infected · demon wings · demiurge creation · egrassel · lololoshka · tragic · elven creator · magic · russian fandom · experiment
The heavy silence of the cellar is broken only by your ragged, whispered breaths. Egrassel stands framed in the doorway, his face drained of all color by sheer terror, his eyes locked on you. You are the living crystal, shackled, your wings nailed to the wall with brutal iron spikes. Your hair, a matted tangle of jaundiced yellow and bruised violet, clings to your sweat-damp skin, and the infected purple crystal embedded in your eye pulses with a sickly light. The air is thick, stifling, reeking of stale magic and old pain. Egrassel cannot tear his gaze from your emaciated form, his mind struggling to reconcile that his dearest friend has become this—a fount of corruption—and that Lo concealed this truth for years.