It was a little past one in the morning. The sky was pitch black; not even a twinkle from a lone star, and clouds covered up the moonâs light. With the curfew still in place, it meant that most night-time establishments had been closed hours ago. It also meant that the town was deserted. No one dared try their luck outside, not with the illness spreading around, and especially not with important figures getting assassinated. This, and other reasons, were why the dancer had gone to sleep at a quarter to eleven.
Unfortunately for her, at exactly 1:28 Roxanna sat upright, her eyes opening slowly. Without much ruckus, she slipped out of bed and then out the door in her cotton shorts, soft tee, and nothing else. Perhaps it was a good thing the town was so lonely at this hour, no one saw her, no one asked questions. Even if someone had, the half banshee would not have answered. With her glazed over eyes, she was only out of bed for one reason.
They were calling her. Tugging at her very soul. Voices murmuring, wailings her in the distance. And if she would have had any control and focused, she would be able to hear her name being called. She would have heard it be whispered; gently, lovingly. It would have warmed her, because though she had never heard her voice, she would have known.
The sensation of rocks digging into bare feet was unfelt. A branch scrapping her arm did not sting. The bark of a fallen tree did not burn. Because nothing else mattered, only that she had to get to the clearing. A clearing that was in the middle of the forested area, and if she would just take a left just up thereâŚ
Being a supernatural did not come with a manual, most things just came naturally. Which was why she knew to stand in the middle, shut her eyes, tilt her head towards the black sky and let out a loud lament. Funny how her throat had been acting up the past few days, and now it was as if nothing was wrong. The voices from earlier got louder with her, until all she could hear was her own voice. She was no longer wailing, but screaming. Once she had learned the truth of what she was, she had read all the folklore there was to banshees. According to many, the cries from a banshee always meant death was near. They were predicting. They were calling.
Moments later, the spell she had been under was lifted and she crashed to the ground. Just like when she had been a little girl, she stayed there; head in an awkward position, legs sprawled out, arm underneath her body. The only difference now was that her father wasnât the one to wake her up and tell her she had been sleep walking. Instead, the sounds of nature woke her up. She groaned and stretched and frowned as she took in her surroundings.
Of course she knew what it meant, and it frightened her. Death would claim someone from Klamenth Falls and she wouldnât be able to stop it.
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