Story-Seeker

They shivered, ducking their chin into the upright collars of their worn down oil-skinned coat. Their gloved hand held forward an oil lamp, the odd breeze causing the only light they had to flicker tremulously. It was their chance, of course, to be caught up in a sudden downpour of rain, the already uneven dirt road becoming muddy and clinging to their boots with all their might, like some abyssal monster trying to devour an unsuspecting—

"Ack—"

They wiped at their face, hissing as their cheek stung, annoyed at having done something so foolish as walking into a thin, spindly tree branch. That would teach them to walk with their head in the clouds. Or at least, it ought to have, but habits were hard to break and why would they? The tales of far away lost kings, mischievous maidens and cowardly knights were so much more appealing than the drab wet-soaked ground that made awful sounds of squelch and splorp and blurp. The manor was closer now though than when they had first begun their travels from the oddly quaint little town with darling red roofs and snuffling cows and horses and the occasional bleat of goats or sheep. To think that in tales past they were once the bustling market place that sat at the helm of trade! With the Taflin family at the height of prosperity, their manor, the one and only that towered high above others for hundreds of years, sheltered the clever-fingered, quick-witted descendants of a king's bastard child. Now, its duty had passed on to another home, leaving behind unseen servants tending to a slowly forgotten, slowly decaying house. 

Without fail, at the turn of the clock hand on the seventh hour, a flickering light appeared on the farthest right window and slowly drifted across to the left one, its warm light disappearing behind walls and reappearing in front of curtained windows. Whispers of a white gown or a white-haired maiden, carried said flame in their hands. Despite the manor being three stories, that pattern only occurred on the second story. The decline of the Taflin family was something they had come across by accident, a small unassuming trade report about grains and herding domesticated animals to greener pastures. It had included an additional hastily scribbled lament—one that bemoaned the crumbling power of the last 'true' lord of Taflin, a Lord Lilthin with a penchant for dabbling in the odd historiography and finance. And later, too-young ladies to the increasing concern of his people and family, excluding his wife who, too, appeared to have the same inclination—though sadly her true name was lost by some misfortune of the family records and meeting too close to an oil lamp being lit.

Tales of black magic and rituals and the social curse for those not having born a child even as their marriage stretched from a meagre two to twenty to their late eighties—well. It was an all too common story, really. Forever curious, they decided they might as well seek the last servants still loyal to the crumbling manor, seeking the lost lady's name. After all, they couldn't just call her 'Lady of the Night' for the rest of history. A surprisingly inapt name, for nothing about the high noble lady from the still revered Yenquar family, a cousin branch of the Royals, screamed prostitute. Perhaps, more likely, was the meaning 'the moon', an older association of that saying.

The moon itself tonight bore no smile, full and bright, almost pulsating in its luminescence behind straggling grey clouds.

Selene, Luna, representations of the Moon. Then, Artemis, Diana with secondary characteristics being moon-related—or perhaps, vampires? Creatures of the night—werewolves for the full moon. Or maybe white? Y Ladi Wen—

"Oh dear," they murmured to themselves, stopping a few metres away from the moat drawbridge, nose wrinkling at the odour that was most certainly from the muddied moat. Once upon a time, it would have run with fresh clear water, but now it was more akin to a swamp with the same nasty scent.

They were already here, so they merely sighed, held their breath and walked as quickly as they could over the surprisingly well-tended drawbridge, still sturdy and broad. Something white flitted in one of the upper windows, but before they had even reached a hand up to knock on the main towering doors, and a hissed curse caught their attention.

"Oh!" they exclaimed brightly, if a little nervously, drinking in the older fashioned style of coat that the male servant wore, his face in a scowl, dark lines etched into the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. "Hello—"

Eyes burning, mouth pinched tight with distaste, eyebrows drawn down severely. He was the very picture of a stern elder servant. And yet, those burning eyes flickered wildly between them and their surroundings, his back stiff and muscles tensed, shoulders settling in a prim and proper straight line, gnarled well-calloused hands smoothing down his coat in a strangely nervous manner. With an incline of his head whence he came, he turned back around and fled.

