Terrible winds whipped around the buildings of the city of Keirmer, they howled and they
pushed but worst of all they foretold the coming of something dark and evil. The darkness of evening that normally only seemed to be a veil over the city seemed to be a smothering hand of blackness this night, the blackness eating up every corner devouring any shimmer of a distant torch or candle. It was black and windy, like the dark breath of death upon the city.
At the window she could only see three buildings opposite of the shop that she lived above. Typically, she'd be able to see the entire block from her third floor living area, the pitched and shingled roofs, the stone chimneys, sometimes she could see inside some of the windows, watching the families settle in for the night.
She left her window, the one source of sunshine in her small one floor home. The window was set into the middle of the wall facing the north, being a half circle it fit just right with the pitch of the roof. She had lined shelves across the window, placing a few pots on them, some herbs for her tea, seasoning for her meals and to help ward off illnesses or infection. She had a few miscellaneous items scattered about on the shelves, for looks more than anything, but the one thing she went to every day was a jewelry box.
This wasn't any ordinary jewelry box, it wasn't wood, it wasn't metal, it was glass. Made by her father, when he was courting her mother, it was small and fragile but the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, even to this day. The box was clear glass, rectangular in shape with four feet that swept down in the form of curling vines. The lid of box was the only area of the jewelry box that held any color. Green ivy curled and bordered the lid, like a frame, in the center was a heart so red it was almost purple, flames erupted from this heart, curling and spiraling delicately on the lid. The details of this box were etched in silver bands, giving everything little outlines and details but it was so delicately done that one would barely notice unless they took a closer inspection. A green velvet lining protected the bottom of the box, so as not to scratch the fragile glass.
Two very peculiar items lay protected within this glass safe box. The first being a dainty hammer the length of ones hand, being made of fine silver, engraved with tiny designs. The second being a piece of very old, brown parchment, curled and torn at the edges, rolled and tied in the middle with a black ribbon. The contents were a language that she did not know and her mother never revealed to her before she died.
The three things left to her from her mother of her heritage lay in a glass box, in the open, the most over looked place to common lookers. She went to the transparent keeper and opened it once a day to glance at it's contents, pondering what each meant, where they came from and why. Never having the answer every day, she went about her normal business returning to it the next day, repeating the same process day after day after unanswered day.
Around her neck, strung on a thin rope of silver, were the wedding bands of her parents, the only thing, besides herself, left of a union of two people in love.
The fire was slowly dying, it wasn't particularly cold this early spring night, it was more the light of the fire she desired above warmth. Two more logs were placed into the stone fire place.
She seated herself in the old wooden rocking chair, curling her feet off to the side, tucking them into the folds of her long, thick, white cotton night dress. She pulled the knitted, cream colored blanket over her shoulders, staring into the renewing light of the fire.
She could remember as a very small child sitting by this fire, playing with one of her cloth dolls, her mother, sitting in the exact same rocker knitting the blanket that she had wrapped around her shoulders. She remembered looking up at her mother, her long dark hair loose, spilling over her shoulders like a shroud. She would often sing or hum to herself as she knitted in the evenings, recalling those memories was sweet sadness. She missed her mother terribly, even now, after she'd been dead for eight years.
The light being emitted from the growing fire cast long shadow across her room.
To her left, her bed was rumpled, it's sheets, pillows and blankets pulled back from where she was once sleeping. The thick green curtains that surrounded her bed were pulled off and tied to the bottom, left end of the bed; with the warmer days there was no need to keep the bed curtains drawn at night.
Hidden still in the shadows, still left of the bed lay the wardrobe that her mother had paid to have the local carpenters put in. They were large for just one person, but good for two, something her mother was anticipating but was not alive long enough to fill with her and her growing daughters wardrobe. The carpenters made the wardrobe well, nailed into the wall so they would never fall, was L shaped, it was full of drawers and rods to place clothing, which she had enough of. In front of the wardrobe was a round rug, woven from thick wool, it was hues of pinks, yellows, greens and blues, her first real purchase on her own.
Behind her, hidden from sight, but not from mind, was where her cupboard and cutting table lay. Bread, jams, tea, glasses, plate, knives, eating utensils and objects of that nature were kept in the cupboard, connected to the cupboard was a long wooden counter of sorts, where she prepared her food and tea, a general work space. Behind that was her water spout, something that her mother also paid to have put in. Next to the spout was the wooden bathing tub, with it's curtain drawn up, hidden from everyday sight.
Her round table, the only thing that was close to the window, was already in this third story flat when her and her mother moved in. Of course now it was covered with a red checkered table cloth, which sat her ivory colored tea pot with red hand painted flowers, a gift from Madam Derra for Winter Solstice. Four simple chairs circled around the table, each covered in a red checkered cushion to match the table cloth.
She liked her little home, it wasn't big at all, it fit everything she needed it to, and it was cozy in the winter and caught a lovely breeze in the summer, it was home, the only one she could remember.
Under her carpet by the bed, below the loose floor board lay her fortune, her payment work from Madam Derra, the favors that she would do for some of her neighbors and the rather substantial amount of money that her mother left was enough to buy her own house in the city with a plot of land surrounding it, enough to start up her own business and enough to furnish her town home. 'My darling baby, hide yourself amongst the good people of this city, become one of them, there may someday come a time when strangers will come looking for you. If you are one of the city folk, they shall never find you, live a quiet life'...she could hear her mother tell her this even now, in her memories as her mother lay only a few days away from her death.
With the slow rocking of her chair, Aila felt her tension disappear and her weariness of a long day return. With the heaviness in her eyelids, she threw the cream colored blanket over the back of the chair and returned to her awaiting bed. She pulled the heavy covers over her, as her head hit the pillow she was already asleep and dreaming.
Past the snow covered mountain ridges, past the Caldadrian Lake, threw the Alcotorin Forest, over the plains of Shodalond, beyond the Marshes of the Derra'leigh and the bordering land of Cherriktill covered with nothing but rocks, sand, and liquid rock in the dessert of Wyndaza, upon the most unnatural range of tall lifeless mountains lays the Bell of Eganwight.
Beneath the bell, in a tomb, lay a bodiless evil, awakening from hundreds of years of slumber, it's blackened arms ready to strangle and destroy, it mouths ready to devour life, its eyes waiting to behold the death it will deliver unto its many victims.