“Hahahaha!” The crow on Corvus’s shoulder erupted in a raucous laughter, its sound echoing through the room like a chilling cackle. The laughter bounced off the walls, drilling into the ears of Elara and Livia, a jarring dissonance against the somber mood.
Corvus joined in, his laughter blending with the crow’s, a high-pitched, almost manic sound that threatened to overwhelm the room. Tears welled up in his eyes, his mirth seemingly uncontrollable.
The laughter subsided after a few minutes, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Elara and Livia stared at Corvus, their expressions a mixture of fury and annoyance. Livia's dove ruffled its feathers, a low hiss escaping its beak.
Corvus, still catching his breath, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Apologies," he managed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "It's just... the absurdity of it all! It's almost too much to bear!"
Livia, her patience finally worn thin, waved her hand dismissively. The laughter from Corvus and his crow abruptly ceased, replaced by an uncomfortable silence.
"Anyway," she said, her voice regaining its usual calm and measured tone, turning her gaze towards Elara. "I'm sorry to hear that you're going through this. It sounds...horrible."
"It's alright," Elara replied, a hint of weariness in her voice. "But it's not getting any better. So, what are we going to do?" Her gaze shifted between Livia and Corvus, a silent plea for solutions hanging in the air.
"First," Livia stated, her voice firm and decisive, "you and I will check on the origin of the plague and how it's spreading. While Corvus," she added, gesturing towards the crow-wielding man, "will check on the victims."
Elara's eyes turned to look at Corvus with a hint of concern, but not for him, but for the victims. "You sure I can leave him alone with them?" she asked worriedly. "He might... well, he might not be the most comforting presence in their current state."
"The victims don't need comfort," Livia said, her voice firm and unwavering, "they need a cure. Elara." Her gaze held Elara's, a silent understanding passing between them. There was little time for sentimentality; their focus needed to be on finding a solution, a cure.
"Ok," Elara said, a sigh escaping her lips as she reluctantly conceded. She knew Livia was right, comfort wouldn't save them. They needed answers, a cure. "Lead the way," she said, her voice regaining a hint of its usual determination.
The darkened alleyways of Aelwyn seemed to swallow the light, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with Corvus's every step. Despite the grim circumstances, he hummed a cheerful tune, his eyes darting about with an almost childlike curiosity. In his hands, he clutched a list of the victims and their details, both old and new. He was fascinated by the stories of their hallucinations, eager to see what fantastical worlds their minds had conjured in their delirium.
Corvus, his eyes gleaming with a fervor usually reserved for uncovering a particularly fascinating tax loophole, couldn't help but feel a thrill course through him. "A demon king, eh?" he murmured, tracing a name on the list with a manicured finger. "Or perhaps a vengeful spirit? How utterly boring." Finding a cure was, of course, the expected response, the pedestrian solution. But the sheer camp of it all, the opportunity to dissect the fractured minds of the afflicted like some particularly dramatic specimen, was a siren song to his sensibilities. After all, what's a good plague without a healthy dose of existential angst and theatrical pronouncements? He imagined himself, later, regaling his friends with tales of the afflicted, their pronouncements of reincarnation and interdimensional travel, delivered with a flourish and a knowing wink. Yes, this was shaping up to be a most stimulating case.
Arriving before a mansion that practically screamed opulence, Corvus displayed a maddeningly cheerful smile, his teeth gleaming like polished ivory against his pale skin. It was a smile that spoke of morbid fascination, a hint of gleeful anticipation for the drama to unfold within. With a flourish, he pushed open the ornate iron gates, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped into the manicured gardens, his eyes already scanning for signs of the afflicted.
-----------------
Colette wasn't your average six-year-old. She preferred the clang of metal against metal to the tinkling of dolls, and her favorite bedtime story wasn't about princesses, but about valiant knights. So, it wasn't surprising that Colette spent most of her time in her father's old, dusty suit of armor. She'd fashioned a helmet out of a bucket, and her trusty companion, a real, albeit small, black bear named Barnaby, would often perch on her shoulder, his fur bristling with mock ferocity.
One day, a shadow fell over their peaceful village. A monstrous griffin, with feathers of obsidian and talons sharper than swords, descended from the storm clouds, its piercing cry echoing through the valley. Panic gripped the villagers as the griffin snatched their livestock and tore through their fields. The village elder, a frail man with trembling hands, declared, "No knight is brave enough to face the beast!"
