When the sun kisses the mountains, its dying rays speckle the forest just so — fleeting fairy lights that dance, frightened, around a path hidden even from the trees. Created once by wanderers, the ground beneath had been worn by dreaming feet. But what had once followed the riverbend is now overcome with weeds, broken hopes and faded dreams. Now only the winds will travel it, gossiping with the rustling leaves as the sun falls victim to the shadow christened Night. The frenzied breeze plays the forgotten travelers, following the river's siren's song to where the forest parts. There, surrounded almost entirely by dying trees, is a meadow sans green. Nearly as forgotten as its roamers it names founders, it is a place dotted sparsely by cottages, dilapidated and homely. There is where that hidden path leads, where dirt-worn feet had discovered a gateway to a paradise turned hell.
"There's speak of somethin' dark happenin' in that town, there."
The pub is alive with cacophony and cheer, the clinking of glasses resounding every few minutes. Amidst the laughter, seated politely on a bar stool is Marinette — awkward, out of place, too young to be drinking along.
But she can't let any of that show.
Slowly regarding the man — probably in his early thirties — sitting next to her, she hopes she doesn't come off as rude. She needs to keep her tone level, expression neutral, somehow look like she actually belongs.
Because she can't give too much away. She just wants some information, and in order to get it, she can't seem too excited.
On the other hand, the man seems all too excited. Eyes glazed and shimmering just the slightest, he rubs at his gristly beard. He licks his chapped lips, earnestly awaiting her response.
All too self-conscious now, she blinks slowly to maintain her near-disinterested facade. "Oh?" She quirks an eyebrow, calculated to a perfect thirty degree arc. "Why would that be?"
His answer is a hiccup, body clumsily tumbling down to the bar table. Barely catching himself, he tipsily props his head in his hand, breathing into her ear.
She flinches for a second, but has to resist any further uneasiness towards his proximity. Still, she readies herself to reach towards the silver dagger tucked neatly in her boots.
The man thankfully doesn't notice, instead leaning in towards her and forcing their eyes to meet. "They's been sayin' that-" He hiccups. "-that there's been s-some persons missin' an…a-an' the-" He's swaying violently, tipping over only to catch himself at the last second. His words are beginning to slur. "Th-they ssaaaaysss…t-t-th-thheeey…an' thheeey's been…there'sss beeeennn…" Another hiccup.
Marinette leans back, away from him. The last thing she needs is to be hit, however accidentally, by this drunkard.
"A-An'…" he continues his speech. "Th-Th-Theeer-Theeere's-"
She subtly gets off her stool, making a mental note not to look for information anymore in pubs. Just as she turns around, however, she hears something slam onto the bar table and the sound of splintering wood from the impact.
"A-An' there's been MURDERS."
The pub falls immediately silent, all noise and motion having so abruptly ceased that it seemed as if time itself had frozen.
Marinette swivels around on her heels, looking again at the man.
He's heaving, eyes wide and no longer glazed over. All the alcohol on his tongue had evaporated with those words.
"An' there's been murders," he repeats to himself, quietly.
She takes a deep breath, trying to quell her excitement, because yes, this is exactly what she needed.
"Where is this town?" She places a gentle hand on his shoulder but he shakes violently, swats her hand away. His own breaths forced and harsh, he gapes at her with constricted pupils.
Caused by shock and fear, probably.
Patiently, she repeats her statement. "Where is-"
"No." Now it's his turn to grab onto her shoulders, shaking her back and forth. "Didn' ya jus' hear me? There's been murders in that town."
With a smile, Marinette gingerly plucks his hands off her shoulders. "Don't worry about me." Her expression abruptly falls, a sudden new edge in her voice. "Where is that town?"
The pub practically drops several degrees in temperature; everyone there can feel chills after hearing her harsh tone.
The man, especially, is not exempt from this: he's trembling.
"I-It's deep'n the forest. The m-marked trees will-"
"What kind of marks?"
"C-Crosses."
She turns around again — that was really all she needed.
"W-Wait." The man lunges to grab her elbow, forcing her to halt mid-step. "Don' go. It's-"
She jerks him away. "I can handle myself." Never looking back, she waves farewell.
She's been traveling this path for two days now, rationing off half a loaf of bread, picking at the few berry bushes strewn about.
Her pace is inconsistent. At times, she'll walk faster, hurrying to her destination. But then she'll remember that her task is nothing to be thrilled for, nothing to anticipate in any positive sense of the word.
When she remembers that, she'll clip her speed, knowing that she'll need to save her energy for later. Knowing that if she doesn't, there might not be another later in her life.
As she walks deeper into the forest, the trees lose their greens; the leaves are gradually furling deeper into themselves, the trunks increasingly rotted, the roots progressively gnarled, knotted, large and hideous, jutting out and into the dirt path.
Even nature has abandoned that desolate town, she notices.
Once she finally reaches the clearing, the trees have all completely decayed, the smell of death lingering from their broken branches blacker than midnight. Yet, beyond those shattered souls is a small breath of life.
Marinette ducks under the wilting foliage, staring intently at the village behind it all. Just a few more steps and she'll reach it; just a little bit longer and she'll meet fate once again.
The path ends, even its impure dirt afraid to touch the unexceptional plains past the trees. And when she takes a step into the village, when she takes a good look at all the crumbling cottages, she feels a sudden rush —something telling her to turn back, to act as if she had never arrived; something telling her she's not supposed to be here, she won't want to be here.
But there's no time to contemplate her doubts because someone sees her, hazel eyes glinting just as the last hints of sun are covered by the grey clouds looming overhead. Stern expression on his face, the man walks up to her, each step deliberate and calculated to inspire fear in her.
He doesn't speak until he reaches her, and when he does, his voice as rough and gravelly as it is unwelcoming. "Who are you?" He scowls at her, bitter frown glaring through his snow-white beard.
She refuses to be intimidated by him, however. "Marinette Dupain-Cheng," she answers. The surrounding villagers have also raised their heads, curiously regarding the stranger in town. She pays them no notice, offering her hand to the man. "Vampire hunter, at your service."
A/N: I'll be using this story to experiment with/practice description, imagery, and not rushing the writing. If there's anything you liked or disliked, please let me know! Thank you for reading!