Exton

I feel the hair at the back of my neck stand straight up. A cold not-wind seems to sigh its way through the entire room and I instinctively turn to face the door, readying my magicks just in case....

The woman who enters is just a bit above average height and every light in the tavern perceptibly dims as she steps across the threshold. Her hair is black as midnight in a coal mine, her skin white as paper with a soft pearlescent sheen. Her eyes are likewise white, with a lambent light in their depths that makes them seem to glow in the half-light that now suffuses the tavern. She seems surrounded by a chilling aura all her own, and though she smiles, there is neither mirth nor warmth in it. She wears a long dress of deep purple velvet which leaves her arms and shoulders - and a disconcerting expanse of bosom - bare.

"I am Mistress Nyx," she says. Her voice is a rich contralto with a strange tactile quality. It feels - how to phrase this? - it feels like my skin is being gently rubbed with a piece of velvet - first thrilling, then numbing the skin. "I was called, and I have come. Where is the one you call Mortuis?"

"I am here, madam." A heap of shadow in the darkest corner stirs and stands erect, becoming the sorcerer. "I thank you for your prompt response. Murder has been done, more than once, and I would know the nature of the murderer."

Mistress Nyx laughs, a musical, soulless trill that puts ice into my bones. "Why trouble yourself about such things, sorcerer? Humans invented murder. For centuries it has been one of their most cherished pastimes. Why do you not simply enjoy the game while it lasts?"

"That part of my soul is dormant, if not dead… would that it were. I would not willingly become the monster I was again."

The full lips pout. "You're no fun." Then a small smile makes an appearance. "Still... your actions in the past have afforded me some small amusement.... I will do as you request, sorcerer. Take me to the place."

She moves with a stately, measured tread - like the pace of a tiger, I think suddenly - to stand beside the somber figure of the mage. Mortuis furls his cape about them both - and then they are simply gone, with only the scent of ozone to mark their passage.