"…when going through a large forest he lost himself…looking through a long walk of trees, he saw a light at some distance, and going on a little farther perceived it came from a palace illuminated from top to bottom."

Two days later, Bran left Port Rile, aiming to return to Dyvyne, where he would be meeting with Ys to tell him of their loss of the pouches of Nether that had been inside the galleon Kell when it sank to the pits of the ocean. Where the pouches were now was unreachable. They had lost a great sum of money due to the storm that had taken the ship down and his boss would not be pleased to hear of such a thing from his mouth. Bran feared what his punishment for not picking a different ship would be.

That same night that he left, however, a great and powerful storm blew in from the east, making travel very difficult indeed for Bran and his steed. Many times he could not recall which way he had come from, and he found himself only awake out of the fear of being gobbled up by the creatures that made their home in this wood. He was good and lost by the time the sun had settled beneath the horizon line. Darkness encased him and his horse, and now the man dismounted, grabbing the creature by his reins and taking it upon himself to lead the poor animal to some trees where he thought they might be sheltered from the storm, if only a little. In doing so, the man cursed his ill-fated life. He rambled to the horse beside him, a thing that he had bought in Ignelle two years ago, and spoke of how everything in this world was fated to cause him misery. The death of his wonderful wife, the curse of his job that worked him into the ground, the man he was all but a servant to who would surely have his neck when he learned of the Kell's disappearance under the waves, of his youngest daughter having to also work for a good portion of her life due to his inability to provide enough money for them all… for the damned storm that now threatened both his and his horse's life. He, however, never cursed the horse, for it was a thing of grace and had never once failed him in the years that he had owned it.
While walking, a howl lifted upon the wind. It took a while for the man to distinguish it, for the gales screamed almost as loudly as the ache of hunger in a wolf's belly did. Not that wolves were the only dangerous thing out in these woods, but they were certainly there, and the pack had had nothing to chew on for the past week. With winter coming, the alpha had grown nervous, bringing his group closer to human infested towns, taking risks on sheep and cattle that strayed a little too far from their shepherds and farmers. A lost human was something of a miracle to the beasts, and their mouths overflowed with the hope that they would delve into something filling on this night. The trusty horse lifted his head, his ears cocked in the direction of whence the first howl came, and his nares flared, brown eyes wide against his black coat. Bran, finally mindful of the animal's keen hearing, turned his head in the same direction and drew his cloak in around him tighter. His bad luck was soon to grow into a hellish situation, for three wolves appeared just over the ridge that the horse and his man had taken to underneath a tree perched upon the lower half of it. Their amber orbs gleamed in the wintry night and they began to move quickly over the snow, aiming for the figure of a human and a stupid travelling companion.

The horse, however, was not a fool as the wolves believed him to be. He squealed when the vargs first took their steps, and moved so that his stirrups were closer to the man who had saved him from being sent to a slaughter house. Seconds later, the man was upon his back once more, and the creature took off in the opposite direction, flying through the trees as a shadow does, stealthy, though not as elegant as it should have been, for there were already pockets of snow that disguised small footfalls that would cause the horse to stumble. The beast quickly would catch himself, however, and would continue on, rampaging through the night.

It continued like this for hours, or so it seemed. How much time actually passed is unknown to both man and creature, for it was seemed (due to the cold and the fear) to be much longer than it actually was. When Bran feared that the end was to come to him, his eyes found a light in the distance, and for a moment, he dare not believe his gaze. But with one glance behind him at the canines that were starting to catch up to his dear horse, he dug his heels into the beasts side and leaned forward so as to create less resistance against the swirling wind. He rode the poor creature straight into the castle, and found it strange when the howling of the wolves had stopped just outside the buildings walls. When he turned his head, pulling his horse to a stop, he found that the predatory animals were still there, but they dared not approach any further. Just after the wall was a strange sight. A thicket full of rose bushes. Bran turned his head and looked straight up the stone structure of what would be his saving grace and he thanked whatever kind of divine intervention had gotten him here safely.

He dismounted and went up to the door, his hand hovering just above the knocker when the portal swung open, creaking in the frigid temperatures and allowing the wind to swirl in. It was almost as if the building wanted him to enter. Wanted him to come inside. Was urging him to do so. And so he did, leading his horse with him. Whoever the master was of this place would just have to put up with him for a short while… he told himself this in order to calm himself down.
The man found himself drawn to a source of heat, a gargantuan fireplace that was lined with rustic designs, and a full mirror that was no doubt the height of the door he had entered through above it and the antlers of many a stag decorating the sides. When he was warm enough to think of something other than frostbite, Bran turned his neck, searching the antique ceiling panels painted with the same pattern over and over, a large chandelier that was no doubt of the old sort, for it had a lowering chain attached to it and there was no electric bulbs on its skeleton, but candles, whose wax had dripped too many a time down the metal.