But Colette, clad in her makeshift armor, her teddy bear Barnaby tucked under one arm, stood firm. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now burned with a fierce determination. "I will face the griffin," she declared, her voice surprisingly steady.
The villagers laughed, their fear momentarily forgotten at the sight of the little girl in armor. But Colette, unfazed, marched towards the griffin's lair, Barnaby padding beside her. The griffin, surprised by the sight of the tiny warrior, let out a mocking screech.
Colette, remembering her father's stories, raised her makeshift shield and charged. The griffin swiped at her with its razor-sharp talons, but Colette dodged with surprising agility. Barnaby, sensing the danger, sprang onto the griffin's back, biting and clawing with all his might.
The griffin, enraged and distracted, roared in pain. Colette, seizing the opportunity, climbed onto the griffin's back, using her father's old sword to stab the griffin repeatedly in its vulnerable spots.
The griffin, wounded and disoriented, finally faltered, collapsing to the ground with a thunderous thud. Colette, exhausted but triumphant, stood over the defeated beast, her tiny armor dented but her spirit unbroken.
The villagers, their fear replaced by awe, cheered for their unlikely hero. Colette, the little girl in the suit of armor, had saved their village. And Barnaby, the brave bear, had proven that even the smallest creature could be a hero.
News of Colette's bravery spread far and wide, reaching the ears of a scholar named Kaelen. One day, Kaelen arrived in Colette's village, seeking her aid. He was a man of learning, his face etched with worry, his eyes filled with a desperate plea.
"Oh brave hero," he began, bowing respectfully, "this humble scholar seeks your strength. The town where I reside is overrun with goblins, we need your power to vanquish them all."
Colette, her heart filled with a burning desire to help, listened intently to Kaelen's tale of woe. She knew this was another chance to prove her worth, to show everyone that even a little girl in armor could be a true hero.
"I will help you," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "Barnaby and I will rid your village of these goblins."
The villagers, their fear replaced by a glimmer of hope, cheered for their unlikely champion. Colette, the little girl in the suit of armor, had a new quest, a new adventure to embark on. And Barnaby, the brave bear, was ready to fight by her side.
-----------------
The village of Aelwyn trembled under the shadow of Mount Cinder. It wasn't the mountain itself that caused fear, but the monstrous dragon that nested within its fiery peak. For years, the beast had terrorized the land, snatching livestock and demanding tribute. But the dragon’s latest act of cruelty was the most grievous yet – the abduction of Princess Adeline, the village's beloved leader.
Amidst the despair, a young boy named Ben, blind since birth, refused to succumb to fear. Though his sightless eyes couldn't pierce the darkness of the mountain, his other senses were sharpened to a razor's edge. He could hear the dragon's roars echoing through the valleys, smell the sulfurous stench of its breath, and feel the tremors of its wings as it flew overhead.
Ben, armed with a sword forged by his father, a blacksmith who had perished defending the village, decided to act. He gathered the villagers, his voice ringing with an unexpected confidence.
“I may not see the dragon,” he declared, “but I can hear its every move, smell its every breath. I will guide you, and together, we will save Princess Adeline.”
The villagers, inspired by Ben's courage, followed him. They climbed the treacherous path up Mount Cinder, guided by Ben's keen hearing and the rhythmic thudding of his cane against the rocky path.
As they neared the dragon’s lair, the air grew hotter, thick with smoke and the stench of burnt flesh. The dragon, a monstrous creature with scales the color of obsidian and eyes that burned like molten gold, roared, its voice shaking the very mountain.
Ben, unfazed, directed the villagers to take cover behind boulders. He then stepped forward, his sword held high.
“Dragon,” he called out, his voice clear and unwavering, “release the princess. Your reign of terror ends here.”
The dragon scoffed, its nostrils flaring. It lunged at Ben, its jaws wide open, ready to swallow him whole. But Ben, relying on his heightened senses, dodged the attack with surprising agility. He parried the dragon's claws, his sword ringing against its scales, and with a swift move, plunged his blade into the dragon's flank.
The dragon roared in pain, its fiery breath scorching the air. But Ben, fueled by his determination to save the princess, pressed his attack. He dodged the dragon's fiery blasts, his movements guided by the dragon's own roars and the shifting heat of its breath.
Finally, with a mighty blow, Ben struck the dragon's heart. The beast let out a deafening roar, its body convulsing before collapsing to the ground, its reign of terror finally over.
