The carmine sun blazed its fiery fury on the little town of Argut, strangely casting an ominous feeling of despair on whomever its rays fell upon. And so while the argutians noticed the unusual colour and intensity of the sun, nor the blood red sky. No one noticed the effect it was having on them. For instance, Nima, the town jester sat taciturnly under the frangipani tree in the market square, counting the number of leaves that fell to the ground and when asked by the now glum children of the town, to say a story to them, told the saddest tale ever heard that left all of them, himself included, teary faced.
Little did they know, that each time a tear dropped and the cauldron was stirred, a sad thought was recollected in the minds of those who stood under the days light, and even if none existed in their memory or subconscious, one was incited until the ideated, was believed. Making them sadder and sadder as the day passed.
The stirrer, was none other than the village wizard.
A man thought only to exist in folklores, told by elders trying to scare little children into acting right.