not people reblogging thinking i animated this LMAO its a clip from the team sonic racing overdrive short on yt. go give it a watch lol this is official material!
You were a laundress in a castle owned by a prominent but reclusive duke. There were other laundresses, but you were the duke’s personal one, largely because of the bloodstains on his clothes and bedding. You asked no questions and passed no judgment. He’d never spoken to you directly, but he did send you small gifts and treasures, for your… discretion.
Early one evening, he decides to thank you in person.
There are rumours about the duke.
Of course, there are always rumours of some sort, but these ones…they’re dark. People whisper that the duke isn’t human. That he sacrifices maidens to dark gods. That he bathes in the blood of his victims.
The people of Fallholt are both terrified and proud of their duke. He is a fierce warrior and keeps them safe from the beasts in the forest and, more importantly, other nobles. For all that there are whispers about him, he rules the people of Fallholt fairly. Which is more than most peasants can say for their lords.
So they whisper, and cast sidelong glances at him when he rides by, but never do more than that.
You are new to the area, having fled a bad situation. The whispers worry you, at first. What kind of man is the duke, that such dark rumours circulate about him?
Your curse in life is your curiosity though, so when a position opens up at the castle you leap at the chance to take it. Few enough other people are willing to work so near the duke anymore, so it hardly matters that you have no references.
A whumpee who habitually cracks their knuckles bruises their hands/fingers somehow. They absentmindedly crack their knuckles again, and instantly regret it.
On the outskirts of the city, just slightly beyond the grasp of the neon lights, overgrown malls, and broken highways, there is an old white house with a little picket fence. “The girl who lives there is a witch,” the locals say, and stay away from the house, despite its welcoming gardens and never closed doors. “The girl there can see into your past.”
The guests from the city, survivors of many lives, predictably laugh at such old-age fears. “What kind of a gift is that?” they say with a scoff. “If she could see into my future, now that would be something to discuss.” But the villagers only shake their heads in reply, until someone starts explaining, patiently, quietly, as if to a child. “She sees the ghosts. Some are dragged on chains behind those who cruelly refused to let them find the serenity of death. Others, they are wandering side by side with those who did not notice they were gone. And then there is the third kind, the most desired, yet almost unnoticeable; far ahead, they are paving the way for those who could not move on. Luna sees them all. She does not speak with them; ghosts do not talk; she says they’ve said enough. They do not listen; they’ve heard enough. And they never, ever leave; they have nowhere else to go.”
Then a silence falls over the dining table, and the guests shift uncomfortably in their chairs, stealing glances into the windows, trying to catch Luna’s reflection on the frozen glass. Someone shivers, and someone else throws wood into the fireplace, to keep away the sudden cold.
The next day the guests from the city too avoid the old white house with a little picket fence, just to be safe, and shamefully lower their eyes passing Luna in the street, hoping she would not look at them, hoping she would not see. They leave abruptly in the middle of the night, never to come back, and, like thunder after lightning, their ghosts follow.
Untouched by the city’s esurient hands, the town stays still.