Ben, bruised but triumphant, made his way to the dragon's lair. Inside, he found Princess Adeline, unharmed. She embraced Ben, tears of gratitude streaming down her face.
News of Ben's heroic deed spread throughout the land. The blind boy who had defeated the dragon became a legend, a symbol of courage and hope. Though he couldn't see the world, he had opened his heart to its beauty, and in doing so, had saved his village and its beloved princess.
The sun shone brightly on Aelwyn, bathing the village square in a golden glow. Garlands of wildflowers adorned every doorway, and the air buzzed with the joyous chatter of villagers. Today was a day of celebration, a day for love and hope. Today, Ben, the hero who had slain the dragon, was to wed Princess Adeline.
Kaelen, the village's oldest scholar, his beard long and white like spun silver, stood at the makeshift altar, his eyes twinkling with warmth. He cleared his throat, his voice a gentle rumble, "We gather here today to celebrate the union of two souls, brought together by courage, compassion, and a shared love for Aelwyn."
Ben stood at the altar, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. Though he couldn't see the assembled crowd, he could feel their gazes upon him, their smiles warm and welcoming. He could hear the soft strumming of a lute, the melody weaving a spell of joy and anticipation.
He had never felt so happy. The fear that had once clouded his world had been replaced by a radiant light, a light kindled by Adeline's love. He had known her before the dragon, before his heroism, and her kindness had touched him deeply.
Then, a hush fell over the crowd. A soft, lilting melody filled the air, the music swelling as a figure emerged from behind the tapestry curtain.
Ben's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't see her, but he knew. He knew the way she moved, the gentle sway of her hips, the soft rustle of her gown. He knew the scent of her perfume, a delicate blend of wildflowers and honey.
He felt a warmth spread through him, a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer sun. It was the warmth of love, pure and true.
"Adeline," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
He heard her soft laughter, a melody sweeter than any song. She was close now, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He could feel the warmth of her touch, the gentle pressure of her fingers.
"Ben," she replied, her voice a silken whisper.
Kaelen smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Now, Ben," he began, his voice ringing with joy, "do you take Adeline to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Ben's heart soared. "I do," he declared, his voice filled with conviction.
The ceremony continued, the words flowing like a gentle stream, carrying with them the promise of a future filled with love and happiness.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the square, Ben and Adeline stood hand in hand, their faces bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.
Ben, though blind, could see. He could see the love in Adeline's eyes, the happiness radiating from her face, the joy that filled their hearts. He could see their future, a future filled with hope, laughter, and the enduring power of love.
-----------------
Beatrice was different. While her sisters, Lyra and Celeste, were blessed with porcelain skin and cascading curls, Beatrice had a freckled nose, unruly auburn hair, and eyes that sparkled like mismatched gemstones. They called her "Oddity" and mocked her clumsy gait and her passion for books over frivolous dances.
"Look at her, nose buried in another story," Lyra would sneer, her voice dripping with disdain. "She'd rather talk to imaginary friends than real people."
Celeste, ever the charmer, would add, "Maybe if she spent less time with those dusty tomes, she'd learn how to be presentable."
Their words, like tiny shards of glass, pierced Beatrice's heart. She retreated further into her books, finding solace in the fantastical worlds they offered, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of her home.
One day, a traveling storyteller named Kaelen arrived at their village. He spoke of a magical land where true beauty was not defined by outward appearances but by the kindness in one's heart and the light in their soul.
Beatrice, captivated by his tales, listened with rapt attention. She began to see a glimmer of truth in his words. Was her worth truly measured by her appearance? Did her sisters' beauty make them inherently better?
She started small. She offered a helping hand to the village elder, tending to his garden and reading to him. She shared her favorite stories with the children, her voice warm and inviting. She treated everyone with kindness and respect, regardless of their looks or status.
Slowly, a change began to occur. People started noticing Beatrice's genuine warmth and her infectious smile. They sought her out for advice, her stories, and her unwavering kindness.
Lyra and Celeste, witnessing this transformation, felt a pang of jealousy. They had always relied on their beauty to attract attention, but Beatrice's inner light shone brighter than any outward facade.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Lyra finally spoke, her voice hesitant. "Beatrice," she said, "I... I see now that true beauty comes from within. You've shown us that."
Celeste, her eyes filled with newfound understanding, added, "We were so focused on our appearances that we missed the real treasure all along."
Beatrice smiled, her heart filled with compassion. She knew that their journey to self-acceptance had just begun, but she was glad that she had shown them the path.
