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The smell is gone. Thunder cracks, and all at once, the air is cleared, though the idea seems to linger like an unpleasant fog. A woman stands where before, there had been nothing, her golden hair flowing like a river down her back, golden eyes and lovely, dark-skinned face seeming almost heartbroken. Her formal gown and matching cloak are the color of storm clouds, seeming to billow even though the air is oppressively still. But a change of the light comes with another change, the lovely maiden replaced by a rotten hag, gaping holes left in her skin exposing a grinning skull even through the saddened pout. Her clothing, too, has changed, from beautiful formal attire to mildewed burial gown, torn and rotted away in places. The rasping sounds of a dying breath speak a name against your cheek: '''Vaendac…''' | The smell is gone. Thunder cracks, and all at once, the air is cleared, though the idea seems to linger like an unpleasant fog. A woman stands where before, there had been nothing, her golden hair flowing like a river down her back, golden eyes and lovely, dark-skinned face seeming almost heartbroken. Her formal gown and matching cloak are the color of storm clouds, seeming to billow even though the air is oppressively still. But a change of the light comes with another change, the lovely maiden replaced by a rotten hag, gaping holes left in her skin exposing a grinning skull even through the saddened pout. Her clothing, too, has changed, from beautiful formal attire to mildewed burial gown, torn and rotted away in places. The rasping sounds of a dying breath speak a name against your cheek: '''Vaendac…''' | ||
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Latest revision as of 19:31, 22 May 2016
The smell of rot is everywhere. It sits, thick and sweet, at the back of the throat, choking more effectively than any hand ever could. The air is wet, hot, and thick with dust, decay, even mold; and underneath it all, faint but unmistakeable once noticed, lightning charges the air, all mingling together until the atmosphere itself even seems to twitch.
The smell is gone. Thunder cracks, and all at once, the air is cleared, though the idea seems to linger like an unpleasant fog. A woman stands where before, there had been nothing, her golden hair flowing like a river down her back, golden eyes and lovely, dark-skinned face seeming almost heartbroken. Her formal gown and matching cloak are the color of storm clouds, seeming to billow even though the air is oppressively still. But a change of the light comes with another change, the lovely maiden replaced by a rotten hag, gaping holes left in her skin exposing a grinning skull even through the saddened pout. Her clothing, too, has changed, from beautiful formal attire to mildewed burial gown, torn and rotted away in places. The rasping sounds of a dying breath speak a name against your cheek: Vaendac…