0x78

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A knight stands lone in the middle, staring over the carnage in fond memory. The blue blood in his veins pump with fervor as his heart hammers within the cage of his chest, breath erratic from wondrous blood spill. The exhale slipping through his helmet smokes into the polluted air; his inhale taking in the scent of fresh decay, burning away through fatty layers to striated muscle— too wet to host a fire that could only burn so hot.

His bloody spear is equipped over shoulder when he absconds the arena towards the hosting tower of greedy && wicked nobles, waiting in comfortable parlors and genial company until the conflict resolves itself at the hands of lusting foes.

Prying open the doors, breaching the formality reserved for servants, the knight cracks back the wood, welcoming himself inside, before the doors slam back inside, trapping him within.

The aroma of smoked meat and brine vegetables waif the air. A sickly mixture with the perfumes, pleasure-spilt blood, and the sweat of layered finely dressed lot stacked within; packaged into every leisurely section of the castle. Laughter rules this sectioned off world amongst the smatters of idle conversation scattered veritably from one room to the next. Low, pulsing light colors the estate in a varying of cool-saturated blues to pinks, and all seemed to glow beneath such illumination.

He travels regardless of this. A no one to them. They only glance anyone bothered to spare was that of disgust or bemusement at his bloodied entry or putrid death that clung to the silver of his armament. He doesn't return any look in return, uncaring over his repute to these small, useless people.

The trek winds like a waltz, weaving from one side towards the next, until he reaches towards one end where his master stays. However, he could not quite make it there before a wall of particularly petulant nobility gates all open entrances with their drunken lumbering, tugging exhaustion through the threads of his joints before he turns heel to wait until they saunter off elsewhere.

His demeanor lives beneath the convenience of his mask, so he does not school the severe expression in his brow. He doesn't bow to niceties. He doesn't play pretend any gallantry when not requested. Though, at some point, he notices a single noble out of line of the rest. And, as all knights out to do, he offers himself in way of quiet introduction; gauntlet hand reaching out to capture Petera [ @currentfxation ] by the fingertips and lifting them towards the grill of his helmet.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔤𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔶 𝔲𝔫𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱. No longer do pilgrims erode the stones smooth, neither fanfare nor travel wedge them into the dirt, leaving them to the whims of time and rain to erode them away silently into eternity. They serve to guide where people once went into the deadly passage of writhing limbs eager to brush over a stray shoulder drawing far too near. Nary twin moon able to cast its generous light over the withered shingles of the roof nor into the dimly lit streets; the ever-stray flicker of lumens bearing enough light to mark a path, but never the destination.

Alvais [ @currentfxation ] is carried here. Whether it be by allure or ascent, there is a chasm waiting to receive thee. No invitation needed to carry them towards the stone steps leading up to verdigris-brass twin doors, splitting open to receive their welcome guest. The eidolons of peasants past tugging at the brass handles until the mouth of the manner yawns open with an echoing groan on forgotten hinges.

There is only darkness there— a steep Abyssian blackness brokering a naked terror. The manor breathes with the chirp of bothered nightingale wood and the sigh of weathered wind-sills allowing chill to slip in.

Life might exist here. Phantasms caught in the dredges of routine, from now towards eternity: soft soles marching with an eerie uniformity through the corridors, the quiet chatter of gasping whispers drinking in the despair of undeath, the wheeze of slain sycophants rasping for words, tongues useless in their mouths as they lap helplessly against mutilated soft palettes.

Within the main hall lived an immense helix staircase. A Thespian flair like an angel's wings from the center pulpit of the lobby and branching out towards the bracketing edges. They separate like unfated lovers before curving around to join hands once more at the top, into the border of the second floor atrium. Down the pinions of their stair-steps do they bleed a fuchsia so dark is it nearly black with a worn silver binding at the borders, until the carpet unfurls at the bottom to greet those who dare enter through the main doors.

Strident eyes stare through the unabated darkness from the center focal point of the second floor balcony, owlish in its stalking, down upon the guest; an angel witnessing mankind at the foot of God's throne. Blue ghostflame serves no one in illuminating the being outside of shrouding them into the purest silhouette with cobalt backdrop.