To the four or five of you who are my followers, I must apologise. I did plan on finishing/at least advancing many of my stories this summer, and instead I've started two new ones. Trust me, I am more disappointed in myself than you are in me. Hopefully, however, this new stuff is entertainment enough to stick around. I do still intend on updating my other fics; they are by no means cancelled. It's simply slow going.

And to the handful of new readers stumbling upon this story, join the darkside, we have cookies and free t-shirts.

To make things clear, this is a sequel to another fic by themagnificent ME called Rusalka. If you haven't read it, I highly suggest you do. No, seriously, go read it first. But then come back. Please.

As a warning, this is going to be a multi-chaptered, dark, fairytale-esque story. The rating may change in the future.

Blaklite

-{ * }-

The Monster of Arevheg

"Okay, my turn. I spy with my little eye something that is…green."

"Tree?"

"Merde…"

"Yes! Alright, I spy with my little eye something that is tall."

"Tree."

"Verdammt, okay your turn again."

"I spy-"

"If the answer is tree one more time, I'm going to kill you both."

"Your fault for leading us into this boring, old forest, English."

"I am of the same opinion as the German."

"Prussian, asshole."

The Englishman scowled at them. "This is the first village in three months that we've been summoned to for a job. And if you two haven't noticed, we are running low on funds. We need this money, so belt up, and bear with me. I'm not enjoying myself anymore than either of you." With that, the scruffy blond pulled the hood of his cloak on in a vain attempt to block out the voices behind him.

The sound of light, airy, carefree laughter broke through his comfortable, secluded bubble. "Lies, mon lapin. There's nowhere else in the world you'd rather be than in the godforsaken wilds. Stuffy libraries make a close second."

"While that's all true," the irritated Englishman ground out, sending the smiling Frenchman a glare. "You manage to spoil everything I find pleasant."

"I still don't see why you can't just magic us to this village, Arthur," the disembodied voice of Gilbert Beilschmidt called out from behind a Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy. Riding slightly further ahead on a chestnut mare named Clover, Arthur Kirkland didn't bother turning around to address the Prussian.

"You know very well why. It's too bloody dangerous. I'd probably die, and you two would end up half in half out of a rock, or a bear, or a…"

"Tree?" Francis supplied, snickering as he saw Arthur slump slightly, trying to control his anger.

"We're almost there, anyways," the Brit continued, ignoring the other blond. "The pub owner in the last village said it was less than two days ride. But if it'll shut you up, I'll send a scout to determine our exact distance from the village." Raising his left hand palm up towards the cloudy sky, a pale green, floating orb of light appeared and grew steadily above it. Slowly, the ball of light begin to mold itself into the shape of a winged rabbit, which, when fully formed, hopped down onto the forest floor, and bounded ahead of them, faster than any of them could run. It left nothing disturbed in its wake.

"So you can create glowy bunnies, but you can't make us a few gold coins? We'd be set for life, screw this travelling shit."

"Gilbert, I told you that making gold is highly taxing on my magic. The creation of anything substantial, even a single breadcrumb, let alone a whole gold coin, is nearly impossible. Even a master wizard could die trying to form but a speck of pure gold."

"That's right, I forgot. You're just an apprentice." The ex-albino stated, not at all impressed.

Arthur bristled visibly. "I am not an apprentice. I am a Sorcerer of the First Order." The title was said with some pride.

"Which is only one step up from apprentice," Francis explained.

"If the purposes of your lives are to be unceasing nuisances, you are both doing a very good job."

"Désolé, mon ami. You're just too much fun to rile up." Oh, how the green eyed man wished he could spell those smirking lips shut forever. He was delayed the chance, however, when the green rabbit returned from the direction it had been sent to explore.

"Oh, good," the Englishman stated, bringing the mare to a halt. The others stopped as well. In a single bound, the rabbit flew through the air to land in his palm, becoming an orb before any part of its body could touch Arthur. Shutting his eyes, he closed his fingers around the ball, the light dimming as it was absorb back into his body. Nothing happened for a few long seconds, making his companions restless. Finally, the sorcerer spoke, "It shouldn't take more than another half hour of steady riding. Come along."

As if they needed encouragement. Anywhere but this forest would have been a good place to be, Gilbert thought out of boredom, and Francis…well, he just couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong with the place. The forest, or at least something in the forest, was watching them; the horses, Clover and Persée, a grey, middle-aged stallion, could tell, their ears flicking back and forth in the search for sounds of danger, starting whenever a twig snapped or a stone overturned. They were tense, and skittish. He hoped Arthur could at least distantly sense this as well.

