Great sorrow waters thy garden, winding and twisting as they weep. The bells of lilies cast down towards the Earth, resplendent sweet. There was once war here, or so they speak. Hear my prayers and save my soul from a world so bleak.
๐๐ฅ๐ข ๐ฃ๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฌ๐ซ๐ข๐ฐ ๐ฑ๐ฌ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข ๐ฌ๐ซ๐ ๐ข ๐ญ๐ฏ๐ฌ๐ฐ๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฐ ๐ช๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ฏ ๐ฉ๐๐ถ ๐ฒ๐ซ๐๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ก๐ข๐ซ๐ข๐ก ๐ฆ๐ซ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข ๐ซ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฅ๐ฑ. 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 thereโ 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.
" You are far from home, lowblood, " it speaks; voice a masculine hard edge with a sibilant androgyny.
