CHAPTER TWELVE- SHADOWS UNVEILED: PART 2

Saturday 12th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

(4:05 AM)

The Artist swallowed hard, suppressing the instinctual shiver of fear that ran up their spine. “And as for you…I wonder what you are doing. Who are you?”, Elizabeth asked.

Surely this must have been a sick joke. She was the leader of The Cult of Blair, the Hollows who might have potentially kidnapped The Artist’s parents. Elizabeth Abigail Kedward was standing right before them and she didn’t know who they were talking to. “Surely, she must have met Mom and Dad”, The Artist thought, “Surely, they should have told her everything about me and their lives, the fact they were part of the Cult. She must be lying or Lucius is lying”. For a moment, The Artist considered calling her bluff— demanding to know what she meant. But there was something too dangerous about her, too knowing. It was as if Elizabeth enjoyed watching her prey squirm before striking.

So instead, they hesitated for only a heartbeat before offering a calm, practiced smile. “I am…an apprentice of Lucius”, The Artist said carefully, choosing their words with precision.

Elizabeth’s head tilted ever so slightly, the light from the flickering sconces playing off her mask, casting distorted shadows across her sharp features. For a second, The Artist thought they saw something flicker behind her eyes— a recognition, perhaps? But it vanished just as quickly.

Lucius, his face betraying none of his thoughts, suddenly interjected, his voice smooth and measured. “The specimen here…is of a unique breed, Elizabeth”, he said, his tone casual yet deliberate. “A Mage, naturally, but they’re on their way to becoming a Darkstalker”.

Elizabeth’s laughter was soft at first, like the tinkling of glass, but it quickly grew into something richer, more dangerous. “A Darkstalker, Lucius? You don’t say”, she said, the amusement evident in her voice. She took a step closer, her red gown trailing the floor like blood. “I must admit, I’m surprised. You never bring just anyone of your Darkstalkers to these little meetings”.

Her words hung there, laced with suspicion. It was a veiled challenge. Normally, Lucius traveled with his agents, the elite assassins known as the Frumentarii, or he came alone. But this time was different, and Elizabeth knew it.

Lucius let out a quiet chuckle, his smile sharp and mocking. “They’re busy”, he replied casually, waving a hand as though the matter was trivial. “Mercenary work, you understand. Your requests alone have kept many of them occupied. Perhaps I should start charging higher fees”.

Elizabeth’s laughter returned, fuller this time. She stepped back, as if satisfied with his answer, though her masked gaze lingered on The Artist a moment longer than was comfortable. “Oh, Lucius, my darling”, she said, her voice dripping with amusement, “I wouldn’t dare bankrupt the great Lucius D. Decanus”.

Her smile was still audible in her voice, but there was something darker beneath it. Something calculating.

“Come”, she said, stepping aside gracefully, her hand gesturing toward the deeper recesses of the mansion. “Join me for the ceremony. I trust you’ll find it…enlightening”.

The Artist’s pulse quickened at the invitation. Whatever ceremony she referred to; it carried an ominous weight. The Artist glanced at Lucius, who gave a barely perceptible nod before stepping forward.

Elizabeth led them through the grand foyer, and as they followed her into the heart of Oak Valley Plantation, the opulence of the mansion began to reveal itself. Glistening chandeliers hung from the ceilings, their lights casting eerie shadows across the dark wood-paneled walls. Paintings of long-forgotten figures lined the hallways, their eyes following the trio as they passed. The Artist could feel the weight of history in the air, the kind of history built on blood and secrets.

Outside, the faint sounds of laughter and celebration still echoed from the backyard, but here inside, the atmosphere was entirely different. Heavy. Suffocating.

Lucius’s voice was barely above a whisper as he leaned toward The Artist. “Stay sharp. This is a game to her, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous”.

The Artist nodded subtly, their mind racing with unanswered questions. What ceremony? What did Elizabeth want from them?

Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder, as if sensing their unease, and her wooden mask seemed to gleam in the dim light. “Don’t look so worried, my friends”, she cooed. “Tonight is…special”.

They entered a vast balcony, its towering view overlooking all the guests in the backyard. At the center of the backyard there was an altar— black marble with strange symbols etched into its surface, symbols that seemed to pulse with a dark energy.

Around the altar stood figures, all dressed in black robes, their faces obscured by masks similar to Elizabeth’s. The ceremony was already beginning. And as Elizabeth led them closer, the air grew thick with the scent of incense and something metallic, something…like blood.

The Artist’s stomach turned.

Elizabeth turned to face the guests below her, her mask gleaming ominously. “Now…”, she said, her voice taking on a more formal tone, “…we begin!”.

(4:24 AM)

The Artist and Lucius were led to a long, ornate table on the balcony, its surface draped in black velvet and adorned with gold-trimmed candlesticks. Dark wine gleamed in crystal goblets, and intricate patterns were etched into the silverware, a twisted elegance that suited the grotesque splendor of Oak Valley Plantation. The table was reserved for the most prolific members of the Cult, their presence casting an ominous shadow over the proceedings below.

The Artist hesitated before sitting, taking in the figures around them. The scent of incense and blood still hung thick in the air, mingling with the faintest hint of something sweeter— something tainted. As they lowered themselves into their chair, they felt the eyes of the cultists, all masked and draped in black robes, watching from the dark corners of the mansion, silently judging, assessing.

Among the seated members, one figure caught The Artist’s attention almost immediately— a woman with short platinum blonde hair with red accents, dressed in a flowing gown that shimmered under the dim candlelight. Her neck was marked with decorative tattoos that spiraled down her collarbone, intricate runes woven into each other in a pattern that radiated occult significance. The Artist had never seen her before, but something about her presence unnerved them.

And then, they heard it. That voice.

Across from them, the woman leaned in, speaking quietly with someone seated beside her— a figure The Artist recognized all too well. Their heart lurched. It was impossible, wasn’t it? But the shock hit them with such force that their mind could hardly process what they were seeing. Claire Sinkala Sinclair.

Claire’s face, her voice, her very presence— there was no mistaking it. The strawberry-red hair, the striking green eyes that had once been filled with joy and mischief, now shadowed with something darker. Her familiar gothic attire, always a mix of elegance and rebellion, was the same. The black and red lace skirt, the leather boots, the silver rings that adorned her fingers— all of it. Claire, the friend who had promised to help The Artist find their parents, the one who had stood by their side for so long, was sitting here among the Hollows, among those very cultists that had caused so much suffering.

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“It couldn’t be”, The Artist thought.

But it was.

Their breath caught in their throat as Claire’s head turned slightly, her eyes locking onto The Artist’s. The world seemed to slow as recognition flashed across her face, her expression shifting from casual to stunned. Her lips parted in disbelief, and she mouthed the words silently, “What are you doing here?”.

The Artist blinked, unsure how to respond. Their mind raced, panic creeping in. Why is she here? After everything Claire had said, after everything she had promised— they mouthed back across the table, their expression a mixture of confusion and betrayal, “What are you doing here?”

Claire’s eyes narrowed in something akin to desperation, but before she could respond, Elizabeth’s voice cut through the tension, silencing the entire table.

“Friends, honored guests”, she began, her masked face looking out over the crowd in the backyard, “We gather tonight to witness a transformation unlike any other. A rite of passage, one that will solidify our power and ensure that we rise above those who seek to undermine us”.

The Artist barely registered Elizabeth’s words, their mind still swirling in confusion and disbelief. They wanted answers from Claire, needed them, but this wasn’t the time or place. Not with the ceremony beginning.

Next to them, Lucius remained stoic, though his sharp eyes flicked briefly toward The Artist, as if sensing their inner turmoil. He leaned closer, whispering under his breath, “Keep your wits about you. This is no place for personal disputes”.

