The air was dead and still. Clouds hung in the gun black sky, obscuring what should have been the silver of the moon. Crickets chirped to a natural rhythm as all the cut and copied houses sat on both ends of Wagner street, watching silent with their window eyes; to all the slumbering children of the world, tonight was just another night – no grass would move without the wind, and neither would the tawdry pawns of fate without a simple, decisive gesture.
The grandfather clock inside of Michael LASTNAMETK’s house ticked steadily, while the kitchen faucet dripped lackadaisically alongside the sleepy blackness.
Out on the street, from the cover of two great and mighty trees, came forth a pair of midnight blue boots with silver zippers. A rush of wind washed over the street, surging through the grass and making all that it touched dance to it’s power. The boots treaded across the grass as the wind dissipated, and they clacked as they moved along the pavement in careful, methodical steps. Like each one, if not carefully measured, might cause some unintended destruction. The window panes of all the houses continued their mute appraisal of the figure; it was shrouded in a great black cloak with markings the same color as the boots. The figure moved like a wraith through the night, working it's way up to the front door of MICHAEL'S HOMETK. With a gesture of the hands, the cloaked figure turned to an inky smoke, slipped through the openings and reformed inside of the living room. It stood motionless for a moment, and an unnatural stillness filled the home.
The grandfather clock stopped ticking, and the faucet ceased to drip.
Seconds passed and the figure turned it's head in the direction of the boys room. With that it continued the same methodical pace as before, making silent steps towards it's destination. Stepping in front of the door, the figure swung it open with the flick of it's wrist. The door banged against the wall in the dark room, and the two boys, each in their respective beds, woke up in an unnaturally restrained startle. Their bodies were locked to the bed by some invisible chains, and all that they could do was struggle against the unseen pressure - their horrified eyes looking between one another.
The Cloaked Figure turned it's head to the left, brought up a hand smooth as maiden's silk and switched on the ceiling lights. White luminescence poured over all, and the figure stepped slowly towards James's bedside. The figure appraised the boy as he could only lay there in a helpless paralysis. The cloaked figure's chest rose with a long breath, and it leaned in closer towards James.
"I am going to murder your friend," the words came out with an almost sociopathic hollowness. The voice was unmistakeably masculine, and it held the authority of a middle-aged man familiar with instructing people. James's eyes went wide. His lips quivered, and the color in his face gave hint that it would soon be fading; his jaw worked what it could, and no matter how hard he tried to pull himself from the bed, he could not free himself. "No response?" The man hissed with a sarcastic, subtle joy. "You made a choice last night. Now, because of that," the man explained, pulling himself back and standing straight. "I'm going to have to motivate you." The cold sincerity of his words hung like a curse in the air. Sotto now: "You always were... difficult to teach."
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With that the man turned and looked over Michael, the boy wrought with fear and eyes filled with water. He stepped towards the bed and sat down beside him. "Your friend can save you, you know." James struggled some more, making slightly more headway than Michael - the masked figure briefly turned his head as if to taunt James. "But he's too weak. Without discipline..." he looked back to Michael. "Now... Think of something that you love." The man splayedTK the five fingers of his right hand out as far as they would go, brought it over his shoulder like he was holding a weapon, and a faint green glow shimmered along his hand. "Pentum," malice dripped from his every tone, and the green sharpened and brightened, as if the word served to prime his killing instrument. Michael blinked and the tears rolled hot down his face. James managed to make a strangled noise from his throat, but could say nothing more. "Sevrum."
The Masked Man flicked his hand diagonally, and in between the span of that motion, Michael was no more.
Each limb was cut from the root, and his head was bifurcated at the red stump that was his oozing neck. Blood splattered with the awesome and horrific force of the magic, sprinkling the black cloak and mask of the man with droplets of red. The bed and the walls became soaked in what remained of James's companion, slipping down the sheets, pooling against the hardwood floor. The cracks among them greedily drank at the offering of red.
The Masked Man sighed, bored and as if hoping for something more. He turned his head to look at James once more. "I know you're dying to kill me right now. I can feel it, James." He pressed his hands against the bed and stood up, walking back over to the boy. "Every ounce of your anger. Every ember of your divine hate." The pained scowl on the boy's face, and the tears that came freely from his eyes was all he could do in protest. "Still can't move?" The man asked with seemingly genuine curiosity. "That's too bad." He cocked his head to the side, and from his tone a faint, ghost of a smile could be inferred behind that void of a mask. " I suppose this lesson has to continue." With that the man flicked out the lights, turned from James and walked out; becoming just another shadow amidst the black.