Lilies and Dahlias (1)

Wild gunshots pierce through the cold night’s mist. Multiple quick-paced, panicked feet race through the forest with the sound of agile horse hooves following shortly behind. Short breathed, splattered with blood that wasn’t their own, and approaching the ledge of a cliff, the four men came to a terrifying halt realising their fate. “No, it won’t end like this” one man said anxiously, “Have mercy!” Another cried in dread while the other two men collapsed under their knees and began to pray In a botched attempt at hoping that any god would save them now. The sound of the horse’s hooves slowed, etching closer and closer to the cliff top where the men were. Slowly, out of the dark wood emerged an ominous tall figure dawned in all black attire with a bandana obscuring their face, atop a mighty white stead, being elegantly showered in the moonlight. A voice, young, cold, and free, bellowed with anger from the ominous rider, though no louder than a mumble nor whisper. The men listened carefully to the unintelligible, trembling in fear, only hearing ever so many words; a monologue cut to a sentence full. The anxious man cried out in terror, “Good grief sir, who are you?” “The Reaper. Greetings to our lord.“ Replied the ominous rider as they spat on the ground in front of the men in disgust. “Bang” The ominous rider whispered with a distasteful scowl before shooting them all with their revolver off the cliff. “Let’s go, Captain” A breath of exasperation left the ominous rider as they turned around with their white stead and headed back into the dark forest.

A few hours later, dawn broke the night sky in Honeyport, a small settlement a few kilometres west of Hawkscliff. As the townsfolk were slowly awaking, Ophelia had already been up for a long time wandering by the edge of the riverbank collecting cream-white lilies and crimson-black dahlias while humming to herself a faint hymn that her mother taught her when she was little. Suddenly a hoarse cry came from towards the town, and in a panic, Ophelia dropped all the flowers she’d gathered and rushed home in hopes that no one will have noticed she left. Having run the whole way, she struggled to settle her breath to a whisper as she crept through the backdoor, the kitchen, and into the main room where her father, Michael, was looking out the window suspiciously. Just as she was about to creep back to her bedroom, Michael whipped around cautiously, “Oh, Ophelia, thank dickens it’s you! Where have you been, darlin’? You look like the wind came and shook you by the shoulders.” He demanded worryingly, but before Ophelia could get a single word out, another hoarse cry came from outside, followed by the shouting of many voices. Having had enough of waiting for an answer, her father rushed out of the door, slamming it behind him. Curious as ever, Ophelia followed eagerly.