00. The Moon, The Raven, And The Fly

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       In the forest, the sky vanishes almost instantly, only a few fragments of grey remained — like scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It was nothing but darkness, but not the kind of utter darkness that would swallow a person's soul whole. There was a faint, diffuse glow lighting the exterior of Castelobruxo from pitch black to charcoal grey, the moon placing itself at the center of the sky. A smile graced the girl with raven-black hair as she feels her blood return to its comfortable warmth, eyes calm as they are in her nightly dreams, juxtaposing the sneer she wore only a few moments ago.

       It is no secret that Mirabella Calderon loved the moon. If her mother were beside her, her overly enthusiastic self would say something along the lines of the moonlight being her companion in the darkness she holds within, but Mirabella believes it different.

       She believes that its soft, shimmering glow held another purpose, almost literally providing her the ability to view which direction she would have to go through, a direction in what would otherwise be a maze of impenetrable blackness.

       The weather in the Amazon never seemed to change, at least in her opinion. It was neither boiling hot nor was it dangerously cold. It was always dead in the center with its humid wind and cool air, especially in this time of year.

       The air is thick with the aromatic scent of sweet jasmine, as Mirabella's cold hands warped against the warm porcelain cup, absentmindedly sipping on her tea. The tepid, overly bitter taste due to the lack of either sugar or milk made her forehead scrunch up in disgust. Her yesterday's precocious curls that her mother had generously made for her was now made into a coiffured up-do, also courtesy of her mother's doing.

       She's always loved the charcoal black of her hair, similar to the color of the night sky that she loves so dearly. She tucked it behind her ear on the grounds that each strand started moving freely when the cold wind rushed toward her face. Tilting her head downwards, she vigilantly peered over her shoulders when she heard a couple of howls. She likes to think that she was a master when it comes to both muggle and magical creatures alike, and wolves were no different. She had befriended one, two years ago. She had named him Daltis, and he would come to visit her often. Mirabella thinks because he only wants the food she brings him, but she likes to think otherwise.

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