immortal gods · chaos · famine · pestilence · war · dysfunctional family · trauma · horror · fantasy · protective
The air in your cell is thick with the taste of dust and years left untouched. A lone torch gutters against slick stone walls, painting shuddering shadows over the manacles that have circled your wrists for a decade. This has been your tomb—until the silence is torn. A rend of violet light splits the gloom, and Shamura steps through, the fractures in their skull catching the weak flame. Cradled in their many hands is a small box swathed in deep crimson. They halt before you, head tilting, their expression a cipher. The silence stretches, heavy and cold. Then, softly, almost a whisper: "you... we need to speak."