Just as predicted, the small team made it to the edge of the village in about thirty minutes time. The road tilted slightly with the land before flattening out once they'd reached the first buildings of the town. It was no Paris, that much was certain. Most of the buildings were made of wood, the poorer ones half mud constructs. The richer homes had sloping wooden roofs, whereas others had to put up with thatch. But it was the road that caught Arthur's attention. Even on their way here, the road was well maintained and beaten underfoot from the steady march of many travellers. The road, which continued past the village he guessed, must lead to some resource, or other important location, perhaps of religious value. There was no reason otherwise for travellers to come this way.

Following the road, they found it led into a square which they assumed was the centre of the village. Along the way, they saw very few people, as if the villagers were hiding. The villagers they did see watched them carefully, but not warily. The fear in their eyes was not of them, but for them. In the middle of the square was a well, and a few stalls had been set up around it to sell various items, mostly vegetables and fruits, but also clothing, tools, small trinkets. The stall keepers were not animated in their haggling, the buyers anxious to get back home. The buildings of the square appeared to be market-oriented: a bakery, a butcher's shop, a book store, a pub, and an inn among other things. It was the last of these that Arthur steered them towards.

After securing their horses to the post, the trio made their way inside. The inn, while homely, was nearly deserted as they entered. Understandably, perhaps, since supper wouldn't be for another three hours, but odd nonetheless for such a common gathering place. If it hadn't been obvious before, it was certainly obvious now that something with the village was not right.

"Two rooms, please," Arthur politely asked the man at the counter. He was oddly tanned for someone who lived so far north. The man eyed them curiously with his deep brown eyes for a moment, not out of suspicion, but merely surprise. His features quickly changed to a welcoming smile and cheery visage.

"Benvenuti amici!" the gentleman greeted in Italian, making it clear where he had originated from. "What brings you to the Firebird Inn?" he asked in oddly accented and slightly faltering Russian. The three travellers had no problems understanding him thanks to an enchanted ring worn by Arthur, the spell for understanding foreign languages that he had set on Francis, and the fact that Gilbert already knew a fair amount of Russian thanks to his noble upbringing. This also allowed the first two to be able to easily converse in Russian. Gilbert had to think a bit more on what he said if he wanted to say it in Russian, though he never really thought on what he said in any language so they weren't about to rely on him as a mediator. Not that they would anyways, considering his current condition.

"I am Arthur Kirkland, and this is Francis Bonnefoy-"

"Ahem."

Arthur glared at Gilbert for the interruption. Francis looked anywhere but at anyone in the room, shifting the strap on his shoulder. The innkeeper looked at the group, confused. Ignoring the Prussian, the wizard continued. "Our presence has been requested in order to remedy the current…situation this village is facing. Do you know where we could find the ruling lord?"

The man studied the pair for a moment, blinking silently a few times, fear and confusion mixing on his features. He shook his head as he figured everything out in his head. "The young lord lives too far away to know about our problems. You were likely summoned by Alaric, the starosta, upon the suggestion of the Council. If you'd like, I can send one of my nephews as a runner while you make yourselves comfortable in your rooms."

Arthur looked back to Francis, who merely shrugged. Turning back to the innkeeper, the green-eyed wizard nodded. "That would be greatly appreciated, Mr….?"

"Vargas. Marcus Vargas," the brunette beamed. "I'll get Feli to leave immediately. Your rooms are numbers seven and nine, up the stairs, and a little down the right-hand side of the hallway. Oh, and welcome to Arevheg." He handed them two bronze keys. Thanking him, the trio crossed the room and climbed the stairs. Once they were out of sight, the innkeeper pushed open a door behind the counter, and gently called inside. "Feliiii? I'm sorry to interrupt your time with Ludwig, but can you go tell Alaric that the monster hunters are here?"

"This is cosy," stated Gilbert from where he was lounging on the single bed. He and Francis were bunking in room seven, while Arthur was unpacking in room nine. The rooms were identical: a single bed with a hay-stuffed mattress, a small dresser with a basin on top, a desk with a rickety chair, and an oil lamp. Not exactly a five star hotel, but at least it was clean.

"I don't see why you're complaining. The state of the room hardly matters to you, anyways."

"You weren't complaining, so someone had to."

Francis sighed. "I agree it's not the best place we've ever stayed. But at least it's not some piss poor village in the Balkans."

"No, it's worse. It's some piss poor village in the Russian wilderness."

The door opened as Francis chuckled, exposing the wizard and an unknown figure, a young man of maybe eighteen or nineteen. He greatly resembled Mr. Vargas, and Francis was left to conclude that this was the nephew Feli.

"We have a meeting to attend," was all Arthur said.

-{ * }-