
Ashaia hesitated, crimson mouth parted open as she considered her choice of answer. For a brief moment, she stared at a patch of dead rosebush and recalled the events of a few months absence.
The dragging sounds of a catatonic body over a dirt road, coupled with the clipping steps of her heels. The dead-weight of a bloodied man being tugged by the sheer strength of her right hand, dragged behind her as if he were little more than a particularly cumbersome sack of potatoes.
Curdling cries of anguish and protest, the man could barely prise his pale eyes open. Drenched in the scarlet splashes of his own blood, he was warmed and protected by it from the frosty chill of the next passing breeze.
"Bitch!" He managed a curse, to which Ashaia rolled her eyes impatiently, having approached a particular place of interest and dumping the fellow down onto the crunchy grass.
She dusted off her hands and smoothed out a lock of her hair, "So rude," She commented, "Though I daresay I do not expect many manners from an unsightly speck of dirt."
The injured man hitched himself up towards the nearest tree, slumping against it's trunk as he gazed upon her standing over him, her silhouette blocking out the cast of the blinding sun. Without warning, he inhaled sharply and then spat towards her feet, giving the woman little time to take a step back.
She tutted, as though disappointed by a naughty child, glancing down at her boots in disgust. "Less of that, my dear. Gondorian leather such as this is worth more than your little life, I'll tell you."
"What're you going to do, eh? Kill me?" He jutted his head up at her.
"No..." Ashaia sighed silently through her nostrils, frowning at a knick in the nail of her right index finger, "I'll leave you to the elements. I'm sure vultures or rabid dogs will soon come by and drag you off. Or if the fates are to align - or otherwise how the bards will likely profess it - I'd say it would be more poetic if a flock of ravens swooped down to peck at your carcass,"
"Madame?" The oily voice wrangled her thoughts back around to the present.
"...Hm?"
"Your trip....was it nice?"
"Rejuvenating actually," Ashaia mustered a sweet smile before nodding towards the house, "I'll take it, my dear."
"It does need some work-"
"Oh, I know. But no matter," She clapped her cold hands together, looking vaguely excited. "I need a new hobby. I'm more inclined towards regal purple, what do you think?"
