Time edged by slowly for the freckled faced boy; rusty hair played before his face, taking advantage of the wind that stirred it to life. From above rain fell—Mother always used to say that the tears from Heaven were those of Angels... how he wished this were true. Dampened clothes hung from the body of the gaunt juvenile, cheek bones high upon his face and eyes falling deep into the depths of his sockets. Darkness embraced the embryo of emotion that enlarged itself in the chest of the child; once upon a time a joyous heart had sat within the confines of his cavities, but now it had shriveled and dried—a raisin of a grape that was. Cyan eyes peered out from deep hollows, burning with rage and resentment against the agony of the world before him. Fingers dug into his palms continuously, bringing forth crescent depressions and blood on occasion. People loomed on the street before him, and in the gray and dismal day they appeared to be nothing more than shadows. Their top hats and umbrellas turned them into monsters in the mind's eye of the boy, and he could not distinguish fantasy from reality—maybe this was why he huddled so close to the walls of an abandoned house. The pitter-patter of the rain was a hiss, and that hiss came from the shadows, and the shadows... well they came from Hell. Mother had always told him that monsters, demons, and witches were from Hell. Hell was like a thousand spankings; Hell was like no milk with dinner; Hell was like the life he was living now.
Shoulders heaved forward, the boy's crimson locks weaving over his façade. Hands interlocked before his knees, fingers meshing together to become a tightly bound ball of flesh. Once more those shoulders would heave, a retching sound coming from deep within his esophagus. Earlier in the day, the boy had found a trash bin outside of a commonwealth pub, and he had dug through and consumed the waste products that appeared edible. A stream of bile expelled itself from his orifice, splattering roughly against the cobblestone between his feet. Gurgles and pops emitted from his abdominal region as he erupted once more, a spew of saliva and partially digested debris propelling itself from his partially ajar lips. Mucus ran down his nose and into the confines of his mouth as he brought his head upward—ears bloodshot and teary. Before him stood a tall, ashen fleshed man who wore a stunning smile and enticing eyes.
"Hello dear boy," said the man with a velvet voice as he ventured downward to one knee. A steady hand reached out and grasped the child by the chin, tweaking his cranium to the left-and-to-the-right. In the man's touch the boy was lax—his muscles turned to mesh. There was something about that touch that electrified and terrified him. Cyan eyes stared into the nadir of those ebony pupils, and there he saw a erroneous warmth. Hazel eyes honed in on the boy's blues; Purgatory meets Heaven. Had Mother told him of such people? He did not know... right now Mother was six feet under and turning in her grave as the ominous Olut Eites kneeled before her son. "Hi," softly spoke the child as he looked into the face of the Devil. The man was white as snow, but a green hue tinted the flesh. There was a sour smell to his body, the boy would note, but everyone had a bit of a funky smell nowadays. Why should he fear the velvet voice volatile villain? Well, we will soon find out why little boy's should listen to their mothers about vampires and demons—about witches and wizards—about succubus' and incubus'. Clammy fingers enticed those lithe digits of the boy, and as the man rose, so did the boy. Here in Connaloth—especially on a drab summer day such as this—no one would take notice in this oddity.
"Where are we going?" inquired the mentally drunken boy as he swaggered down the street with the swine of seduction. A smile played across the man's lips, ivory knives erupting forth from pale gums. "I'm taking you to see your Mother, would you like that?" the child did not need to speak—for Olut's knew that he had nodded. Children were the easiest to con and consume—in particular orphans. Cobblestone slapped beneath their feet as they headed in the direction of Sirantil Valley, rain raging downward from above. 'Mother dearest should be proud to find that she has such a strong boy," a condemned chuckle bubbled forth from Olut's orifice. "Very proud indeed."
