This was probably his first time really being alone, well at least apart from his sister. But it wasn’t by choice. The siblings managed to get separated during a landslide that was brought on by a giant. As soon as his fists smashed into the mountain wall, the duo knew their fates would split and they would be on their own. Greta, his sister, bailed to the left, while he, Hans, rolled to the right.

His direction brought him down a path that was oddly smooth. It probably helped that the night before the ground was misted with white flecks known as snow. The fresh covering was still there and it was enough to really ease him into a good flee. As his body shot down the path, he squirmed left and right to dodge a rock or tree every now and again. The longer he stayed like this, the faster he went. Soon, he realized he would need to brace himself or go soaring off the mountain’s edge.

It was by sheer luck alone that he grabbed ahold of a jutting root, which just so happened to be attacked to the burliest pine he had ever seen. As his muscle tore at the sudden snapping halt, he clenched his teeth before painfully pushing himself up right.

Eyes scanning up the path, his lips pursed into a look of awe. He had come a long way and those green eyes of his knew there was no going back up the path from which he came. His gloved hand reached for his scalp, allowing him to itch and ponder his next action. With squinted eyes and hope in his heart, he made out what looked like a small town down yonder. Now, getting there would be a long two-day walk. This, naturally, caused him to moan in disapproval. Oh how he hated his luck already.

---

By the end of that night, Hans had made it halfway to his destination. Sadly, his aching body prevented him from taking another step further. Not to mention, it was unsafe to travel alone at night in a forest unbeknownst to you. Biting his lip, the brunette began his hunt for a shelter of sorts.

Rule number one to surviving alone in the woods. Always find shelter. And never have a rip-roaring fire.

The less out in the open he was, the harder it would be for a witch (or anything for that matter) to smell him. And an open, licking flame would surely attract unwanted attention. If he wanted to make it through the night, he would need to get some coals and embers going and never let the red glow get past its smoldering stage.

It must have been his lucky day for he was overjoyed when he came across what looked like a hunter’s cabin. It was a small, one-person hunting stand but it would certainly be enough to keep him safe and warm. Approaching with caution, the male loaded up his weapon (a revolving shotgun to be exact) and gingerly kept up to the building. Three windows looked in every direction, except for the side the door was on. Both hands on the gun to steady it, he soon realized a gun would be a poor choice. It would echo in the dimming light, alerting all to his presence. Slipping the weapon across his back, he tugged out a small hunter’s knight. It wouldn’t be as easy but it would be stealthy, which was what he needed.

Three, two, one… he kicked in the door and had his blade pinned right beneath the neck of the person he heard sleeping within. As his eyes narrowed to help him hone in on the kill, he found himself looking into an all too familiar set of eyes. Not to mention, the swan that pecked at his ear and squawked at his intrusion were another dead giveaway as to who Hansel had stumbled upon. Perplexed yet thankful, the green eyed male parted his lips and called out her name.

“Odette.”

Maybe she shouldn't have come.

"Come on, Miss, just one dance?"

No, yes, she definitely shouldn't have come. This is a nightmare.

"..."

Emma hid her face behind her long strawberry curls and kept her eyes on her hands, folded neatly on her knee as she shook her head slightly, still as a statue on her seat. If she ignored him long enough, he might just leave her alone, right? The song was changing again, the orchestra playing a much slower tune as older couples who were dancing feverishly to an upbeat song just a moment ago retired to their seats. There were some who opted to a waltz to follow the classic, their bodies swaying closer to each other.

"Are you unwell?"

Again, she merely shook her head. Even as she said so, Emma might actually be sick if he keeps pestering her this way. He was still standing, towering over her. She wondered when he was going to leave - the song had changed thrice since his arrival. The first five guys who approached her gave up after five minutes of her silence. This guy however, didn't seem like he was so easy to put off.

"Come, why don't we go somewhere quieter?"

He's holding her hand. He's holding her hand! "!?!!?" Emma looked up to him in alarm, her eyes widened as she felt all the blood drained from her face, her lips parted in silent protest. She was up on her feet and was stumbling, her heels clicking against the tiled floor as the man continued to pull her across the ballroom. "!!!"

