Grimel's footsteps resonated in the dimly lit halls of clan Tresellis' underkeep, his jeweled fingers casting errant reflections. The pallid glow of candles, their smoke painting dark strokes against the keep-fortified walls, hinted at a need for mystique amidst the overt luxury.
Lord Mellshar, disturbed from some hedonistic escapade, hastily adjusted his elaborate attire. "What's the urgency, Grimel?" he inquired, his voice rougher than his sumptuous surroundings would suggest.
Grimel, ever composed, responded, "I know as little as you, Lord Mellshar." His meticulous grooming, a silent rebellion against his humble origins, spoke volumes about the man's climb in these treacherous courts.
Despite the opulence surrounding them, the midnight summons' urgency was disconcerting. Not a whisper from his extensive spy network had given him a clue. No messengers from the warfront, no silent entreaties from the Blood Court.
The hallways echoed the weight of Lord Mellshar's privileged birthright as he charged forward, the lesser servants, used to the whims and fancies of the nobility, flinching away.
"It has to be the Bloodwitch," Mellshar mumbled, recounting the claims of his chamberlain, Meidre.
A flicker of surprise crossed Grimel's face. His meticulously maintained web of informants hadn't presented this tidbit. A chamberlain with the gift of foresight? An error on his part, he mused. How had he overlooked this?
Grimel's dark eyes, rimmed with just a hint of the noble bloodline, bore into Mellshar. His gaze was sharp, a testament to his grit and determination in navigating the treacherous courts, relying not on lineage but on skill and wit. Every glance, every gesture, was crucial in maintaining his acquired stature.
As they neared the heart of the underkeep, elite guards, their stature dripping with aristocratic privilege, acknowledged them. Their disdain for those of less 'pure' lineage was palpable.
"We answer the summons," Grimel stated with a practiced calm.
The grand chamber doors opened to reveal Lord Vaal Meistre, his luxurious mane of black trailing as he paced. He was a manifestation of the empire's paradox - an individual of unparalleled lineage, yet somehow lacking the potency to ascend to the pinnacle of the Blood Court.
The warm golden light cast by ornate chandeliers dappled over Lord Vaal, their flicker reflecting in the polished marbles beneath him as he addressed his two subjects. “Grimel, Mellshar, we stand at the precipice of an opportunity." Vaal continued to weave his path amidst the sprawl of plush rugs and priceless artifacts, the very air around him heavy with intoxicating scents of rare incense. "Our Bloodwitch believes she's felt a new source not under the Blood Court's thumb. Grimel, extract every drop of knowledge she holds."
Grimel blinked, his usually impeccable composure showing the tiniest of fractures. A new Blood source? Such an occurrence was as mythical as some tapestries lining these halls.
“Mellshar," Vaal’s voice, though velvet, bore the weight of command. "Prepare a team. As soon as Grimel delivers, we chase this lead. I will be at the helm." A pause ensued, the subtle tension of unsaid implications hanging between them. "We can't afford the shadow of other noble houses sniffing around our prize."
"Consider it done," Mellshar replied, ever efficient. The air of urgency compelled him forward, his steps barely making an impression on the plush carpets as he departed.
Once Mellshar's silhouette vanished into the labyrinth of opulence, Grimel hesitated. "My lord," he began, choosing his words with caution, "our Bloodwitch's senses, might they be... tainted by time?" It was unspoken knowledge that the ravages of age could leave even the most potent of the bloodborn adrift, their minds more susceptible to inexorable decay.
Lord Vaal met Grimel's gaze, a hint of concern underlying his otherwise stoic expression. "Her communication was chaotic, a far cry from the clarity of her youth. Decode her words, Grimel. Discern the truth."
"As you wish, my lord." Grimel bowed, his thoughts already racing toward the task ahead.
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Adjusting the intricate silver brooch at his throat, Grimel hesitated before the elaborately carved door, the deep mahogany adorned with inlaid gemstones reflecting a bygone era of wealth. Inhaling, he rapped gently on the wood. Internally, a part of him hoped she'd remain silent, preserving his dignity, for she regarded him little better than the footmen who tread these gilded halls. However, the weight of his mission pressed on.
Before he could knock a second time, the door groaned open, revealing an almost tangible darkness beyond.
"Ah, the prized pet heeds his master's call," a voice, laden with age, crooned from the inky depths. "Step forward. Let's dispense with this chore."
Summoning his resolve, Grimel entered the dim chamber. A singular fire blazed defiantly, casting a warm glow over the intricacies of a grand fireplace, while in its juxtaposition sat a figure, obscured under layers of sumptuous furs, her silhouette hinting at frailty.
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"Such an unprecedented revelation," she murmured, her hand carelessly dismissing a jeweled chalice, wine spilling like blood over the marble floor. "Yet, the lord dispatches not himself but his cultivated puppet."
With a tone dripping sarcasm, she continued, "Pray, Lord Grimel, make yourself comfortable. Relish in the warmth of the hearth."
Grimel, ever cautious, finally chose to occupy a nearby chair. The aroma from the burning shadewood enveloped him, hints of decadence evident in the deep, intoxicating scent. Smoke tendrils snaked upward, some mischievously defying the chimney's pull to caress the walls in a dark embrace.
