Death Weaver

Hi so this is my first time writing something on here. Idk how it works but here goes.

Chapter one
A cold wind gusted through the streets of Vortigern, a hollow place where crumbling houses and ashy streets had not hosted the the footfalls of human life for at least ten years.

People were persistent in avoiding the place, but if there were any who dare set foot in the town, they couldn't have thrown a stone without hitting vermin. Rats, particularly.

Wretched creatures, drawn to blood. Dark crevices. Damp, and evil smelling places that hid secrets.

Vortigern was a good place to go if you wanted to die.

Fleck Spinderwind knew this, but he had a hard time caring. He had already died twice.

Making his way slowly through the abandoned streets, his footfalls were about as loud as feathers falling. The houses were gray, and the streets black from ashes. The sky may have been a brilliant blue even a mile away from the town, but in Vortigern, when he looked up, Fleck could see only the thick, dank billows of mean gray clouds.

Fleck ran his fingers along the dusty walls of the houses, which were probably crawling with rats.

It was good to know he was not without company.

Death preferred to take his victims while they were alone.

At the moment, however, Fleck was sure he Death may make an exception for him... they weren't on good terms, since they'd last spoke. The idea of dying wasn't as scary as it had been the first time, or even the second. He could escape, if he wanted to, but it would just be such a hassle.

Besides, it was good to feel the chill of the air against his cheek and the firmness of the ground beneath his feet as he walked.

Fleck moved some of his wild red hair out of his eyes, as he paused to contemplate where to move next. A rat scampered across the street, kicking up ash. For only a moment, Fleck entertained the urge to run after it and explore the ghost town at his delight.

But he was too old for that. Fifteen was supposed to be the age of maturity. But here he was, in a forbidden town, purely because he too childish to listen to the warnings.

Fleck sighed, and watched as his breath turned white in the cold air. He had to move on, secrets didn't find themselves.

So he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, and continued. What he needed was surely in the center of town, or at least, that was where it should have been. Fleck was going with his gut, which usually lead him to good places.

He turned a corner, and smiled at the sight of the enormous structure before him, the legendary Chapel of Zelovan. Depleted and robbed of it's old glory as it may have been, it still brought a feeling of wonder. The feeling that came at the sight of an old myth told over and over round campfires, from father to son, mother to daughter come true.

Fleck remembered his grandfather telling it to him, the old tales of spirits wondering the halls, the legends proclaiming that every departed soul felt a call to that place. It wasn't until Fleck had died that he knew the stories to be true.

The answers he needed had to have been in there, within the crumbling walls and beneath the ancient floors. Something calling him, trying to tell him something.

Fleck intended to listen.