The Artist nodded subtly, but their mind was still fractured, caught between the horror of seeing Claire here and the growing danger around them.

And then, their attention was pulled once more to a figure seated further down the table— a young man, pale as death itself. His appearance was unsettling. His clothes, though finely made, were wrinkled and disheveled, and he sat in an awkward, twisted position as if he could not find a way to be comfortable in his own skin. His red eyes darted frantically from side to side, never resting on one thing for more than a moment. His anxiety was palpable, and The Artist could feel it radiating off him like a fever.

The more The Artist observed, the more unsettling he became. Long, jagged stitches ran across his face, disappearing under the collar of his shirt, then reappearing on his hands and wrists, trailing down to his feet. His skin looked stretched, almost as if it had been sewn together from different pieces, though The Artist couldn’t be sure. The faint tremor in his hands, combined with the frantic look in his eyes, made The Artist think of him as an addict— perhaps to something alchemical. “Hjidamda”, they thought.

It wasn’t uncommon among certain circles, especially with MBC Alchemists. It provided a quick high, a temporary boost to spellcasting focus. But the side effects…well, they were as dangerous as the herb itself.

The young man caught The Artist’s gaze and, for a moment, he froze. His frantic surveying stopped, and he stared directly at them, his eyes wide with fear or recognition. But just as quickly, he looked away, his fingers tapping nervously on the table, as if trying to escape whatever thought had just entered his mind.

Elizabeth, oblivious or unconcerned by the tension at the table, continued her speech, her voice rising and falling with a dangerous cadence. “Tonight, we are more than spectators. We are witnesses to the future. The blood that binds us, the power we seek— it is all within reach”.

The crowd below stirred in anticipation, and The Artist’s stomach churned as the metallic scent of blood grew stronger. Whatever was about to happen, they had a sinking feeling that it would be far worse than anything they had expected.

Beside them, Lucius leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, though his fingers drummed rhythmically against the table. The Artist couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite his calm demeanor, Lucius was preparing for something.

The ceremony had only just begun, and already the air was thick with impending doom.

(5:00 AM)

The air was thick with the weight of anticipation as Elizabeth stood at the edge of the balcony, her mask gleaming in the early dawn light. It was nearly 5:00 (AM), and the first faint hints of sunrise painted the sky in a muted array of purples and grays. Elizabeth raised her hands to silence the murmuring crowd below, and the entire backyard fell into an eerie stillness, as if even the earth itself awaited her words.

“This morning marks a new dawn”, Elizabeth began, her voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the backyard. “Not just the dawn of the sun but the dawn of our power, of our supremacy. We stand here, blessed by the light that will soon rise upon us, as we usher in a new era for Blair. An era that will cleanse this land of the weak and make way for the return of The Willow; Queen of Hollows”.

A wave of applause rippled through the gathered guests, their robed figures blending with the shadows beneath the towering trees of Oak Valley Plantation.

Despite their Human disguises, The Artist could see that not all of them were truly human. Among the throng were creatures of the night, their monstrous forms barely hidden beneath their skin. Werebeasts of the Wolf, Bear and Lion variety stood shoulder to shoulder with Remnants, twisted sentient zombie-like beings, whose very existence seemed like a cruel joke between life and death. Gargoyles perched on the edges of nearby rooftops, their stone-like features impossible to mistake for anything mortal.

Elizabeth’s words carried over the applause, smooth as silk but laced with venom. “Soon, my dear friends, we will revive The Willow. She will rise, and with her, Hollow supremacy will spread across this land. From here to the far reaches of the world, our society will know its true rulers. The magick of the MBCs will bow before us, and the Hollows will reclaim what is ours by right”.

The Artist’s stomach churned. They were no stranger to dark rituals, but this— this was something far more sinister. Their eyes darted across the crowd, noting the rapturous faces, the hunger in their eyes. These were not merely guests at some clandestine event; they were predators waiting for the hunt to begin.

