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Nyctophillia
Jun. 1st, 2021 04:52 pmWhen it happens it is not to Shambhala they are taken. Perhaps that is the cruelest part of it all. What lingers around them is not strange symbols and cold stone, vivid, unnatural lights and the echoing grind of gears and machinery. It is... a home. Warm wooden panels and rich Adrestian rugs. Paintings of places familiar and loved hang from the walls and fire burns warmly from candle sconces and fireplaces alike. Rooms that might exist in the estate homes of any one of the Elite families, it's comfortable, familiar... which only makes it that much more unsettling.
There's a vicious dissonance between the setting around them and the actions happening within it. Surreal and strange and unsettlingly normal seeming at times. As though these pale-skinned demons belong here in the home of a comrade. As though their very existence is not a flaw on the world around them. Warm firelight casting ashen flesh in a strange warm light that somehow makes it look even more sickly instead of more alive.
Plush leather couches are still scattered around the rooms, though now pressed back away from the center of the rooms where thickly padded benches sit. Restraints are simple, easy even, when strange glowing brands etched into their bodies seal the magic that might save them. Magic that their captors feel no remorse turning back around on them.
Magic that sometimes darkens the entire estate, no matter how desperately the fires try. Magic that draws agonized screams from distant rooms, echoing through the grand house as though specifically to remind them all of the privilege their blood grants them, that the strange manipulations performed on them might be based in a sick sort of pleasure rather then something more sinister.
There's a vicious dissonance between the setting around them and the actions happening within it. Surreal and strange and unsettlingly normal seeming at times. As though these pale-skinned demons belong here in the home of a comrade. As though their very existence is not a flaw on the world around them. Warm firelight casting ashen flesh in a strange warm light that somehow makes it look even more sickly instead of more alive.
Plush leather couches are still scattered around the rooms, though now pressed back away from the center of the rooms where thickly padded benches sit. Restraints are simple, easy even, when strange glowing brands etched into their bodies seal the magic that might save them. Magic that their captors feel no remorse turning back around on them.
Magic that sometimes darkens the entire estate, no matter how desperately the fires try. Magic that draws agonized screams from distant rooms, echoing through the grand house as though specifically to remind them all of the privilege their blood grants them, that the strange manipulations performed on them might be based in a sick sort of pleasure rather then something more sinister.