From that day forward, the sisters learned to appreciate each other's unique qualities. They realized that true beauty was not about outward appearances but about the kindness, compassion, and light that resided within each of them. And Beatrice, the girl who was once mocked for being different, became a beacon of inner beauty, inspiring everyone around her to embrace their true selves.
-----------------
King Henry of Aelwyn, a land kissed by the sun and cradled by emerald hills, surveyed his kingdom from the ramparts of his castle. The wind whispered tales of prosperity through the golden wheat fields and the bustling marketplace below. Beside him stood his beloved Beatrice, her auburn hair catching the sunlight like spun gold. Their daughter, Colette, a whirlwind of giggles and pigtails, chased a butterfly across the courtyard, while their son, Ben, a quiet observer with eyes as blue as the Aelwyn sky, watched the hawk circling above.
Henry, a king known for his wisdom and fairness, felt a surge of contentment. His heart brimmed with love for his family, the source of his greatest joy. Beatrice, his queen, was not only a beauty but a woman of remarkable intelligence and compassion. She managed the kingdom's affairs with grace and insight, often offering Henry counsel that proved invaluable. Colette, with her infectious laughter and boundless energy, brought light and joy to every corner of the castle. And Ben, though reserved, possessed a keen mind and a gentle soul, often surprising his parents with his thoughtful observations.
But peace, like the sun, could be fleeting. A shadow fell over Aelwyn when a neighboring kingdom, ruled by the ambitious King Gareth, began encroaching on their borders. Gareth, driven by greed and a lust for power, coveted Aelwyn's fertile lands and rich resources.
Henry, ever the peacemaker, attempted diplomacy, but Gareth, blinded by avarice, refused to listen. War, a grim specter, loomed over Aelwyn. Henry, with a heavy heart, prepared his army, knowing that the fate of his kingdom, and his family, hung in the balance.
Beatrice, though fearful, stood by her husband's side, her strength unwavering. She rallied the women of Aelwyn, organizing them into a network of support, providing for the families of soldiers and tending to the wounded. Colette, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, sought solace in her mother's arms, her innocent laughter a bittersweet melody in the face of impending conflict. Ben, though scared, surprised everyone with his maturity. He spent his days studying maps and military tactics, determined to help his father in any way he could.
The war was long and arduous. Aelwyn's brave soldiers fought valiantly, but Gareth's army was larger and better equipped. Henry, despite his wisdom and courage, was wounded in battle. The news reached Beatrice, shattering her resolve. Yet, she refused to despair. She knew that Aelwyn's fate rested on her shoulders, and she would not falter.
Inspired by her mother's strength, Colette, defying the dangers, snuck into the battlefield, tending to the wounded and boosting the morale of the soldiers with her unwavering optimism. Ben, utilizing his knowledge of tactics, devised a daring plan to outmaneuver Gareth's forces, a plan further refined with the counsel of their trusted and wise assistant, Kaelen.
The plan, risky but brilliant, succeeded. Aelwyn's army, emboldened by Colette's spirit and Ben's strategy, defeated Gareth's forces, securing their victory and peace for Aelwyn.
Henry, though still recovering, was overjoyed by his children's bravery and the resilience of his people. He looked upon his family, their faces etched with the weariness of war but their hearts filled with love and pride, and knew that Aelwyn, under their watch, would forever be a kingdom of hope and unity.
"Interesting," a voice hissed from the shadows, a chilling whisper that seemed to slither through the air. Cracks spiderwebbed across the manicured lawns, the very fabric of reality warping and twisting around them. The opulent mansion dissolved, replaced by a scene of grotesque squalor. Corvus found himself staring at a family, sprawled across a massive bed, their bodies slick with sweat and vomit. Their faces contorted in expressions of terror and delirium, their eyes wide and unseeing.
"Their dreams are like those fairy tales," the voice echoed, a sardonic amusement lacing its tone. "Can't blame them though, with their status in reality, such things were out of reach."
Corvus, seemingly unfazed by the horrors he'd just witnessed, left the mansion with a brisk, nonchalant air. He hummed a cheerful tune, a jarring counterpoint to the unsettling scene he'd just encountered. The mansion, with its twisted reality and tormented inhabitants, was nothing more than a footnote in his day, a curiosity to be dissected and filed away. He had a cure to find, after all, and there were plenty more fascinating cases to be encountered.
