"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝; 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬."
"Haven't I given enough? Must I sacrifice myself upon the altar of man's p...
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"Cold blows the wind. . ."
"Cold blows the wind. . ."
Cold blows the wind across the manor.
Standing directly at the centre point of a large maze, surrounded by acres and acres of trees and hedges, Hawkins Manor is a statuesque structure of black and golden turrets, as tall as the sky and as far as the eyes could see. Built by the hands and hard work of winged creatures, it's tall enough for the tips of its pointy towers to reach the clouds. The manor sprung from the ground as if the soil it was built on insulted its very essence. Such a magnificent estate housed generations of the noblest, most pure-blooded Harpies, known by all they govern as the royal family of Hawkins.
Somewhere in the large maze, a woman hums as she walks, as pretty as a dark angel - an angel in her might - watching the dark clouds rolling above with her careless eyes.
"Cold blows the wind to my true love. . ."
The maze walls are high and dense, but the woman can mark her presence. As if nature bowed down to her power, flowers and vines grew in her direction whenever she turned a corner. Twist and turn the woman took, leaving posies in her path. Daisies sprouted from her hands as they brushed against the thorny walls.
"And gently falls the rain. . ."
Eyes of gold and coal flit through the hedges, sliding up to watch the darkening sky.
"I never had but one true love. . ."
The woman is tall and willowy, with hair as dark as the wings sprouting from her back, cascading down her spine to her thighs, brushing lazily against onyx feathers dipped in gold. Crowning her head is a golden circlet decorated with emerald jewels, and she wears it with the nobility she was born with.
"And in greenwood, he lies slain. . ."
A man waits for her at the entrance, tall and thin, built from marble by the hands of the gods, cloaked in black with a circlet of his own adorning his head, gazing at the sculptures that decorate the garden.
"I'll do as much for my true love as any young girl may. . ." Her voice drifts as she languidly walks, echoing through the ghostly maze. When she reaches him, she sighs and smiles, and hold her hand out for him.
He holds her delicate hand in his and plants a kiss on her knuckles, the epitome of elegance and grace. "I'll sit and mourn all on his grave for twelve months and a day. . ."
"You seem pensive," he observes, speaking in a silky tone.
"Lifts your eyes, brother, see what the sky tells you," she replies, her voice as soft as rose petals.