"Are you perhaps the Steward?" they called softly, feet pitter-pattering behind the man's oddly quiet footsteps, stopping quickly to wipe their boots onto the outside mat, then again on the inside, sacrificing an old handkerchief to clean up the sides of the boots. Folding and shoving it into a pocket, they chased after the servant, glancing wide-eyed as they passed still shining copper pipes, dried herbs hanging above windows including garlic flowers and lavender, small portraits of what they presumed to be the Steward's family. The more recent portraits had some resemblance to the servant still leading them deeper into the home: slightly protruding ears, deep-set eyes, the firm set of his mouth that seemed less like distaste now and more like how his face was sculpted by his ancestry.

They ascended some rather steep stairs and oh, it appeared they were now on the second floor! How strangely simple. The window they stopped to gaze out of required a bit of cleaning; flecks of dried something stained the window-pane and there was a small hole in the frame, letting in the foul swamp scent. Something white fluttered, and they snapped their head around, eyes widening when the male servant they had seen had moved somewhere. Flittering away, a wren hiding back in the safety of blackberry bushes. Lost again, it seemed. The rest of the second story was free for them to explore by the looks of it. Though it was strange. Even if the steward, familiar with the hauntings of his own residence, could walk in the dark, why would he?

Slowly tip-toeing across moth-eaten carpet—what was that white thing? Like the fluttering thin lace curtains that some nobles liked and yet there was nothing here but deep red curtains that sagged in place, the rods holding them up bowed and looking ready to crack at any moment. Peeling wallpaper—emerald darkened with age into a musty forest green—stretched unending down the straight corridor. In the middle, large stairs descended presumably onto the first floor, to a vast great hall. Rooms, predictably locked, lamps unlit, with cobwebs strung between half-melted candles and bronze fixtures, the outside appearance was more well-kept than the inside.

They tried to open a window and while it rattled and moaned at their attempts, it would not budge, so they had to settle themselves by peering out of obscured glass. Presumably, they were peering out the leftmost window, and the forest that surrounded their manor was larger than they could have ever imagined, a sea of dark treetops where the young ladies found in the predatory clutches of the last Lord and Lady had supposedly run into. The monsters of the forest were a better fate than what awaited them here. Supposedly, that was, but they would not put it past jealous or bitter servants and citizens to put ugly rumours, soothing themselves by blaming the Taflin family for the dwindling trade that had once dominated their lives.

The door creaked—a rather harsh, wailing sound—the doorknob turned, and they entered an oddly quaint writing room. Fresh flowers were placed on the furthest right corner, lily of the valleys and chrysanthemums. Peculiar, they could have thought it was out of season for these particular blooms, but what did they know about horticulture and floriography?

"How thy flowers wilt, fo'ever mourn," they hummed under their breath, "pale gowned lady, wilted wreaths worn."

They set the lamp on the left side of the table, looking over the aged, almost see-through paper. The town's folk had their own little legend, one that had not yet been written down in the various scattered writings about the fallen Taflin family. One of the white ladies who haunts the Manor. One of the unfortunate young girls in a wedding dress, forever to haunt their death bed? Or the Lady ere her death, unsullied by her husband's deeds but mournful all the same–

Though they may be no bard, the bards and minstrels they did know would pester for a new inspiration to twist the much favoured songs of lost love or betrayed lovers or sweet unending love till death do they part.

Something cool caressed their neck and they shivered, glancing and frowning at the closed window before themselves. The lamp light distorted heavily, they squinted their eyes at their muddled reflection.

"Good eve," a light female voice lilted, the curl of a smile evident in her voice. Cool fingertips curved and pressed into the soft skin of their throat, and from their periphery, like sun-bleached bones, the white lace of a veil danced in an unseen breeze. 

by Katrina Wang