Later Bran had enough courage to go searching through the place, lighting a candle that was found beside the fireplace and leaving his horse near the front door so as to not anger the master any further than he already had. Though who owned such a grand place was unbeknownst to him, for it is said that all the richest of men live in the city of Dyvyne. Wherever this was, it was someplace he had never heard of, perhaps a lord that had taken to retirement out in the woods. On his way, he called out many times. The only sound he got back, however, was the fluttering of curtains in the wind provided by small openings in the glass panes, his footsteps, the howling outside, and the sound of his voice ricocheting off the armor that lined the wall with every ten feet or so.

Needless to say, the place was gigantic. It was soon, though, that Bran came upon a dining hall with a long table. And upon the table was a feast fit for a kingly figure. Bran's stomach clenched and he looked around, calling out once more before allowing silence to settle in around him. He stared at the food, and saliva slid into his mug, encouraging him forward. So he went, and he ate until he was full. As he was leaving the table, he saw that the finery he had dined on was indeed silver… and he pocketed a few of the utensils, wiped off a tiny saucer and also put that in his possession. Know now that Bran McGarden is no poor man, nor is he a thief, but he thought perhaps that these would be nice souvenirs for his wife when he told her the story of how he became lost in a snowstorm and found an old castle which the wolves would not approach.

When he attempted to return back to the fire, however, something he had never dreamed of greeted him when he took a wrong turn. It was by the painting that had been, strangely, covered in a black veil. Bran had noticed it because it was ripped, pieces of the canvas having fallen to the floor despite the veil already suggesting that whoever it was had already passed on. It was such a strange, eerie display that Bran forgot all about the way back to the fireplace he had left his horse near and took a right instead of a left. At first the man thought it to be yet another suit of armor, for the light from a candle attached to the wall glinted off a metallic body. But his gaze widened dramatically when it moved, revealing the thing to be a living organism. Without thinking, Bran turned and sped back down the way that he had come, his heart reaching his throat, wishing that he had never entered the structure.

It was no wonder that the wolves had not dared to come anywhere near the place. It was the devil himself who was the master here!

Behind him, heavy steps caught up, and he was thrown to the floor, his body sliding off the carpet that lined the hallway and into the wall. His head made a disgusting crack when it collided with the stone and he felt himself being pulled up by his shirt collar. His vision blurred for a second—due to fear and the concussion that he had suffered just moments beforehand. Bran raised his hands to his throat, holding onto the arm that clutched him there. The hand let go of him, and then tightened around his throat. The man tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Before him… was what he could only describe as a Beast.

Two ebony horns came from the creatures head, not standing straight up or curling round his ears as most cow and oxen ones will, but instead protruded from him at a 45 degree angle, curling back at least a foot in length. They were much like what Blackfoot antelope horns will grow to be. He stood tall, at least six foot, if not more, and on legs that resembled a dragons, covered in steel scales that up to his waist. The rest of him was steel-plated, covered in scars, save for his face, which was the only semi-human looking part of him. The flesh there had not been touched by the scales yet, though there was a clock ticking for that too. His hands, were clawed, and scales patterned up his arm, past his elbow and over his shoulder, onto his neck, up to his jawline. Black hair that reached his waist fell behind him in a heap, and it would not have surprised Bran if it ended up having a life of its own with sharp teeth at the end of it. It did not, but these are the kinds of things you start thinking when you are face to face with a… a demon. Eyes of crude oil stared him down, the darkness overwhelming within them.

"I allow you into my home only to have you wander my castle without question. First you stride through my halls and then you eat my food… and not just that! You also steal what is rightfully my own!" The hand tightened and Bran squeaked under its pressure. "Tell me now what you will about why you have come and why I should have mercy on your pitiful soul."

"A family—," he gasped when he was allowed to speak for a short while, "daughters-." The creature growled, the sound suddenly taking up every inch of space that had been between the two. The deep scarlet cloak that was worn by the creature billowed out beside them, driven by the momentum that he now placed on the human's throat.

"It is said that a liar will always use women for an excuse—" Bran shook his head no, tears starting to form in his bulging eyes. Heat was being forced to his head now, and the low amount of oxygen that he was getting was barely enough to cool him. Talons tapped the stone behind him, threatening and dangerous. Bran could only imagine having his neck slit open in the back and his spinal column being torn out of his body. "I will overlook your rancid behavior and allow you to go free," the creature growled, his voice deep and throaty, echoing off of the stone walls. Each breath that Bran took was recorded in the atmosphere there with little puffs of smoke that disappeared nearly as quickly as they came from his parted mouth, "if you give me one of your daughters to have as a servant."

Bran's breath stopped then. Did he dare? Did he dare save his own life by putting one of his girls in the line of fire? His hazel eyes darted to the window behind the creature who had begun to crowd his space. The rock against his back was hard, uncomfortable. It dug into his spine, no doubt angering the bone into becoming ache-y. None of his daughters had worked a day in their lives beside Levy. She was accustomed to such treatment, though he was not glad to be able to admit to such. Neither one of his step-daughters would survive the experience… but Levy… his eyes returned to the devil, and he rearranged his face grimly.

