Calls himself sane and talks to a sword, Diary, can you believe it? The nerve.
Doesn’t matter, I am now next to the seal. The wood of the doors is warm, and it pulses with magic. I expected this place to have more cobwebs, but I think I never saw one outside the blacksmiths workshop. Never saw geckos dashing around, either. That in turn, begs the question: where are all the mosquitoes? It’s warm enough for them to prosper in this climate. And there’s no lack of hot-blooded beings for them to feed on nor of stagnant puddles to reproduce in across this palace. Where, then, are the mosquitoes? Does the Lady use magic to keep them at bay? Or is it something in the air? The burning of some plant, the substances in the waters? I will try to remember to ask Lady Scarlet about the mosquitoes.
But I digress. I need to open the seal before they come looking for me. Here goes nothing.
The scent of the burning wood is wrong, approximating that of a corpse being cremated. The blade of Jilly remains white-red still, even if it is cold to the touch. Past the seal, there is only darkness: No sunlight comes through the hall’s tinted windows. I could use a sigil to illuminate the place, but not before seeing if I can manage to see in the place. To be able to hide in the darkness if they come looking for me is a boon I cannot forfeit. Jilly’s light will need to be enough, given I can quickly sheathe her to conceal my presence.
I’ll write later, if I find something while exploring the palace beyond the seal.
It’s all putrid flesh, mangled meat. A throat of death, that’s what awaits he who dares venture past the sphincter. And yet, when the sanity vanishes, I see halls of blue tiles and marble walls. Curtains of white, dust in the air. But in this state of mind I can see it, all the small discrepancies in the illusion. A corner without quite the right angle, a surface way too perfectly polished, a tone discrepancy between things that ought to be equal, a shadow that it’s not correctly projected. Its power still has a firm grasp on my mind, no matter how much I struggle to get free. The more I try to focus my gaze on reality, the more nauseous and weak I grow. I cannot draw a most powerful sigil to help drive away the madness —not ehre in the , let’s say, open, anyway— such an inexcusable act would arouse suspicions on my captor and her consort. I must fall into it in such a way that leads to my liberation, in the end. Make madness my ally, weaponize it back against they who inflict it.
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Hey, me, remember that song we, I loved so much, the one by Franco de Vita? The one mom sang while hanging clothes to dry? Make me, us a favor. Sing it, as, like he says, ours, mine are endless nights. My name is Francisco, Pawn, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you grant me that small favor?
I remember not the song you talk about, namesake. Nor the mother you speak of. This place is labyrinthine, or, rather, this place is disorienting. Time and time again I find myself going back to the seal. I will get caught if they decide to come to the abandoned halls, the Lady and Gadorprims. Leaving a breadcrumb trail of sigils would aid me to not turn back on my steps, but could become mana intensive and a way to pinpoint my position. Given I tore down the seal, however, my presence here is rather obvious.
I will leave the trail, hoping the Lady’s reprimand won’t be extremely severe.
The cave corridor loops back into itself in a rather obvious way. But the illusion hides all irregularities, smoothens up the surfaces and straightens the path. It also places a wall over the opening now in front of me. When the illusion flashes in, this hole is just a white mass between two columns that don’t exist, that never existed. Drinking sanity from the glyphs, I can intermittently see the way forward. I checked my stats, and the insanity levels are slowly rising back to normal. May Jillsenbane and this madness protect me from whatever they are hiding down there, from whatever howls and puffs and snarls down this hole.
I stabbed a puppy. It was a big as a small truck and seemed to be a dragon when it got too close, but, otherwise, was a normal puppy.
I stabbed a puppy. It bled out all over the palace floor, his heart pierced by Jilly. It will stare forevermore at the place where I was standing when I thrusted the sword into him.
I stabbed a puppy, because for a second I thought it was a dragon with rotten skin and deep, amber eyes.
That’s why the ink changed color. Proper ink is hard to come by and the puppy’s blood is about as good. I am sorry for his death but wasting his blood won’t make him and/or her come back. Sometimes, I wish I had picked necromancer as a class, instead of holy knight. Jilly doesn’t like when I think about that. She reprimands me. But a necromancer could revive the puppy for long enough to properly apologize. Sorry puppy, you should have looked more like a proper black Labrador and less like a dragon.
Who kept the puppy properly fed and watered, though? Could it be the Maiden’s pet? She will not be happy if that was the case. I need to clean the puppy remains from the floor. Wish I had brought a mop and a bucket. Maybe I can draw a heating sigil to, at least, dry off the blood and avoid anyone slipping on it.