Ohnoohnoohno.

"What the-!?"

Three things registered on her mind at that instant. They stopped. He was drenched. And the boy was laughing.

Of course, the man couldn't hear the boy's laughter. He merely stared in astonishment at his wine stained shirt as his bewildered mind tried to figure out how the blood red liquid made it's way from the punch bowl on the right side of the dining table to this end of the hall. Cursing, he released her hand and stormed towards what she figured to be the direction of the washroom. She stood there in silence as her eyes followed his departure before a relieved sigh escaped her lips. Her gaze slowly turned to the still cackling boy as her features softened with a warm smile. Soundlessly, she patted the boy's head affectionately, a silent gratitude.

She noticed eyes darting in her way as soft murmurs arose from the surrounding crowd. They were probably wondering why a young lady like her was smiling to a wall and waving her hand in midair. She ignored them and offered her hand to the small boy. Grinning, he accepted it. "My name's Ian," the boy quipped as they started walking back to her seat. "Sis, you're pretty." Emma smiled in response. "I like you, so I'll tell you this." Her hand wrapped around the boy's cold fingers tighter as she listened to him voicing the thought she had been repeating to herself since the moment she stepped foot into the mansion. "You shouldn't have come."

Then, there was a heart-stopping, dead awful scream.

The clack of metal against stone and the grating of steel against steel echoed unimpeded through the hall as his metal encased feet conveyed him through the spartan and desolate corridors of the ancient citadel his Master occupied as His stronghold. He knew not how old this citadel actually was nor who originally built it, though his thirst for knowledge had him spend most of his free time, when not out in the field, reading through the thousands of documents and books in the citadel's library. He had not gotten the chance to return to the library after returning to the citadel this time around... he'd barely gotten a chance to return to his personal quarters before a messenger arrived conveying a summons to his Master's throne room. It seemed his Master already had another task for him despite his not having yet reported the success of the one he was now returning from.
When he finally reached the great and ancient wooden doors leading into his Master's throne room, he'd seen no one else during his journey through the citadel's corridors, the eerie silence permeating the gloomy stone halls broken only by the sounds his armor made from the jostling it received while he walked and the only hint the citadel wasn't deserted. He did not bother knocking, pushing his way through the doors and into the throne room beyond as soon as he reached them. The room was as spartan as the halls he'd traversed on his way here, devoid of any pictures or other fanciful adornments. Torches hung in mountings on several columns, their flickering light enough to banish the shadows of the room to the walls and corners. A single long rug of deep purple led from the doors to the solitary, time-worn throne upon which sat his Master, the Headless Horseman –known simply as the Horseman by those who served him. On the throne's right arm, the Horseman's hand resting upon it, was a Jack-O-Lantern, an impressive, if eerie, likeness of the Horseman's face skillfully carved into its orange shell, lit from behind by an unearthly amber glow. At the left foot of the throne, sitting on his hind legs as if at attention or more likely on guard, was the Horseman's loyal hell hound, Rexal, the demonic beast's fiery eyes immediately moving to the Death Knight as he pushed through the doors and began striding up the length of the rug to just before the throne.
Upon coming to a halt, the Death Knight –the Hell Knight of the Horseman as he was referred to by some of the Horseman's men on account of the way the color of his armor seemed to flicker and mutate with the light and his movements, perfectly mimicking the varying hues of hellfire and brimstone—reached up and removed the mask, resembling the muzzle and face of Rexal's kind, from his face before going to one knee before his Master seated upon His throne and lowering his head slightly in courteous fealty to the Horseman, mask in his right hand now resting above his heart in salute. "You required my presence, my Lord, and I have answered as bidden," his cold and hollow voice issued forth into the room.
"Indeed. Stand, Traezander." As he stood at his Lord's command, unconcerned that his mask was still held firmly in his right hand, now moving to rest against his thigh, leaving his horribly disfigured face, the right side completely scarred over from a horrific burn received what seemed like a life time ago, exposed, the Death Knight once more curiously wondered how exactly the forces that had created his Master enabled Him to speak through the Jack-O-Lantern beneath His hand or His severed head at His whim. He put the thought to back of his mind as the Horseman's properly aristocratic voice continued, "The Pumpkin King, my counterpart to the east, has seen fit to have my head stolen from me for him. I have informed him that you will be visiting him on my behalf to retrieve my head from his possession and that your reacquisition of my head will be as peaceful or as riotous as he wishes it. I have no doubt he will not willing return my head to you, undoubtedly having some nefarious purpose for it in an attempt to further his power, but I do not expect you to actually storm his stronghold and retrieve my head from him. I suspect that he will send agents, acting on his behalf, to keep you from reaching his stronghold until he has completed whatever scheme he needed my head for. This excursion of yours is meant merely as a diversion, keeping his attention occupied elsewhere while I muster my armies to assault his keep and put and end to him once and for all. His antics have gone to far this time, and this affront to my person must be dealt with accordingly. I have chosen you for this task because of all my independent vassals your skills are best suited to the task, however, you will not be going alone. I have decided that Rexal here shall accompany you. I suspect his own skills may aid you on your journey."
The Horseman subsided into silence, having never moved even the slightest bit upon his throne, and when Traezander was certain he would say no more, he replied, "I understand, my Lord. Our mission is simply to keep the Pumpkin King and his agents preoccupied while you prepare for war. Your will shall be done, but should the opportunity present itself, the retrieval and return of your head shall be accomplished beyond the scope of these orders. If there is nothing further, my Lord," he concluded, replacing his mask to signal that he was ready to begin the journey with the Horseman's leave, the red points of light that were his eyes as a Death Knight glowing eerily from behind the mask as he turned his head slightly to lock them upon Rexal.