-----------------
The air in the morgue hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and decay. Livia, her face pale but resolute, walked briskly down the cold, tiled hallway, her footsteps echoing in the stillness. Elana trailed behind, her brow furrowed in concern. They were on their way to see the body of the traveler who had arrived at Aelwyn, the first to display the symptoms of this strange new plague.
"Do you think we'll find any answers?" Elana asked softly, her voice barely a whisper in the oppressive silence.
Livia paused, her gaze fixed on the door ahead. "We have to hope so," she replied, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. "For you sake, and for everyone else's."
As they drew nearer to their destination, a wave of awkward energy washed over them, finally breaking the tense silence. Livia, sensing the shift, opened her mouth and said, "Don't worry, your student is still alive. Her faith is intertwined with another, and given that ancient being's personality, nothing will happen to her."
Elana softly nodded, her expression showing little acknowledgement to Livia's words. She remained focused on the task at hand, but a faint smile was forming on her lips, betraying her facade of stoicism.
-----------------
Anya awoke in a daze, the familiar, peeling ceiling of her dorm room greeting her eyes. It was a sight she usually found comforting, a messy haven amidst the chaos of Cogtown. But today, it felt alien, distant. Papers and discarded sketches were scattered everywhere, a testament to her tireless work. The musky scent of ink and burnt candle wax, usually a comforting aroma, now felt cloying, suffocating.
"What happened?" she muttered to herself, trying to push herself up. A searing pain shot through her body, a sharp reminder of the events that had unfolded. Memories of the clocktower flooded back, crashing over her like a tidal wave. The grotesque figures, the chilling silence, the metallic tang of blood in the air... it all came rushing back, vivid and terrifying.
Anya gasped, clutching at her head as the memories threatened to overwhelm her. She saw the Abomination, its monstrous form contorted in a mask of rage, its eyes burning with a malevolent fire. She saw the baker, his face pale and vacant, clutching a picture of his family as if it were a lifeline. She saw the young detective, his face etched with determination, his voice a beacon of hope amidst the despair.
She remembered the terror, the helplessness, the desperate fight for survival. She remembered the chilling realization that the Abomination was not just a monster, but a force of pure darkness, fueled by the city's accumulated grief and despair.
Her hand flew to her chest, her heart pounding against her ribs. She was alive, she had survived. But the question remained: what had happened to the detective? To the city? To Cogtown itself?
Anya struggled to her feet, her legs shaky and weak. She needed answers, she needed to understand. But where to begin?
Anya, despite the lingering tremors in her limbs, felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. This wasn't just a nightmare, it was a puzzle, a twisted game with real consequences. Cogtown, her beloved city, was in danger, and she, Anya, the self-proclaimed 'Clockwork Detective', was its only hope.
She needed to piece together the fragments of her memory, to understand what had transpired at the clocktower. The Abomination, a creature of pure darkness, fueled by the city's despair... it was a terrifying concept, one that demanded a logical explanation.
She grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and a charcoal pencil, her mind racing. First, the catalyst. What event had triggered the Abomination's awakening? A recent tragedy? A forgotten ritual? She recalled the whispers she'd heard in the city's underbelly, tales of ancient beings, of forgotten gods, of rituals that could tear open the veil between worlds. Could those whispers be more than just folklore?
Next, the Abomination's focus on the pocket watch. What significance did it hold? Was it a key to its power? A conduit to another dimension? Or was it simply a symbol of the city's brokenness, a reminder of the fragility of human life?
And then there was the Inspector. He had been there, fighting alongside her, a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos. But what had become of him? Had he survived? Was he searching for answers, just as she was?
As Anya delved deeper into her deductions, a sharp knock on her door shattered the silence. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Who could it be at this hour? Was it the inspector? Or was it something more sinister, a harbinger of further darkness?
Anya's hand hovered over the doorknob, her pulse quickening. She could feel a strange energy emanating from beyond the door, a subtle hum that vibrated against her skin. The air was thick with the scent of lilacs and ripe berries, a cloying sweetness that sent a shiver down her spine. She'd heard whispers, tales of witches and their affinity for such scents, their ability to mask their true nature.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought as superstitious nonsense. Witches were just stories, figments of the imagination, meant to frighten children. But the persistent hum, the unnatural fragrance, gnawed at her rational mind.
A second knock, more insistent this time, broke through her internal debate.
"Who is it?" Anya asked, her voice trembling slightly, her grip tightening on the doorknob.
