The Revolution of the Neverending Night

11. Hecate

The air is filled with the damp and earthy essence emanating from the underground entrance as they approach the ancient iron gate guarding the entrance to the heart of the underground city.The gate creaks open, revealing a narrow and dark corridor, surrounded by carefully stacked human bones, plunging into the depths of the Paris catacombs. Skulls and femurs intertwine in grotesque patterns, creating dancing shadows in the flickering torchlight.

The sound of their footsteps echoing on the limestone floor accompanies them as they delve deeper into the catacombs. The air is dense and laden, as if darkness were absorbing every particle of light. Distant screams pierce the darkness, echoing the forgotten history that whispers from the cracks in the stones.

The torches emit a flickering light that barely manages to dispel the darkness, while grotesque shadows are cast on the walls, giving life to unsettling forms. Each step in the bone labyrinth is like a dance with death, and the echo of their whispers resonates like a lament. The screams, a cacophony of despair, reverberate through the winding corridors, and nervousness pulses in the air, as if the buried souls momentarily revive to share their torment.

As they progress, the tunnel narrows and the shadows grow darker. The walls drip with moisture, and a cold sensation snakes down their backs. The bones seem to groan with each step, as if they still remembered the violence that led them to their eternal resting place.The screams intensify, enveloping them like a chorus from beyond. The eerie and oppressive atmosphere weighs on their shoulders, as if the trapped souls in the bone labyrinth were trying to drag them into the unknown.

They cross intersections and corridors, delving deeper into the bowels of the earth. The sensation of being under tons of stone creates a pressure in the air. The tension is palpable, the weight of the past and the dark presence permeating the catacombs. Every step, every shadow, resonates with the sense of the supernatural and the forgotten, mingling with frightened squeals and the scurrying of rats.

As they advance, the passageways and alcoves seem to multiply, forming an underground maze where lights flicker intermittently, creating shadows that twist and stretch like playful specters.

They finally reach a central chamber, in which an ancient altar stands, illuminated by a dim light that seems to come from no specific source. The dim light creates shadows that dance on the walls adorned with skulls, and the gloom intertwines with the imposing presence of Hecate.

The distant screams are now whispers, as the goddess rises on the altar, a figure shrouded in shadows, with her eyes glowing with a reddish glow. Her black dress flows and moves as if it had a life of its own, weaving with the secrets of the night, like a dense fog enveloping the intruders in its cold embrace as the woman stands on the bone altar.

Her figure is slender but imposing, appearing as a mature woman, with white hair and skin as pale as a skull that stand out against her red lips, like her eyes, two burning coals in the gloom.She wears a crown of twisted branches, as if she had been crowned by nature itself in its most eerie and dark form. In one hand, she holds an ebony staff, carved with arcane symbols that faintly glow in the candlelight.