Hearing the crackle of the torches is the only thing that breaks the silence of the empty room. Two lone figures sit and wait in silence; one upon his throne and the other on its hind legs beside him. Rexal looked up at its master with great reverence, simply being in his presence is enough to make the idle days worthwhile. But Rexal knew these days wouldn’t last, as the Horseman had summoned for the Death Knight to appear before him.
The silent crackles from the torches were suddenly drowned out by the doors to the chamber being opened and the summoned strode through them. Rexal watched cautiously as he made his way towards the throne and knelt before the master with his mask to his side. Traezander greeted the Horseman normally, for which the Horseman approved. The hell hound eased up a little and sat idly by as the two conversed. For most of the conversation, Rexal paid little heed, but it picked up an occasional phrase here and there. “…affront to my person must be dealt with accordingly. I have chosen you for this task because of all my independent vassals your skills are best suited to the task, however, you will not be going alone. I have decided that Rexal here shall accompany you. I suspect his own skills may aid you on your journey." Upon hearing the reply from Death Knight, "I understand, my Lord. Our mission is simply to keep the Pumpkin King and his agents preoccupied while you prepare for war. Your will shall be done, but should the opportunity present itself, the retrieval and return of your head shall be accomplished beyond the scope of these orders. If there is nothing further, my Lord.” Watching Traezander rise and replace his mask in an attempt to show he was ready to depart as his gaze transferred from the master to the hell hound. Their gaze met, each filled with a fire that burned deep within.
Rexal gave a slight nod toward the knight as it rose from where it was sitting. It made its way to his side, fire flashing out with each step, and turned once more to his master. Kneeling upon it forelegs, Rexal bowed before his master and telepathically broadcasted its departing words. By your leave, my Master, I shall depart as well and see to it your will be done. Arising again, Rexal gazed back to the Death Knight that it was now ready to depart.

