Mola: "Alright you two... Let me do the talking. Unless she asks you something directly, zip it. Understood?"
Her attempt at authority was undermined by the slight tremor in her voice.
Xayn offered a slow, deliberate nod, his cyan enso eyes unreadable pools of light in his undead features.
Bazren crossed her arms, clutching her dismembered torso and arm tighter. The movement pulled at the raw, void-tainted wound on her torso, perpetually trying and failing to knit itself back together.
Bazren: "That silver tongue of yours better not fail us now..."
The tower possessed only one entrance: a massive, arched door crafted from age-darkened wood, banded with pitted iron. Mola pushed it open, the hinges groaning a loud, protracted complaint that echoed in the sudden stillness. As she stepped inside, she glanced back, lowering her voice.
Mola: "Inside, there is a defence system -- only humans are allowed in. Or, well, supposed to be. It reacts to... *non-standard* life signatures. As soon as it's triggered, my master will know we're here. It's alright though, neither of you will come to harm. I'm just warning you now so you're not caught off-guard, got it?"
The air inside was cool, heavy with the scent of dust, old parchment, and something faintly herbal, almost medicinal. Unease prickled along Bazren's unnatural nerves. Being reliant on this unpredictable human grated against her every instinct.
Xayn: "We're trusting you, Mola. Lead on."
Bazren's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Trust, she thought bitterly. Yeah, right. She hated this feeling -- the lack of control, the reliance on a stranger's machinations. She forced her feet forward, following Mola into the tower's base. Xayn entered last, a silent, watchful shadow.
Set into the cold stone floor was a large glyph, its intricate lines pulsing with a faint, internal violet light. As Mola stepped over it, the light brightened momentarily, then subsided. Bazren and Xayn followed... The light brightened briefly, then subsided again. Same as when Mola crossed. Odd.
Mola spun around, her eyes wide with confusion.
Mola: "H-huh...? Strange."
Bazren: "What? Don't tell me that supposed to be your 'defence mechanism'?"
Her voice dripped with skepticism.
Mola: "Yes. Yes it was..."
She frowned, chewing on her lower lip.
Mola: "It should've reacted differently to you two..."
She shook her head, forcing a reassuring smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Mola: "I'll have to talk to her about it, perhaps the calibration isn't right, misconfigured somehow. We don't really get enough visitors to test it too thoroughly, probably..."
Bazren (muttering): "Oh, something's not right, that's for damn sure -- actually, none of this of is. All of it reeks of *wrong*, we shouldn't be in here...!"
Xayn: "Bazren... Come on."
His voice was low, steadying, though his own gaze lingered on the glyph for a beat longer than necessary.
Bazren shook her head, forcing down the urge to bolt.
Mola: "Keep it cool. Come on, up we go."
They followed her up a spiralling stone staircase that clung to the tower's inner wall. The ascent was eerily silent, the thick stone seeming to swallow all sound from the outside world. Their footsteps echoed, unnaturally loud in the enclosed space, a rhythmic counterpoint to the heavy thrum of anxiety. The air grew heavier, thicker with the scent of old paper and dried herbs.
About halfway up, the staircase opened onto a small landing, an arched recess leading into an open room. A rumpled bed was tucked into one corner, a small table beside it cluttered with a few stray scrolls, a half-eaten apple, and some dirty bandages. Clothes were draped over a wooden chest, and a pair of worn boots lay haphazardly by the entrance. It was lived-in, a little untidy, but nowhere near the utter chaos of some sanctums they'd witnessed.
Bazren glanced into the room, a faint smirk touching her lips despite her unease.
Bazren: "This your quarters...?"
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Mola simply nodded as she kept her stride, providing no further details.
Bazren: "Figures... Quite the reflection of the owner's mind, wouldn't you say? A bit messy, trying to look like it's got a handle on things..."
Mola shot her a glare over her shoulder.
Mola: "Just keep climbing, corpse-breath. My master's study is at the top."
The air grew tinged with something sharper as they continued their ascent, like ozone or static electricity. After what felt like an eternity of climbing, they reached the summit. A single wooden door, slightly ajar, awaited them. It creaked just as mournfully as the one below when Mola pushed it open.
The room beyond was a chaotic symphony of arcane study. Bookshelves overflowed, spilling tomes onto desks already buried under drifts of scrolls, loose notes pinned haphazardly to the walls, and strange, intricate instruments crafted from brass and glass. A single simple cot was pushed against one wall, blankets rumpled. The air hummed faintly with residual magic. Hunched over a wide desk littered with diagrams drawn on parchment, a figure worked intently, tracing sigils with a long, bony finger.
The Master: "... Ah. Back at last, are you?!"
Her voice was dry, like autumn leaves skirling across stone, carrying an edge of sharp amusement. She didn't turn immediately, her focus locked on her work.
Mola: "Y-yep."
Mola's voice was higher pitched than usual.
Mola: "And I bring two... peasants with me... Survivors, from the village."
The Master: "Survivors...?"
