>>6088076>best of your rolls: >>6088330<span class="mu-s">94</span>, almost completely asleep. you will see what this means soon enough.
and now...
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One by one, the procession passes through the tall arch of black stone. The doors, if doors may describe the gaping maw of the arch, stand as wide as ten people, are reach so high the ceiling is covered in mist and tendrils of clouds, dangling from the open windows like strands of overgrown spiderwebs.
For the woman at the head of the group, it’s not the first time in Ansàrra’s floating palace, but it’s the first time she is allowed this deep inside. The hall stretches ahead, immense panels of stained glass casting shimmering lights that chase after each other, bathing over her simple clothes. She and her companions have shed their travel gear for more somber attire.
The woman at the forefront reaches nervously for a strand of her black hair, then stops — steeling herself from falling back into habits. For Riberia Di Collevetro ought to show better countenance in this situation.
“I will go ahead,” she says to her companions, four men and three women who bow to her. She holds out her middle three fingers and each of her companions replies in kind. A few more pale scars cover their faces now, and their eyes seem to shine with a deeper understanding, now that they are at the end of their quest. “And I will share the boons with you all,” Riberia grins, trying to keep herself from openly weeping.
She walks ahead, her white clothes washed a stark blue from the light flowing through the windows.
“We have come,” she says, her voice as clear as a bell, “and we have brought back the last piece.”
At the other end of the hall, sitting amidst circles of candles, their flames shifting and dancing sometimes pulled by the wind and sometimes against it, rests an old man, his long white hair draped in a series of thin and long braids, sprinkled by knots, spreading about him like a forgotten net.
“Have you now,” he says in a gravelly voice. He clears his throat and raises to his knees, hunched over like a tree over the lid of a precipice. “Have you, young one? Show it, please— show it!”
[cont.]