The Death Knight waited and watched as the Hell Hound moved from his place at his Master's side to take up a position next to him, turning to face the Horseman before bowing in his seemingly awkward hell hound fashion. Once Rexal had completed his courtesies to his Master, the two turned and strode from the Horseman's throne room, passed on their way out by an imposingly large ogre, a good two feet taller than the Death Knight, decked out in full plate armor, a black skull stamped upon the brestplate just above his heart and a plume of dark red protruding from the top of his helm signifying his position as a general amongst the Horseman's armies, as he moved to enter the throne room once they had opened the doors to leave. Traezander led the Hell Hound back to his personal quarters, a room not quite so spartan as the throne room they'd just left though far from luxuriously furnished and decorated.
Though being undead he required no sleep, there was a bed against the far wall, made up as if ready to be used, which had no doubt been part of the room's furnishings before its current occupant took up residence. At the foot of the bed resting in the corner was a high backed chair of stone, intricately carved with what looked like random patterns and images to the untrained eye. In the center of the room rested a simple, unspectacular table of wood, four chairs seated around it, though they got little use with the Death Knight being out on assignment or in the library most of the time. To their left against the wall with the door rested a rack upon which currently resided the Death Knight's sword and shield, carefully hung to await their master's return from his audience with the Horseman. Traezander moved to them immediately upon opening the door and entering, removing the sword and fastening it at his left hip with the practiced familiarity of one who'd known the way of the sword all his life. He then picked up the shield, slinging it across his back, the device painted upon it a red hell hound on a field of black, before he next moved to a small bookshelf about chest high to him on the wall to the left. When he went to a knee to rumage through a number of parchments upon one of the shelves, the lowering of his helmeted head revealed the only other adornment of the room, an apparent painting of an otherworldly beauty, the image pictured upon its surface that of an extremely attractive and seductive looking woman of obvious demonic origins. Rexal had seen a number of succubi, enough to know one when he saw one, as there were a number in service to his Master, but he had never seen this particular succubus.
The Death Knight rose to his full height and turned to the table, a rolled up parchment of leather in his hands that he rolled out upon the table's surface. He stood staring down at the parchment now rolled out upon the table in silence for a few moments, hands holding the edges down to keep the parchment from rolling back up, when Rexal's forepaws and head came into his peripheral vision as the Hell Hound levered himself up to rest them upon the table and see what the Death Knight was doing. This was not the first time the Death Knight had worked with the Hell Hound, but the feeling when Rexal telepathically reached out and touched his mind to speak still felt strange and alien as small bits of the demonic beast's instinctual urges crossed the link and poured into his mind with his words: A map? There are road signs.
The Death Knight's cold, hollow voice broke the silence of the room as he responded, "I've never needed to travel beyond the borders of the Master's domain since my arrival here. I thought it prudent to see what sort of terrain we would be traversing to reach our destination as well as determine the most strategic means by which our Master and his generals might attempt to storm the Pumpkin King's stronghold. The former will give me an idea of places we might encounter an ambush of some sort by the Pumpkin King's agents, and the latter gives me an idea of how we might best focus our own efforts once there to aid the Master's offensive."

After departing the hall, Rexal followed the Death Knight as he navigated the halls towards his quarters. While Rexal had paced the halls many times before, he never really had needed to enter anyone’s rooms. Eyeing Traezander making his way over to a sword and shield set and donning them, Rexal then peered around the room. Rather quaint, though it appeared to not be used as much as it would have figured. The carvings on the bed, while intriguing, held little interest to the hell hound.
After a few moments, Rexal noticed the Death Knight rummaging around in a bookshelf with a portrait hanging just above where he had crouched. Rexal’s attention was drawn towards that because it seemed out of place within the sparse room. It was a portrait of a succubus, as the hell hound surmised. It had seen several wandering throughout the keep, but this particular one was not one it readily recognized.
As the Death Knight finished gathering a parchment that he seemed to be seeking from the bookshelf, he then turned and laid it out upon the table within the room. Curiously, Rexal placed its paws upon the table and gazed down at the parchment. Seeing what appeared to be a map, although unsure exactly how it was supposed to be read; Rexal asked for clarification from its current partner. A map? There are road signs. The message sent out to Traezander’s mind in curious intrigue.
The Death Knight, apparently unskilled with telepathic communication, spoke his words aloud. "I've never needed to travel beyond the borders of the Master's domain since my arrival here. I thought it prudent to see what sort of terrain we would be traversing to reach our destination as well as determine the most strategic means by which our Master and his generals might attempt to storm the Pumpkin King's stronghold. The former will give me an idea of places we might encounter an ambush of some sort by the Pumpkin King's agents, and the latter gives me an idea of how we might best focus our own efforts once there to aid the Master's offensive."
Rexal responded with feigned disinterest. Well, maps and the like are not in my forte, so guess I will leave that in your seemly capable hands. After all, I am a creature of instinct and usually find my way through less distinguished methods. As it spoke, it raised its nose and flicked it ears about.