His fingers brushed over the plush velvet of the chair, intricately patterned fabric stretched over polished mahogany. "I'm here to gather information about our impending venture," he stated, his gaze never leaving her withered visage, a stark contrast to her surroundings.
Her frail laugh, echoing the melancholy of ages, was interrupted by a fit of coughing. "You're to interrogate me?" The humor faded into a raspy wheeze. She spat into a crystalline vessel beside her, the disdain evident. "Proceed with your inquiry, then chase your grand illusions."
In the grand tapestry of the empire, Bloodwitches, with their innate affinity for The Blood, were intricate stitches of gold. In some corners, they were prized possessions, in others, quarry to be relentlessly hunted. However, for noble houses, they were indispensable sentinels, foreseeing threats or discerning covert infiltrations. Their prowess at sensing the purity of blood had brought serenity, dissipating much of the tempestuous violence that had once consumed the empire.
"You wrote of an unclaimed source, untouched by the Blood Court's influence?" Grimel inquired, seeking clarity.
She leaned into the warmth of the hearth, and the crimson ring around her irises, a badge of her esteemed lineage, seemed to dance with the flames. "Indeed, untouched and as pristine as any I've perceived."
"And the basis of such certainty?" Grimel probed, intrigued. Recognizing a novel source was conceivable, but discerning its unclaimed status seemed a stretch.
"It isn't ensnared in our web. It dwells high above, on the very surface," she whispered, revealing teeth that bore the marks of time and crimson feasts.
Momentarily, Grimel's poise wavered, a fissure in his usually impeccable demeanor. The surface? The empire sprawled across the vast expanse of the Shadowvault plateau, bordered by the Abyssal Plains and the Silent Depths. Venturing beyond, into the abode of the Abyssal lords, and further to the surface was a perilous odyssey into unknown, sun-blasted territories.
"From such vast distances, you sensed this source?" His disbelief was palpable. Tales spoke of Bloodwitches predicting the Blood Court's arrivals days in advance, but the surface was leagues beyond comprehension.
"Your movements within the keep are like whispers to me, even with your diluted bloodline," she retorted, "this... this was a clarion call. A force unparalleled. Yet, it vanished swiftly."
Dread knotted within Grimel. Such a formidable source would dwarf the might of the Blood Court. What could its arrival signify? Was it shrouded by some arcane means? A terrible notion gnawed at him: the surface realms, governed by a consortium of cultivators, could've obliterated this source before it proliferated.
"It may be lost to us," Grimel mused aloud, only for the Bloodwitch's gaze to lock onto his, seeking solace in the flames thereafter.
She murmured, lost in memories, "For those brief moments, I basked in its luminescence. No fire or light was required; its might bathed me as would the sun. Then it was gone and suddenly, the age crept back in, and my perpetual thirst resurfaced. After a time, when I had regained some semblance of sanity, its embrace enveloped me again, though briefly."
"It hasn't been annihilated. It's merely veiled," she concluded.
"And how might we find it then?" Grimel mused, his brow furrowed. The very notion of trekking to the sunlit realms above, laden with unpredictability, felt like a dance on the edge of a precipice, especially devoid of a reliable way to locate it.
“Take my grand-daughter upon this quest,” came her proposition. “Should the source reveal itself again, even for the merest of moments, she shall discern its presence. Closer to the beacon, she might unearth nuances missed from afar.”
The Bloodwitch’s lineage was illustrious. Though bereft of the witch's moniker, her granddaughter bore the legacy in her veins. Every bit as attuned to The Blood, she had eschewed the somber path for the colorful, unpredictable world of a youthful courtesan. The allure of her current life made persuasion a challenge but not an insurmountable one.
Grimel offered a nod of acknowledgment and took his leave. Yet, as he approached the door, her voice, soft as the fluttering of moth's wings, yet laden with gravity, arrested his steps.
“Beware, for you tread on treacherous ground. The source's might is unparalleled. Those of you who deem yourselves masters may soon find yourself mastered.”
With a weighted heart, Grimel emerged into the corridor, leaving the ancient Bloodwitch to her contemplations and the ever-consuming fire's embrace.
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Amidst the shimmering constellations of the violet galaxy, an interstellar space cruiser glided gracefully, its sleek, chrome-plated hull capturing the ethereal glow of distant suns and nebulae. Every inch of the craft spoke of masterful design, blending aesthetics with purpose, like a sentient being swimming in the cosmic vastness.
From its stern, a magnificent drive pulsed rhythmically, emitting an ethereal blue radiance reminiscent of a heartbeat. This powerful core propelled the cruiser at mind-bending speeds and sang a silent song of technological prowess that humankind had achieved.
As it continued its cosmic voyage, the cruiser's momentum gradually decelerated. A series of luminescent floodlights burst to life from its underbelly, casting a brilliant glow into the space ahead, seeking something, someone.
Their luminance unveiled an unexpected sight: a solitary figure suspended in the vast nothingness. A young man, his raven-black hair flowing weightlessly around his face, was swathed in robes of muted gray, the fabric moving like an ethereal wisp in zero gravity. The serene expression on his face suggested deep slumber or perhaps a meditative trance. As the cruiser's lights caressed him, his eyelids began to tremble.