Page 84 of Remnants: Disruption
The castle’s metal doors open to a stone antechamber. A pair of braziers sit in recesses bookending another passageway that leads further down.
Above the passage is a chiseled message in the same unrecognizable language. I glance at Mary, who’s watching me closely.
“What’s that say?” I ask, pointing to the markings.
“For in time we all die,” she says quietly, looking up to the lettering as well. “It’s in a dead language.”
“You sure do have a time motif here,” I mumble as I follow her deeper into the passage.
“This is the Cradle,” she says, taking the steps like she knows exactly where they are, not caring about the pitch-black darkness like the rest of us mortals.
“Cradle?” I huff out and miss a step, nearly careening forward if it weren’t for a flash of shadows that spike out and prop me upwards.
I hadn’t meant to do that.
“Our origin. The first of the buildings carved under Old Chicago,” Mary continues as if I hadn’t nearly broken my back.
Again.
She’s quiet as we continue down the stairs. Instead of doing so blindly, I let my shadows spill out so they feel each of the stone steps before I reach them.
The lights brighten as we reach the floor of the stairs. I glance behind me and see nothing but an inky darkness. The entire place seems devoid of Affliction-related power.
Which is highly unusual, given the prevalence even outside in the main cavern.
“Speak only when spoken to,” Mary orders, tone somehow more icy than before. She doesn’t even look at me before pushing open a set of doors between two lit braziers similar to the ones upstairs.
“Sure thing,” I grumble. “I’ll sit here with my ghosts and mind my damn business.”
Clearly my charm is broken again, because Mary doesn’t look back as the doors begin to swing back on me.
I lengthen my steps and close in behind her as the doors swing shut, echoing loudly.
The interior of the Cradle seems to be like a meeting place, an unoccupied podium at its center.
Along each wall is a balcony that circles the recessed bowl. A lavish-looking chair sits at spaced intervals, six in total. And in each is a person that looks down on me like a bug to be squashed.
To my left is a particularly were-wolf-ish man. Beside him is a man in dark green robes. The firelight behind his head only gives me the barest hint of lighter skin and blindfolded eyes. Next to him is a cloaked figure with an all-white mask. The mask is fixed in a neutral expression and looks like the kind you might see in a pre-Second Disruption theater.
Beside them is an empty seat that looks a little more important than the other three.
On my right sit two women, I think. The first is definitely a woman. Her blood-red hair seems to undulate in a windless breeze. She wears a revealing cloak that shows off enough cleavage for me to see even from down here.
And beside her is a person who seems slim enough to be feminine. They have a mask that looks like a large, carnivorous cat. Beside her is a staff that they roll between gloved fingers. The staff itself looks unadorned, but I can only imagine the damage it could do.
“Took you long enough,” the werewolf growls from his position. The man beside him laughs softly.
I glance to Mary, but she’s gone. And the sixth chair is filled. Which leaves me standing at the center of the room.
Alone.
“I introduced Hiraeth to the people, as is our way, Beowulf,” Mary says, tone brooking no argument.
Of course his name is Beowulf.
“Ah,” the man in the green cloak leans forward, his blindfolded eyes becoming much more clear now. Even so, he looks down at me like he can see through the thick cloth. “Is that what we’re calling her now?”
“That is the identity she chose,” Mary responds, tone tight and authoritative. Almost uncaring.
