It doesn't take a WiseMan to understand what the crows flying over Lord Bastien's manor mean, even if they're all too scared to say it out loud.

Lord Bastien is a good man-- that is an unimpeachableunimpechable truth of our society. He is prompt and proper, and his work with the lesslesser fortunate is widely acknowledged.

The condensed version would be to conjure that he was quite the soul of mercy and thoroughly beloved by the entire congregation-- and no less by myself. It is, after all, only through the kindness of his vast generosity that I was educated by erudites far above my station, and can thus find the right vernacularverncular to express my deepest sympathy for a man far more grandiose than we might deserve.

That being said, he was well well-agedaged man, and the cold grip of death comes for us all.

Suffice it to say, he lived a life as splendorous as himself, the gods repaying his generosity in kind.

So surely, it is not without true evidence against my suppositions that I sustain the claim stating that Lord Bastien would certainly not oppose a fair and generous distribution of his vast wealth among the lesser fortunate-- chief among them, his loyal gardenkeeper, a title I uphold with the utmost pride.

I was, after all, of the select few allowed to feed his incessantly ravenous canine companions-- an honor not easily granted to those of lower standing.

The fact that I may find myself prone to indulging in more prompt fashion than those around me should pose no concern to anyone, as I intend to acquire only that which would certainly correspond to me, should Lord Bastien be alive to bequeath such delectable treasures onto me.

My entry-- I shall not call it an invasion, for Lord Bastien continuously informed me of the inviting nature of his home, and his passing should be irrelevant to this fact-- was not precisely forced, though it was by no means a simple matter.

You see, it was my intention to intrude quietly so as to not disturb the other residents of the manor-- I am, after all, well educated in the tesitures of highly cultured aristocratic behavior, and can acquiesce in the general thought regarding the impoliteness of awakening those slumbering--even if they are only of the serving class.

(As you can see, I have blinded myself to caste-- another treasure generously acquired from Lord Bastien).

The crows circled over the vast manor, as they had for the last conglomeration of days, signaling the imminent if not recent expiration of its master. The hounds howled in what could only be recognized as a sense of solitude and loss, weeping into the darkness.

I had chosen a night blessed with no moon, and not because the obscurity shroudedshrowded my actions from the gods-- I would not dare try to escape divine admonishing should I deserve it, but alas, it was not the situation.

I moved with a measured amount of caution-- only proper for not disturbing the slumbering souls that populated the mansion, although there was precious scarce I could act upon in regards to the howling canines-- and accessed through the superbly intricate pattern of the main window that led to the small foyer juxtaposed to the main entrance to the residence.

Without incident, for I had thoroughly examined and recalled the details of the proper positioning of invaluable objects scattered around the place of dwelling of my former master, whispering my gratitude at his soul for every treasure I inserted in my sack.

I reached the attic after only three quarters of an hour, where I knew his interminable library resided-- my true treasure,

(I am, you see, a learned man after all, and I recognize the value of the written vernacular in leather-bound parchments.)

My courteous quietude was still my priority, even as I had to make my choice without the benefit of sight, as lighting a flame would evidently alert the avaricious vultures that had surrounded Lord Bastien's final days to my vexing (although not uninvited) presence upon his lordship's abode.

As I embraced a final book against my body, suitcase brimming with the completeness of well-deserved treasures, my rather acute sense of audition made me privy to the sound of a door opening, and I stilled in my place..

Slowly, a small flitering flame filtered into the darkness, intruding upon the quietude of my intrusion.

Behind the flame stood, in perfect health and elegant disposition, Lord Bastien, with an amiable smile upon his lips.

"Radcliffe." His voice was an irregular sort of pleasant-- a confusing conglomeration, to be sure. "Funny running into you here."

My lips parted, but all words and thoughts had deserted me. It was only now that I was vexed by the strangest of contemplations.

Lord Bastien's treasured hounds were quiet.

His smile seemed congealed in his face, like a scar.

A bird called in the distance, and the realization descended upon me.

The crows were not wrong.

They were simply early.