The background hummed with the voices of party-goers and orchestral music as Jacques leaned against one of the pillars in the ballroom. The ball was nothing short of extravagant, decorated with the finest colors and served by the most expensive of waiters and waitresses. It wasn't often that he was allowed to go to these events and even less often that he wasn't dressed like a country boy (as his friends would say). A tailored suit with a shiny pair of shoes did much to mask his poorer origins and he had nice hair to boot! Well, not that he was bragging.

Mayor Gabriel had a penchant for masquerade parties and hosted one every Hallow's Eve with the only requirements being to dress well and not cause trouble. The idea was that everyone would be equal under the guise of a mask, though it was sometimes obvious who was trying to hide their social status. There were all too many girls pushed to roping in richer men and too many boys attempting to impress women.

He knew this first hand because he had made the mistake of being talked up by a brown-haired woman last year and, unfortunately, was found again by her this year. She was a lovely story teller, but the fact that she never let him have a word was troubling. She seemed so intent on making herself interesting that she bored him to bits. It was times like this that he wish he had stayed home with Urania. Urania, named from Provecial's ode to music, was his muse. Those who didn't know any better would say that he was mad, but they were wrong (or at least they didn't understand). She whispered to him, the paths of the stars and the positions of the planets. She was his guiding light and she was certainly much better than the other patrons pining after him.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Uh I...well..."

Crap! What was she talking about? Was it her story of hunting a wild boar? Meeting an Italian playwright perhaps? She had told those stories so many times that they all seemed to blend together.

"You know Jacques, every ball I try my best to be entertaining but it seems as though I'm wasting my time," she said, leaving in a huff.

"Wait, I'm sor-"

You didn't need her anyway...

Urania? Why was she here now? Jacques reflexively turned around, only to see the guests dancing with the same fervor as before.

She won't forget about this you know, he murmured silently.

Nothing about this night will be forgettable.

As the first time that Jacques had seen Urania and the first time she had whispered to him, there was a scream.

Emma thought the screaming was never going to end. It was like domino pieces toppling over each other as that first scream invoked another. Then another. And then another. Now the whole ballroom was flooded by the deafening high pitched shrills. Guests were running over one another in panic. Shoving the strangers standing as obstacles from them and the safety of the main mansion door. Emma was lucky that she had thought to retreat under a table before the whole commotion started. Whenever she was startled or scared, it was Emma's immediate reflex to hide to the closest veiled place she could find and the long blood red tablecloth - she sensed a theme there - lining the dining table was just perfect.

She was trembling as she felt the floor quake beneath her as heavy footsteps rushed to the door. She could hear exasperated shouts as people hurried by. After a long while, it was finallt getting quieter outside. Well, apart from those awful screams. Emma rocked her body slightly as she pressed her palms to her ears, tears burning her eyes. Make it stop... Make it stop...

Then, it stopped.

Was it safe now? Is it over? Her thoughts couldn't be formed clearly as she was much too grateful for the silence. The only thing she could think of at that moment was her need to escape. Without hesitation, she pulled aside the cloth veiling her from the rest of the ballroom.

Emma could only scream silently as the sight that greeted her was too horrifying for words.

Leo was starting to feel anxious. There was something definitely off about the place. Call it a butler's second instinct but the moment he stepped into the mansion, his guards were up. Well, it didn't matter. He was trained for this. If anything were to happen, he was ready for it.

That was what he thought.

