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Come back to me... even as a ghost, even as a shadow, a raven at my door, a scar upon my body — for it is in my trembling, shrinking heart, I hold the things we thought we lost -SEGOVIA AMIL
𓆩♱𓆪 Darker Shades
The voices ascend like the call of a malevolent siren's. Multiplying into an un-earthly chorus of whispers, ominously weaving through the air, rising and crashing like the stormy sea. They yearn in their desperation for something unknown, growing louder—a haunting crescendo of noise.
The crowd around me is a mere blur, for only darkness I can sense—I practically choke on it. It coils within my veins, its frigid touch lingering, draining all the warmth from my body. My heart thrums within the confinement of my chest as an invisible fire prickles through my arms—as though my flesh threatens to rupture.
Here it unfurls, amongst the most unforeseen events, emerging without forewarning—a magic so dark, potent, and untameable, it seeks to taint my entire being.
With utmost rapidness I clutch the vial strung around my neck, desperately twisting off the lid and pouring the remaining drops into my mouth.
I graciously welcome the bitter tang that stings my throat.
Like lightning the world returns to me, bright and blazingly fast. The anguish fades, the voices no more than a distressing memory that attempts to evade my psyche.
The city throbs with an energy that burns as bright as fire, alive with the sun awakening from its slumber—a pleasantness that deeply soothes my soul.
Mechanical contraptions trundle through the rustic, smog-filled streets, their whirring gears blending into the cacophony of noises. The air is thick with steam trails and metallic rust as I trudge along the cobblestone pathways, slick with rain and grime.
Anticipation surges through my body as I round a corner, proceeding through a dim, confined passage, drawing nearer. The cold shade sweeps over my skin from the overarching terraces, while the smell of metal permeates the air, becoming increasingly pronounced.
My strides falter as I meet the end of the passage, at the foot of an opened gate. A customary, mechanized-gargoyle is poised atop the metallic podium, marking the entrance to the commerce-court.
Swarms of traders, scavengers, and automatons flood the market-court, it's a hub of ceaseless activity that overwhelms me with bliss.
My previous market trips have been a continuous dull endure, which is due to one particular absence: Atticus Blackwood, my dearest friend. I have missed him awfully these past weeks, his enigmatic aura, dark and charming, underscored by his clever wit. His persistent absence has upheld my restlessness, leading me to wonder when his return awaits.
