The silence in the manor was deceiving, an illusion of uncertainty—like the calm before a bloodbath. But deep within the darkness, shadows moved. The moon light, glowing crimson red into the hallways, the smell of blood everywhere. House crumbling due to the destruction caused by the battle.
Lord Nicolas Ravenswood ran.
The instant after words from the enigmatic man's lips, nature asserted herself—raw animal fear clung to his legs in fetters. It was like a nice in the country of cat, having no where to hide, but can only run. With the last shred of strength in his legs, he plunged for the open passageway, barely registered beyond coarse splinters of moonlight shining in through cracked panes. His varnished shoes skittered over smooth stone floor, his feet dragging hesitantly, shapelessly, wildly. Without even a care of his looks as he ran, snot drained down is nasal cavity and tears from his eye. Only the taught of running and living was all he could think of.
