A/N’s: The first two sentences are an excerpt from Equal Rites, written by Terry Pratchett – this is not intended as plagiarism, but as inspiration for the beginning of the story – no monetary gain is being made from this, and no copyright infringement is intended. If feel that I should remove this from the story, then I shall do so as soon as is possible. All else is property of The Prophet Of The Phoenix. I am unsure whether I will add to this tale or not – I might even alter it and transfigure it in some way into a fanfiction.

There are storms that are frankly theatrical, all sheet lightning and metallic thunder rolls. There are storms that are tropical and sultry, and incline to hot winds and fireballs.

But this was a storm of the Scottish Highlands, and its main ambition was to pound the earth with as much rain as possible. It was the kind of storm that suggests the whole sky has swallowed an ocean and thought it would look nicer over land. Thunder and lightning hung around in the background, supplying an orchestral accompaniment of strings and percussion, but the rain was the star of the show. It tap-danced.

Through this storm, a hunched figure neatly weaved its way between the drops. Indeed, he merely seemed to be damp. He appeared, also, to be searching for something. The visibility the rain afforded him, gave him the odds of being successful as finding a broken piece of hay in a haystack. A brief and entirely invisible hand gesture provided no apparent or immediate effect.

He was in the wrong place. Damn that storm and its rain. Why couldn’t it have been a nice weather formation, like a cool breeze on a summer’s day? This being a rhetorical question, he began to continue his search but stopped as an idea wound its way through to his leg muscles. He was in the right position, he realised, but he wasn’t facing the right direction.

As if by magic, an alleyway opened up between two decrepit and decaying buildings. He rushed forward quickly, as if flightless dragons had pursued him. As he crossed the boundary between alley and street, the darkness consumed him whole, and the opening vanished as if it were never truly there. Perhaps, in other more established settlements, it might always have been there, but in the case of that particular alley, and that exact village, the truth was, no one quite knew.

For the first time in almost three days, the rain no longer harassed the man. For that, he was truly thankful; there was only so much moisture the body could take before it crinkled, or drowned or burst or any number of other ill-advised problems. The man mumbled for a short time under his breath and in an instant, his heavy cloak grew lighter and drier; the smell of warmed leather wafted lazily through the air.

He paused for but a second, enjoying the heat that now radiated from his cloak. No longer damp, he strode deeper into the shadows, stopping from time to time in order to blow his nose on a bedraggled handkerchief that showed the years with its frayed edges and ragged holes.

A solid oak door hinged with black iron, adorned with a simple doorknocker, greeted him halfway along his journey. As he glanced at the hand-sized circle of ancient metal it reflected nothing but the faint, hazy glow that filtered down through the overhanging ivy that stretched from high rooftop to rooftop. The corridor of darkness, the man now realised, was suffused with a barely detectable hint of illumination.

His eyes swiftly adjusted to the gloom and easily spotted the thin gleam of orange light that slithered out from under the foot of the door and bathed his boots in a slow trickle. He knocked tensely on the door three times. The sound reverberated through the sturdy grain, rattling the rusty grate that would soon reveal a glimpse of the buildings innards.

Beyond the silence, which moved in aflame to swallow sound like a ravenous lion, he could hear the shuffling of heavy-soled boots across polished stone flooring; the lick of an acoustic guitar now permeated the very air like sweet incense, the drawl of the singer’s voice forming twirling ripples in the tune.

Eventually the grate slid back, a deep brown eye surveyed him and the full force of the song resounded through his aging bones. He stood still as night, transfixed on the melody, the rising notes; the sound of an enthralled audience humming along in time to the beat brought distant memories of a forgotten time…

…The hacking cough of the buildings owner besought his attention, calling him back into himself and the present time. “Parseword?” requested the faintly bloodshot and questing eye, purposefully misspelling the enquiry.

The man sneezed as a gentle breeze ruffled his windswept and greying hair. He brought out his hackneyed handkerchief and covered his long, seemingly broken nose, and blew into it noisily. Replacing the hankie into its preferred pocket, the man produced a tight-lipped smile and whispered, “Aingingein.”

The metal guarding slid back, blocking off most of the warm, orange glow, the brown eye and the last verse of the song. The man waited patiently, unsure why the owner of the establishment was taking so long in opening the door. The sound of weighty bars being scraped across brazen wood could be heard; the clink of jangling keys rattling in the keyhole.