"You have my word."

"If that means anything, of course. If she does not arrive within a fortnight, I will find you and tear out each organ in your foul body, allowing you to live only until the last possible moment."
The clawed hand retreated from his throat and Bran exhaled, sliding against the wall and into a more relaxed position on the floor. What had he just done? He'd damned his favorite child to a hell on earth. The inside of his cheek now was raw from having bit himself on it too many times. She would most likely never forgive him.

Of course this was not true, he knew that it was in Levy's nature to be kind and gentle-hearted. She easily forgave, though he could not say as much about the forgetting part. He supposed she still held a small bit of grief against him for not being there when her mother needed him most. Bran held his chest and lowered his head, defeated, when the beast brought back a quill and a piece of parchment. He dropped the objects in front of the man and watched as the human shuddered away from them. The gruff voice became audible once more.

"I have drawn a map; if you are telling the truth and are from Port Rile, the directions are clearly stated on the parchment. Write her a letter and I will set you free."

"And my horse?"

"Will be ready for you in the morning when the storm has passed."

Bran reached forward for the quill, knowing that what he was doing was selfish, and he snatched it up in trembling fingers. When he was finished, he huddled back against the wall, wrapping his wet cloak around him for the little good that it would do for him and he fell into a fitful sleep. When he woke, the door was unlocked and the main door, the large one he had come in just last night, was held open by a rock. Outside was his black horse, as promised, unharmed and looking to be in better shape than Bran himself was.

Bran took off as quickly as he could, allowing the horse to carry him to the capital city, Dyvyne without once hitting another stop. He arrived safe and sound, though guilt and remorse ate away at his gut.

And so the letter was sent, and it arrived days later in the hands of Bran's youngest daughter, sweet, young, beautiful Levy. Happy to have received word from her father so soon, Levy spent all day with her hand brushing up against the letter's envelope. However she had work to do and could not take her eyes off any of the tables for a minute, much less let her coworkers and her boss down just because she wanted to read a short letter that her father had sent her. She would have plenty of time after work before she got back home to unseal the thing and drag her hungry eyes over it. And when she did get off, she threw her apron to the side and went out the back door, shouting her goodbyes to those where still inside. They smiled after her, truly considerate and thankful for the work she had done. Outside, she sat on the step just outside the kitchen door in the alley. She worked on re-lacing her shoes, as they had come loose while she had worked. The girl settled herself down and clumsily messed with the strings, tearing open the letter with her free hand and unfolding it. Inside she was surprised to find not just a letter, but also a map with instructions on how to direct oneself there. She stared at it for a moment, then glued her eyes to the cursive lettering on the other page.
It read:

My dear Levy,
I have found you many a rose, but know not which one to pick for you. Please come and see them for yourself and choose the one that you like best out of them. I am sure that you will be pleased with the spot—it is a day and a half's ride so please start out in the morning. Ride constantly, and do not be put off by the lengthy travel. You will most certainly appreciate the end of your journey, and I hope that you will be satisfied with what you find there.
My love is yours to keep~
Father.

While she had been reading, a smile had grown upon her facial features, spreading a Cheshire grin would across her palette. Tucking the unfinished laces back into her boot, she stood up quickly and dusted off her dress, folding the letter carefully along with the map and stuffing it in her satchel before taking off at a run down the cobblestone pathway. Shadows leapt away from her approaching form as she flew merrily back to the house that she could barely call her own anymore. It would be wonderful to get away, if only for a day. And it was Sunday tomorrow, which meant that she wouldn't have to take off work. However she would have to leave in the wee hours of the morning before everyone else was up so that she did not get stuck cleaning the household. Levy could barely contain her joy, and she almost slipped and fell twice on her way back. Flour was dusted into her blue hair and she would have to take a cold bath tonight in order to clean all the grime off of her.

While she was working at her house, cleaning the dishes after dinner, she decided that she would sleep in the stable. That way, at first light she would saddle Dapplegrim, the trusty old draft gelding their neighbor had had for years (and had given Levy her first riding lessons on; his owner said that so long as she made sure to return him, she was allowed to take him anywhere for travel), and take him out without anyone waking up to the creak of the front door. Her plan went smoothly and no one asked for her when she snuck out the window with a wrapped parcel of bread and cheese to his stall.

The night passed quickly for her there and a short storm came in the early hours, waking her and gently easing her out of her dreams with the steady patter of soft rain and the metallic scent that comes with such showers on the breeze. By the time the sun hit the horizon line, Levy had already put a blanket and saddle on Dapplegrim, the map tucked safely down the front of her shirt (which had been, along with loose fitting pants suited for riding, borrowed from a neighbor lad), and she strode out, leading the old boy by his reins. When she was on the main road, she swung up onto him and trotted out of the Port and into the forest.