• It was a lazy Monday, as Mondays tended to be in the Valluche household. Heir slouched in his favorite heavily padded chair, imported all the way to the wealthy family hold from Spain, and tore through a book. The light from the enormous windows both warmed the adolescent and gave ample light, and he found himself quite comfortable. Before his curled legs, on the ground beneath him, Sister played, dolls and wooden carvings and all sorts of other things laying about as she gleefully filled her time with the whimsical world often visited by youngsters. Watching as any mother would, Matron stood to the side, smiling in pride as she witnessed vast creativity and intelligence (For what else does a mother witness from her children?) in the everyday activities they partook in. Were Father looking, he may well have smiled, but already he was busy at work, in his office. The others knew not of what he was working on, in particular, and when they asked, he muttered something about stocks and drought, and all other sorts of nonsense known to be spouted off by those who delved into the odd world of trade. Nevertheless, the sun shined and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.
    Which is partially what made it so odd whenever an enormous shadow flew past their window. Even more odd was when it flew over again. And finally, terrifying whenever it flew over a third time, to be accompanied by cries of pain and terror from the office. Immediately, Matron walked over to the door, giving her two sweet children a consoling smile before checking. In but one moment, it turned from the scene of a peaceful, albeit somewhat worried, family checking in on a father who may have stubbed his toe, to one of horror, with a gigantic claw sticking through the mother of this very same family.
    A few seconds passed by, though to Heir, it seemed as if it were an eternity, as he watched a single bead of blood (Though surely there was much more than that minuscule amount) fall from the back of the woman who had raised him for all his life. Immediately, he was at his feet, and upon whisking his sister into his arms, started rifling through hallways and rooms alike until finally he was out the door. He stopped cold. Before him stood the creature that had killed his parents. An enormous, monstrous bird, it stood as tall as any tree, with a wing-span twice that. Its' beak, crimson with the blood of Father, still hung entrails from its' recent feast. On its claw, the flesh of Matron, accompanied by no small amount of blood itself. It took one gigantic, lumbering step forward. Heir took one timid step backward, and reached for his knife. The birds' beak thrust forward. So did his knife, in a desperate attempt to save what little of his family remained.
    He was too late. In the time it took for him to swing the knife through the eye of the bird and deliver a killing blow, his sister lay dead in his arms, the beak having pierced her breast. Blood poured from the wound. Kneeling down and cradling the last of his family to die, Heir let out a volley of tears, almost as if to match the fire-tipped arrows that tore through his heart. Eyes closed as he sobbed, he crouched there for what must have been a century, before standing up...
    ...And opened his eyes, to the three graves of his family, the only markers being wooden sticks tied with rags made of his clothing. Behind him stood the family hall, now in disrepair, as he could stand neither to keep it up nor live in it. The memories were simply too bitter. He stared for a moment at the flowers laid upon their graves, before turning and walking back towards the town. Back toward a life of melancholy and violence.