@rubyscout
Music rose up through the hills and filled the forest on that night, where the veil once again wavered and shuddered in that exact spot. The house and the forest never seemed to stay in one place. They existed in a space between worlds, simultaneously in the land of the mundane and the land of the magical.
The house remained uninhabited for a long time, superstition grew, but eventually, someone made the old house on the edge of the forest their home. An old farmhouse, teetering on the edge of dereliction, with vines growing thick up the sides.
During the height of summer and autumn, those who lived within that house would hear the otherwordly music flowing from that strange, ever-changing forest. It did not come from any real direction, as if manifesting out of the air itself.
Bright eyes and shadowy figures sometimes watched the new inhabitant from the comfort of the trees, as if they could not easily pass between those two places. But they still could watch, and they did so intently, as the human created holes and buried the remains of his victims within them. Did the forest allow this? No. But it would take the sacrifices, drink of their blood, consume of their flesh.
Every night, the strange music carried closer and closer, until it was practically echoing off the human's porch. And by morning, it would be deathly silent, as if the crickets and birds themselves were afraid to fill the silence left by the secret revelry. Taunting those who could not join.
This music would be nearly impossible to follow most nights, but one night, when the house threatened to be consumed by the vines and flowers growing up the siding, the music seemed to have an origin. The sound of flutes, fiddles, drums wafted on the air and seemed to beckon the inhabitant of the old home out. Out into the cool, late summer air. Or perhaps it would drive them further into the safety of the house.
Either way, the forest eventually would have its way.
Eventually, the human residing within the house would hear a few knocks at his door. Evenly spaced apart, not in any hurry or rush, but persistent. They would not go away, persistently but patiently knocking.
And when he dared to open the door, there stood a strange, well dressed man. Or perhaps, he wasn't a man, but it would be easy enough to assume with his finely combed beard and broad shoulders. The way he carried himself, his form and shape, indicated he was something more than just that.
He looked human on the surface, but his eyes were too big, too red, too bright. His fingers and nails too long, too sharp. His face, too sharp and perfect, and yet seemingly missing those unspoken, unseen traits that branded someone as distinctly human. Like the stranger missed these fine details, as they were unimportant to him.
The strange man looked as though he was dressed for a very important gathering, all fine, embroidered silk and golden jewelry. The scent of wisteria and wet earth clung to his skin. It was as if he walked out of a completely different world, sorely out of place within the mundane and the ordinary.
Vali gazed upon Shawn with an incredulous expression when he finally, finally opened the door -- like the inhabitant of the house didn't belong there, unlike himself, the interloper upon his doorstep.
"You're late," The strange man said, simply but sharply. He crossed his arms over his chest. Valeriu was quite irritated indeed, though the source of his irritation would not be readily apparent to Shawn. "It's very rude to keep people waiting, you know, when they've gone to such lengths to welcome you. Now, come with me, Dū-chara, you have a party to attend."
