@corrunuptia [from @henosiis] said: “It has been a long time since I have felt clean.”
“Is that not by design? You call yourself Vileblood,” Graz’zt replies.
Cainhurst Castle is carrion, a grand corpse very nearly picked clean. Beneath the watchful eye of a wrong moon, the ruin is covered with pale blue night like a grave linen, and snow gathers in heavy piles where roofs have collapsed and along the crenellations in a slow, deliberate burial. Bitter winds thread incessantly through broken lancet windows to set banners whispering and stir the shadows inside, where frost feathers the walls with funereal blues and silvers. Chandeliers hang intact but unlit, their crystals long dulled by rime; they catch the moonlight only to fracture it into sickly prisms that spray across dark floors.
It makes for a dramatic tableau, he will admit. If a little tedious.
She remains ceremonial and aristocratic even in her tomb, with rot pushing through her in a slow, creeping ravage. He watches with lurid eyes and a thinning smile, already impatient.
“Tell me, then. When was it?”