The fool and his daughter.

The village had never seen anything quite like it. The rosacea of the cobblestone street made everyone feel as if he or she had committed a crime. When the priest, Montclair exited his rooms to screams sounding through the monastery he'd not prepared for the scene he met. Standing in perfect order were Jacque Rousseau and his daughter Violetta. It was not their standing there as they were both devout practitioners of the faith it was the look in their eyes. Ragged. Tired. Desperate. It was the blood dried into Violettas usually kept brown tresses. It was the way in which Jacque peered around the courtyard, looking partially crazed eyes peering into every spirit who crossed his path. Quickly Montclair wiping his face with an old cotton cloth swept across the village square. "Brother? What troubles you? I've heard the wails since before my first prayers."

Jacque had no answer his silence joined by his eyes never leaving the face of the father. Violetta groaned lowly the sing song of her voice penetrating the thoughts of both.

"Help her."

Montclair listened but his body did not move, transfixed by a spell. Placed by whom? He may never know, but within seconds he found himself wrapped in warmth, a sense of home he'd never felt. Not even when he'd given his last breathe to the human realm did he question his place on Earth.

Within the next breathe, only blood ever made sense.