𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 -- 𝐀 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐘𝐅𝐈𝐂

⸻ 𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐘𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃

⋯

It's cold here, unnaturally so. Winter marks the edges of the world, coating the grasses in gentled frost, but it's more than just winter that settles into the bones of the weary and wicked. Something more chilling is well on it's way, between hushed whispers and the clicking sound of shoes against raw, untouched stone. The air is still outside, and all sound remains trapped inside the secured homestead, built into the ground, exceeding into the depths of cold, frozen earth, masked by paraded trees and haunting, dense fog.

Still. Something is alive here. Past the age-kissed trunks of old trees, and ominous calls of haze, within the protection of the embedded structure. Far, far within, in fact.

Alive.

That clicking sound, of steps against stone traverses down the hallway. They'll tremble at her wake, darting their own eyes to face that cold, faceless rock to avoid meeting hers. Her skin was inlaid with scars as jagged as from the rocks she was thrown from. Her hair was deep, restless blue- like the night sky or the abyssal waters of the deep. Her eyes were pitch black. Heavy, brooding, with pupils enlarged to see in the darkness down here, far from where the sunlight touches. Teeth sharp enough to take a bite out of someone.

She probably has.

Chills snake down the dreamer's spine, watching from an omnipotent view, seeing and understanding, but knowing they are too far to reach them. To far to stop whatever might happen next. It's a bleak thought, hanging over their head like a dark cloud.

She's holding something in her hand, some kind of vial, filled with dark, crimson liquid. They don't want to ponder on what it might be, turning instead to watch the room open, the center ceiling stretching up past more than a couple of floors. They're far underground, far enough where even then the ceiling doesn't press against the surface, where sunlight might reach the frayed, chained wings of a beloved angel.

Her footfalls stall, and the sound of her voice hollows out the room. It's raspy and menacing. It wasn't what they expected to hear, quite honestly, but after hearing it, it tracks with that same looming aura she seems to carry with her.

Sickness scours their chest, watching as heads turn. Each of them. Seven. The scent of burning, blistered flesh was heavy in the room.

The angel, high above in her cage, blue-spotted wings iron-banded. It looks strained, the golden, brassed cage she's kept in, like if she moved too much, down she would tumble. And without her wings, it wouldn't bode well at all.

Far below, almost directly underneath in fact, surrounded by a circle of runes and wards, was a young male genasi, chained by wrists and ankles to the very element that he'd once had the power over. Trapped, under a teetering, golden cage. If it fell - surely it would not only kill the angel, but the young genasi too.

Only ten feet away, another inlaid circle, with different runes. These ones appeared warm, haze flickering above them, warping the image of a fae, on his knees but eyes trained on the woman before them. Not soft, but not scared either - something so careful and observant, watching.

Another circle, with some of those same searing, warm runes, carefully surrounded a vampire - no - not vampire. Məçkəy. He looked like some shadow of himself, dark, looming, with red, angry eyes. It was haunting in a way, to know the only barrier between them was in the hands of careful, perfected magic. They don't have a doubt that the məçkəy would have wasted a second if they had it.

Beyond that, the other side of the genasi, a circle with cooler coated runes, icy almost. The circle within, surrounding him had a settled layer of frost, and the tiefling was shivering, bursts of vibrant warmth running up his skin once in a while, when he could muster up the strength to do so. He didn't look up, refusing to meet the cold, calculating eyes.