"It's me," Winston's voice echoed through the door, a chillingly familiar timbre that sent a jolt of electricity through Anya.
She flung the door open, her breath catching in her throat. Standing before her was a boy in a uniform, identical to Winston's, down to the last button. Yet, something was profoundly wrong. The boy's face was blank, a smooth, featureless void where his features should have been.
The air around them thickened, a cloying sweetness saturating the room, dripping down Anya's forehead like a viscous syrup. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This wasn't Winston. This was something else, something mimicking her friend, something sinister.
Despite the terror clawing at her insides, Anya forced herself to remain calm. Panic wouldn't help. She needed to think, to assess the situation. She forced a steady breath, her gaze locked on the unsettling void where Winston's face should have been.
"Strange," the figure muttered, its voice a distorted echo of Winston's. "You're calm, but your heart betrays you."
The figure's words pierced Anya's carefully constructed facade, a chilling reminder that this imposter could see through her, into her very soul.
Anya swallowed, her throat dry. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Kids these days are always in such a rush," the figure sighed, its voice a languid drawl that sent a shiver down Anya's spine.
Before Anya's eyes, the figure began to shift, to warp and contort. The boyish form elongated, the limbs stretching, the uniform straining against the sudden transformation. The black hair cascaded down the back, now a long, flowing mane that reached past the waist.
In a blink, the faceless boy was gone, replaced by a breathtaking woman. She was tall and slender, clad in a sleek black suit that accentuated her curves. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes, a piercing shade of violet, seemed to bore into Anya's very being.
Anya stared, speechless, as the woman gracefully straightened her posture, a faint smirk playing on her lips. The air around them thrummed with a palpable energy, a mixture of power and menace.
"Now," the woman said, her voice smooth and seductive, "let's talk."
-----------------
Finally arriving in front of the corpse of the recently deceased traveler, a wave of chill washed over them. The body had decomposed at an alarming rate, far beyond anything natural. Its appearance was that of a corpse buried a thousand years ago – skin so dry and leathery it resembled bone, the flesh clinging to the skeleton like parchment.
“As you can see,” Elara said, her voice hushed, her gaze fixed on the grotesque corpse, “the strangeness doesn’t end when they die.”
Livia nodded grimly, her eyes scanning the body for any clues. "This decay... it's unnatural. It's like the very life force is being leached from them, even in death." She knelt beside the body, carefully avoiding the areas where the flesh had already begun to crumble away. "There's something else... something...wrong about this." She reached out, her gloved fingers hovering over the traveler's withered hand. "It's as if the very essence of his being is being consumed."
Livia's fingers brushed against the traveler's hand, and a jolt of icy energy shot up her arm. She recoiled, a gasp escaping her lips. "By the gods..." she muttered, her eyes wide with alarm. "There's a presence here, something... dark."
Elana, who had been studying the body with a detached intensity, turned to Livia, her face etched with concern. "What is it? What do you feel?"
Livia shook her head, trying to clear the unsettling sensation that clung to her. "I can't explain it," she said, her voice strained. "It's like a... a void, an emptiness that consumes everything around it. It's feeding on this man, even in death."
Livia stood up, her face grim with determination. From her satchel, she produced a vial filled with a shimmering golden liquid. With a swift motion, she dashed a few drops onto the corpse. The liquid seeped into the decaying flesh with unnatural speed, as if something within the body was eagerly consuming it.
“What was that?” Elana asked, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Livia met her gaze, her expression grave. “Blood from a holy man,” she explained, “Usually, three things happen when it’s used on a corpse. First, nothing happens. That’s a good thing, it indicates that no foul play was done to the body. Second, it evaporates when the droplets land. This shows that dark forces are repelling the blood. Third... it seeps in,” Livia finished, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper, “Just like we saw.”
“so what does that mean?” elara asked in atticipation.
Livia's eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on the corpse. "We're dealing with something linked with the damn church," she answered, her voice low and dangerous.
-----------------
In a hidden chamber beneath the bustling city of Cogtown, a stark contrast existed between the grime and gears of the city above and the hushed reverence of this subterranean sanctuary. A man clad in the ornate robes of a bishop knelt before a towering statue, its metallic form intricately woven with pipes and tubes filled with a viscous, iridescent liquid. The statue's chest rose and fell with a rhythmic hiss, mimicking the breath of a slumbering giant.
A priest, his face slick with sweat, approached the bishop and bowed low. "Your Excellency," he began, his voice trembling slightly.