He'd fallen into an uneasy sleep, turned away from Erdtree and Grace, curled tight beneath the meager protection of his wrap. The night was quiet and cold. All that could be heard were the small scurrying things in the grass, and the distant screams of the condemned on their stakes. The nightly chorus of Limgrave, in all its pathetic glory.
He dozed for a time, dreams full of those same sounds.
The screams suddenly crescendoed, the condemned beside the grave rattling to life with a piercing shriek. He was on his feet before he'd even fully woken. His first, wild thought was that he must be bleeding. The brand on his forehead reopened, and blood spilled into his eyes. Why else would everything look so red?
But when he turned, the Erdtree shone as golden as ever. But the moon! It was a red-ringed nothing, burning like coals beneath ash.
The ring drew the eye, drew the mind into circles, an unending and dying thing, hollowed out by dark. It was a horror he could not explain.
A light grew in its center, an uncanny silver against the red, larger and larger--no, closer!
He snapped free of his trance, dashing to the meager shelter of the grave's entrance. The ground shook, and a wind tore past the archway, throwing rocks and graveyard bones toward the sea, and stealing the breath from his lungs.
But it was over as soon as it had come. The light was pale and golden again, the hills silent, save for the ringing in his ears and the sound of high surf on the shoreline. He carefully made his way to the cliff's edge. Nothing but waves, emanating a single point between him and the Church of Pilgrimage. The Erdtree Guardian had moved to the beach to the north as well, either to face whatever was there, or his horse had panicked at the sight of the horrible, dead moon.
He watched the water with trepidation, waiting until the waves stopped. But nothing emerged.
The others on the surface must have seen it, but none were so close as him. He should reconvene with them in the mausoleum, and share what he'd seen.
Whether they could decide what to do, he did not know. The brand beneath his mask did not call him home. Which should be a relief, he tells himself. His Lord had not found this important enough to wake.
But before he could make good on his plan, there was a noise from the grave. The elevator. Something was coming up.
He moved carefully back to watch the entrance, one hand hiding his knife, the other ready to reach into the Mother's embrace and draw his bouquet. Ready to fight or flee.
A figure emerged. Clad in white and gold, skin so pale it matched their finery. Was this some long-dead figure roused from the grave? It would be a sight to behold, if they didn't hobble so.
Or call out in such a haughty tone.
"There is no such place here." It was all he could do not to laugh. Dear Lord, why did this night have to take so many surreal turns? Was he finally going mad?
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-01-28 05:35 pm (UTC)He dozed for a time, dreams full of those same sounds.
The screams suddenly crescendoed, the condemned beside the grave rattling to life with a piercing shriek. He was on his feet before he'd even fully woken. His first, wild thought was that he must be bleeding. The brand on his forehead reopened, and blood spilled into his eyes. Why else would everything look so red?
But when he turned, the Erdtree shone as golden as ever. But the moon! It was a red-ringed nothing, burning like coals beneath ash.
The ring drew the eye, drew the mind into circles, an unending and dying thing, hollowed out by dark. It was a horror he could not explain.
A light grew in its center, an uncanny silver against the red, larger and larger--no, closer!
He snapped free of his trance, dashing to the meager shelter of the grave's entrance. The ground shook, and a wind tore past the archway, throwing rocks and graveyard bones toward the sea, and stealing the breath from his lungs.
But it was over as soon as it had come. The light was pale and golden again, the hills silent, save for the ringing in his ears and the sound of high surf on the shoreline. He carefully made his way to the cliff's edge. Nothing but waves, emanating a single point between him and the Church of Pilgrimage. The Erdtree Guardian had moved to the beach to the north as well, either to face whatever was there, or his horse had panicked at the sight of the horrible, dead moon.
He watched the water with trepidation, waiting until the waves stopped. But nothing emerged.
The others on the surface must have seen it, but none were so close as him. He should reconvene with them in the mausoleum, and share what he'd seen.
Whether they could decide what to do, he did not know. The brand beneath his mask did not call him home. Which should be a relief, he tells himself. His Lord had not found this important enough to wake.
But before he could make good on his plan, there was a noise from the grave. The elevator. Something was coming up.
He moved carefully back to watch the entrance, one hand hiding his knife, the other ready to reach into the Mother's embrace and draw his bouquet. Ready to fight or flee.
A figure emerged. Clad in white and gold, skin so pale it matched their finery. Was this some long-dead figure roused from the grave? It would be a sight to behold, if they didn't hobble so.
Or call out in such a haughty tone.
"There is no such place here." It was all he could do not to laugh. Dear Lord, why did this night have to take so many surreal turns? Was he finally going mad?
"It must have taken to the grave in ages past."