Nestled in the valleys of mountains north, the village of Luscioucr slumbers. Clouds form in the mountaintops, spilling off in rolling falls and drowning the village beneath in a deep, deep lake which sunlight cannot penetrate. The grasses here are a little less green, the hearth fires burn not quite as bright, skin turns pale in mimicry of illness, and everything is marred by a tinge of gray.

Yet life in Luscioucr betrays the dour palette of its colors. It is a small village, but it’s just as lively as the larger towns at lower altitudes. People tend to their gardens, children play amongst the streams and wildflowers, and precious stones make their way out of its solitary mine for daily trade in the villages down the mountains. Beyond these gems, a couple of times a year, traders from Luscioucr sell unique black and white flowers: daisies, roses, and marigolds. They always return with food, clothing, wood, and other wares.

Keen eyes will notice how off-season these sellers come. Curious minds how these grow these flowers are dismissed with pleasantries. Those who pry too hard are kicked from Luscioucr before they even visit. “Trade secrets,” is their excuse. “Insulted,” is how they justify themselves. The truth, however, is the stuff of lore.

Luscioucr is a village out of the way from the rest of the world. While visitors are not unwelcome, a small shack guards the single pathway into the village. Just as arbitrary as the days traders don’t come down from Luscioucr, he prevents anyone who tries from going up. Ask him why, and you’ll get the same old stories. But with a bit of drink, he may tell you something new.

This is the story of William, who found his way in Luscioucr on one of those infrequent days when the fog drains out of the mountain valley. On these rare days, the sun shines down on Luscioucr in all its radiant glory. The grasses are green, the flowers are vivid, the buildings remain gray, and the village is deathly silent. The windows are black, the hearths are cold, and nary a soul wanders outdoors. On these fogless days, Luscioucr becomes picturesque, suspended in its canvas.

He brought wares with him to trade for some of those valuable black roses the village sometimes sells, and he desperately wanted to see how they were grown. But all the roses here were typical reds. The daisies were yellow, the marigolds orange. None of the black and white varieties could be found in their gardens or in the wild fields.

William repeatedly made noise in the seemingly abandoned village, looking for life. Curiosity slowly gave way to fright when nothing answered back. Eventually, though he found something. But what he saw was no villager.

It was a beast as tall of a man, with skin like a snake’s and claws like a hawk’s. Standing on four legs, it vaguely resembled a dog, but the tail was far too thick and long, and the head was something more demonic. Four eyes, four horns, and a mouth full of jagged teeth. A rainbow of colors gave it some allure, a level of attraction that clashed with its sinister form. But the head and neck were an obsidian black.

When William saw it, the beast stood over a garden patch, its mouth agape, draining the color from a bed of daisies in a disgusting sort of reverse-vomiting. Yellow blushes were slowly pushing away the black patches of the creature’s skin. But the beast also saw him, its maw snapped shut, and its four eyes narrowed on his position. He let out another cry, this one much more in terror, and the beast lunged at him.

The following morning, the fog returned to Luscioucr. William was found in the town square, mauled, eviscerated, and ravaged. His remains were all still there, the court splattered with blood. But the red of his meat had been drained of its color.

The villagers buried him in an unmarked grave. They know his name because folks came looking for him. They now have a Watchman to hold people back on the days the fog rolls out, the villagers hunker down, and the beast begins to prowl for all the colors of the world.