Leo Franz had been a butler in the R family since the day he was born. Proudly serving the family as the 7th generation of butlers, taking on from his father before him. He was assigned as the Ojou-sama's personal butler when he was 8, the day she came into the world. He kept his eyes on the Ojou-sama. She was dancing and talking easily to the other guests. The only daughter of the multimillionaire family had always loved parties and gatherings like this. And he was happy to see her happy. Although he would've been much happier if she had decided to wear than pink gown with the purple ribbon he had chosen for her instead of that aqua dress which were in his opinion, much too tight for her slight figure.

He was not wearing his usual butler suit but instead, tonight, he wore a red tuxedo. Ojou-sama insisted on it, saying he would only embarrass her if he kept hovering around her in his usual get up. She said it'd be like his presence would broadcast to the world that she was still in need of a baby sitter. Besides, she said, I'd die if someone mistook you as a waiter there. Which was ridiculous, he had replied. He had a very distinguishable outfit from them. They weren't wearing bow ties and his uniform was licorice compared to their plain black. For some reason, she didn't buy his argument one bit and so there he was, in a red tux, hovering over her like a satellite.

The night had been nice enough. So after a while, he finally decided to give her the space she had been demanding from him with her eyes since the start of the night. Standing alone in a corner, no one tried to approach him, which if Leo was paying attention enough, he'd realize was actually something that would'd been considered odd.

Then, there was the scream. Even though the voice was in an almost impossible pitch, high and shrill, he'd recognize it anywhere. The Ojou-sama. She was screaming. It all happened so suddenly, and when that one scream turned into two and was passing on in a cascade, Leo was actually caught off guard. And the moment his stunned body finally obeyed him, he wasted no further time to get within reach of her. But, when he arrived at the location he had last seen her no less than two seconds later, she was gone.

It had been some time since Odette bid farewell to the last and only visitor she had to her home in many years, but with Hans gone it left the woman to her own devises in her potion making once again. Sitting on the floor facin the fire the burned wildly in the fireplace the woman had a mess of vials, ancient writings, plants and other various items scattered across her floor. Off to one side of the room she had a beaker sitting over a small flame, the blue fluids inside bubbling very slighting and over other various places on the floor she had mortals and pestals mashing up plant mixtures on their own as she read from the ancient text before her.

The wind was howling, threatening the woman's home with a storm that it was trying to bring in. The lack of concern from the plump bird that sat near one of the windows told Odette that should the storm actually hit, the snow wasn't going to be trapping them inside like it had a few weeks prior. One of the bubbling beakers began boiling which set off a whistle at the top, reaching over, Odette turned a handle on a tube that let the clear fluid flow from that beaker and drip into another that was without a flame. Other conconsions seemed ready to be tended to and with the woman busy tending to her experiments, a rather plump swan was staring out into the distance through the window he sat at.

There was something approaching the house; the figure was armed and that puffed the bird up quickly. Honk wipped his long neck around to look at the woman that was frantically trying to keep up with the overwhelming number of vials and beakers she had spread across the floor. She would be of no use, as usual, with an intruder. The bird quickly waddled over to the door, his wings spread to help keep balance as the usual speed he was walking at. When he peeked back towards the woman, he found her peacefully sleeping on the floor, the mess spread across the floor seeming contained and as safe as such a mess could be. Yet, how she could fall asleep so fast in the middle of work not only puzzled the bird, but scared her.

Moments later, the door was kicked in, the dark figured that had been approachign the house finally entering. Honk went of the offensive squaking at the intruder while flapping his wings to peck at various parts of this body. The voice that soon followed calmed the bird after a few moments, pausing his relentless attack to see a familiar male, though not all the pleased that he had returned, he was no threat to him or Odette.

It wasn't so much Honk's attack that woke the woman, but the voice that seemed to break through the sound of the bird and called her name. Blinking a few times, Odette rolled over slightly, her eyes crossing at a blade that was held on her neck before following it up to a pair of happy looking eyes. "Hans?" She questioned groggily as she remained still, the coolness of the blade reminding her how close it was to her.