A low rumble broke the silence, drawing everyone’s attention. Two massive figures lumbered into view from the far side of the yard, their grotesque forms making even the gathered Hollows look tame by comparison. The Artist’s breath caught. These creatures were unlike anything they’d ever seen— 20-Feet tall, their bodies a grotesque amalgamation of black rotting tree bark and decayed plant matter. Their hollow, sunken eyes were empty pits of darkness, and with each slow, deliberate step, they let out a low, haunting groan. The stench that accompanied them was overwhelming, a putrid mix of decaying flesh and rancid earth.

The were called “ᛏᚨᛚᛚᛟᚾᛖᛊ” by Elizabeth, prounounced “Øyebakin” in Hollowspeak, which in English meant “Tall Ones”. Their very presence made the Artist’s skin crawl. Each of the massive creatures carried two large iron cages, one in each hand, filled with naked bleeding Human captives. As the Tall Ones reached the altar, they set the cages down with a thunderous crash, the sound reverberating through the tense air. There were four cages in total, and by The Artist’s quick count, there had to be at least five to seven captives in each cage. Twenty to twenty-eight souls in total, trapped and awaiting a fate worse than death.

Elizabeth’s voice took on a reverent tone as the captives whimpered and huddled together, their blood-streaked bodies a stark contrast to the cold black marble of the altar. “These offerings…these sacrifices will fuel the return of The Willow, our blessed mother, our eternal queen. She will rise again, and through her, we will reign”.

One of the figures standing by the altar, a Hollow wearing a mask similar to Elizabeth’s, stepped forward and unlocked one of the cages. With a swift, unceremonious motion, he pulled out a captive, dragging the struggling man toward the altar. The other masked figures moved in, pinning the man down as he thrashed and screamed, his cries muffled by the thick air of incense and terror.

The Artist’s heart raced as they watched in horror. One of the figures produced a gleaming blade from within their robe and began chanting in Hollowspeak, their voice rising in a fervent prayer. The words were guttural, twisted and filled with a dark power that made The Artist’s skin prickle.

“In the name of The Willow, blessed mother of us all,” the figure intoned, “we offer this soul to you. Let his blood feed the roots of your return. Let his heart guide you back to us”.

With a sudden, violent motion, the figure plunged the knife into the man’s chest, silencing his screams in an instant. Blood poured across the altar, a thick, viscous stream of crimson staining the black marble. The figure reached into the wound, their hands slick with blood, and pulled out the man’s still-beating heart. In a trance-like state, they raised the heart to their lips and devoured it, bite by bite, their eyes rolling back in their head as if in ecstasy.

Elizabeth, standing above them, let out a soft sigh of delight, her masked face bathed in the first light of dawn. The sun, now peeking over the horizon, cast an eerie glow on the scene, illuminating the horror with a strange, otherworldly beauty.

“Let the feast commence!”, she declared, her voice triumphant, her arms outstretched to welcome the rising sun.

The Artist watched in revulsion as the elegant guests around them began to change. Slowly, their Human forms melted away, replaced by twisted, monstrous versions of themselves, resembling Hollow-Human Hybrids, their skin peeling back to reveal grotesque, plant-like growths, their eyes glowing with a sickly white light. Their mouths widened into unnatural grins, filled with sharp jagged teeth, and with a frenzied animalistic hunger, they descended upon the remains of the man on the altar, devouring him with savage abandon.

The sounds of tearing flesh, the gnashing of teeth and the guttural growls of the Hollows filled the air as they feasted. And as The Artist stared in shock, they realized with mounting dread that this was only the beginning. The captives in the remaining cages looked on, wide-eyed and trembling, knowing that soon, they would meet the same grisly fate.

Lucius, seated beside The Artist, remained eerily calm, though his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.

“This is what you came for”, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for The Artist to hear. “Now, watch carefully. It’s far from over”.