Mistress of Demons

A sprawling estate that looms in the southernmost end of Eversong Woods. A home which straddles the border of the sprawling, lush, verdant woods and the dark, tainted, scarred home of the Ghostlands. An abode which straddles two separate lifetimes. One entrenched in the darkness, and the other a shimmering beacon of home, resiliency, and family.

Though these two dichotomous themes live within one estate spearheaded by a powerful witch and her close family, they share one common goal — an estate by which all come to learn, The Twilight Conservatory.

There, one can delve into tomes as old as the cosmos, to learn the arts which are rarely uttered about in traditional schools. Even more, one can expect to mull over magic theory and application among similar minded individuals, research the applications of combined magics, and discover their unlimited potentials.

If interested, we welcome you discover to the Conservatory.

The silence of a soon-to-be nursery before the appearance of a newborn babe was a sight to see— awkward almost; as parents to be fawn over the preparations for the new arrival. Empty, in most ways, a growing shrine to an ever-loved little girl with small additions growing here and there.

The silence of a darkened hour contrasts the image of a perfect future. Padded footsteps of bare feet break the silence of the nursery. Chocolate curls frame the exhausted features of the woman who had slipped away to peek and nest, her evening gown and a silken robe slipped over a slender frame that gracefully danced across the floors.

Verdant orbs focus on the newest additions before she turns her gaze to the old stuffed lynx that rests on a rocking chair. Aurilayne’s voice is a melodious sound in the quiet of the night as she whispers the horrors of a vision untold to the stuffed animal of her own childhood; 

“A wonting path, the discordant sounds, Of a shrieking babe And the Raven’s call;

A demoness’ wrath,  And the fear compounds, That which cannot be saved, By those who lack the wherewithal;

Blackened hands, Winds carry a lonely whisper,  The shadows stalk, And the night grows colder;

Golden colors of timeless sands, Their heartbeats blister, An endless walk Where they never grow older.”