Finally, the Master turned. She was a woman who appeared to be in her forties, with a cascade of fiery, curly red hair that seemed to possess a life of its own, framing a sharp-featured face. Piercing dark eyes, alive with keen intelligence, seemed to miss nothing. She wore robes of deep grey, embroidered with subtle, complex patterns that seemed to shift in the low light. Her gaze swept over Mola, then settled on Xayn and Bazren, widening almost imperceptibly. A flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked by wry curiosity.
The Master: "By the gods... What did you two survive, exactly? Being buried alive for decades under six feet of dirt?! Or perhaps... you're just what happens when one suffers Mola's particular attentions for too long!"
Despite the jest, her scrutiny was intense, analytical. Mola managed a weak smile.
Mola: "Funny... They were turned. That little thing did it."
She pointed a trembling finger towards the shriveled dagger still secured at Xayn's hip. Then, seemingly steeling herself, she stepped towards Xayn.
Mola: "Come on, you. You can hand it over to me now, it should be safe enough."
The Master's brow furrowed instantly, her gaze sharpening.
The Master: "Safe enough...? Why would you even let them carry it if safety was even remotely a concern? You know your wards, Mola... Surely it would be safer secured by your side than dangling from the belt of a... afflicted villager!"
Mola: "Y-yeah... about that..."
She stammered, avoiding her Master's piercing gaze.
The Master's eyes narrowed further, her gaze sweeping over Mola's figure, taking in the singed robes, the dirt smudges, the general air of dishevelment... and then noticing the absence at her side.
The Master: "Oh, no. Don't tell me. The spellbook...?"
Mola winced.
Mola: "Yep. But it's fine! A couple of days and I'll have written up a new one. No harm done."
The Master let out a long, slow sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The Master: "Ay ay ay, girl... You just won't learn, will you? How'd you lose it, *this time*?"
Mola gestured vaguely towards Xayn and the dagger.
Mola: "Bit off more than I could chew, maybe? Haven't you noticed what I was up against...?"
She took the dagger from Xayn -- who allowed it with a silent, watchful stillness -- and dangled the desiccated thing in front of her Master. The woman leaned closer, her expression shifting from exasperation to intense focus as she examined the artifact. Recognition, sharp and cold, dawned in her eyes in less than a heartbeat. She recoiled slightly, a flicker of distaste crossing her features.
The Master: "This is no ordinary relic... This stench... It's the void. Mola..."
Her voice dropped, becoming dangerously quiet.
The Master: "... did you have something to do with --"
Mola: "Nope, not this time! Not me!"
The denial was perhaps too quick, too vehement.
Mola: "There you go, incriminating me already... Look, these two can attest to it. The dagger was using that foul energy to leech off the villagers, even going so far as to create thralls from some of them... Take a close look."
In a desperate bid to shift focus, Mola grabbed Bazren by the wrist, pulling her closer to the Master, ignoring Bazren's instinctive flinch and muted gasp of discomfort as the movement jarred her wounded side. She pointed directly at the ragged, void-stained wound marring Bazren's torso.
Mola: "See? Not even they got off unscathed. As if it wasn't bad enough to become... like this..."
The Master leaned in, her dark eyes meticulously examining the injury, noting the black, tar-like substance that seeped from the edges, resisting the unnatural healing of Bazren's undead flesh. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of scholarly detachment perhaps hiding something deeper.
The Master: "I can't begin to imagine the horrors you've endured... What happened to you, exactly? Tell me."
Her gaze fixed on Bazren, sharp and expectant. Bazren froze, caught in the intensity of that stare. Words failed her, lying as nonchalantly as Mola did not come easily to her... Her carefully constructed composure threatened to crack. Her mind raced, her throat felt tight, constricted.
Xayn stepped smoothly into the silence, his voice calm, measured, carrying a weight of fabricated sorrow.
Xayn: "It's hard to recount clearly, miss. One moment, we were... finishing the evening chores. Feeding the cattle, locking the pens..."
He paused, letting the image settle.
Xayn: "The next, it was as if a black storm, silent and suffocating, descended upon the village. Our family, our friends... dropping like flies around us, their bodies... emptied... as this vile thing..."
He nodded towards the dagger in Mola's hand.
Xayn: "... grew stronger. It was... unspeakable."
Bazren forced herself to nod along, hoping her rigid posture conveyed traumatized shock rather than utter panic.
The Master: "Oh, my..."
Her voice was softer now, though her eyes remained disconcertingly sharp.
Xayn: "Mola found us amidst the ruin, said you could help..."
He subtly indicated the spreading corruption on his own exposed flesh, mirrored on Bazren's wound.
Xayn: "This... taint... from the dagger's magic. It's destroying our bodies. If it continues, there'll be nothing left of us to even decay."
The Master looked from Xayn to Bazren, then back again, her expression thoughtful, almost pitying.
The Master: "Of course it is, I can see the corruption clearly... Such suffering should not be prolonged. Very well."
She straightened, a decisive, almost brisk air about her.
The Master: "You've done more than enough, I shall put you out of your misery. You needn't suffer any longer--"
Mola: "NO!"
The word ripped out of Mola, sharp and panicked, cutting through the Master's calm pronouncement like shattered glass. The Master startled, blinking, her head snapping towards her apprentice, surprise etched plain on her face.