Her entire palm felt numb, and so the mark returned to being quiet - almost painless.
For now.
Did gates vanish because she willed it so?
If that was true, then time was ticking.
Hell isn't known for its patience.
The drenched elf cursed her luck as she scaled down the cliff face and jumped down onto the bog-like turf. The mist was thick and unrelenting. She could barely see a thing through the looming veil, except for the red seething outline of her sword tightly held in her hand, bleeding through the apparitional drape.
She pressed onwards into the thick of it all, paying the mist no mind. Compared to the terrors of the inferno, the mist was nothing more than a harmless shroud. Nothing lurking within could ever equate to the dangers of contending with hellbournes.
The fog didn't resist her, but rather seemed to welcome her, like an embrace of something familiar - the embrace of an old, long-lost relative. But these days, even the most subtle of affections make her skin crawl. Since the first day of her sentence, she came to hate the very concept of touch. It made her stomach twist in revulsion.
The foundation of soft earth continued under her blackened boots. Stone presented more turf. More earth. Roots crept through the grass as the land slants uphill. The dense forest around her became thinner, as did the surrounding mist. Trees stood further apart. Their branches arose higher with little foliage. The lush green leaves were fading to brown and sparsely littered along the ongoing steep forest path. Paradonia could only assume auutum had only just arrived in this world. Another natural occurrence, which she dearly missed while she was away.
The downpour of rain somewhat began to ease, while the thunder in the overcast ahead feebly rumbled in the distance. She trudged onwards with the ethereal veil haunting her every step. Her lips pressed into a firm line, and a scowl was etched into her pale countenance as she began to ruminate on what she witnessed upon the precipice of the cliff.
The apparition of her eight-year-old son.
What would he look like if he were alive now?
Or would he even be still alive?
It may be true that half-elves live longer than humans, but they cannot bask in the everglow of eternity, like a full-blooded elf such as herself. The very thought of his fate being unconcluded, was already festering in her psyche, like a nest of squirming maggots gnawing at what little remains of sanity. The very maddening notion of it plagued her every step, making each one harder than the last. Even if he did manage to live a full life, she couldn't bring herself to forgive that the choice of saying goodbye was violently ripped away from her burning hands.
Since the first day of her sentence, it was as if someone grabbed an ice pick and began chipping away at her mind.
Taking small pieces of her day by day - piece by piece.
Slowly.
Agonising.
It was abhorrent.
She could never forgive.
No. She could never forgive that backstabbing, false monarch. Certainly not.
She would rather perish.
The elf gnashed her fangs and muttered under bated breath.
"I'll skin him alive. Cut him limb from limb. Hang what remains of him outside the castle walls. But leave his pathetic head on a pike. I want to watch the terror in the loyalists' eyes and watch the crows feast upon his bloodied flesh, first. Then I will do the same to them. To all of them!"
A smile creeps across her face as the thought lingers and plays out in her mind.
The gory ambition is what keeps her going after all.
Then another dreadful thought dawned upon her.
But what if he is not alive? What then?
Then the elf halted. Stood perfectly still.
Paradonia pondered on the question, only to come up with no answer.
She couldn't think of anything, well, not yet, at least.
Then the elf stiffened.
She listened and became acquainted with a certain absence.
When she was lost in her bloody fantasies, she didn't take a mental note of the lack of sounds in her current environment, aside from her own footsteps and the thunder continuing in the grey yonder.
There were no birds.
Barely any sounds of droplets hitting the earth.
The branches didn't groan - nor did the wind whisper.
There was only her and the distant waning storm.
As so appeared.
She resumed listening.
Intently.
Tuning into the looming subtlety around her.
There was a delicate movement - delicate as a blade of grass brushing against one's skin.
But the careful movement didn't settle well within her.
It was scrutinably unnatural.
The movement inched closer.
A tiny rustle in the leaves.
The very fringes of its presence, tinged to her left - in the shrubbery.
Exasperation bled further into her soul, and her patience dwindled.
Paradonia continued on her way.
Let them follow.
The endless forest path paved ahead became much steeper in comparison to earlier. The upturned stone, resting dejectedly along the trail, was covered in uneven patches of moss. Brambles and weeds crowned around its sludge-filled foundations, thanks to the courtesy of the heavy rainpour.
For Paradonia, the forest continued to unravel.
Directly in front of her, in the distance, there was a vague silhouette of a building. It was enshrouded faintly by the ever-persistent fog. The closer the elf stepped towards it, the clearer it became to her that the building was a broken and weather-beaten shrine. Its wooden frame stood rotten and slanted. Darkened by the constant rain and decay while in silent isolation. It felt too still. Too untouched.
To her, it was a visual curiosity, but there was inexplicable yet uncomfortable quietude around it.
Her ears perked up. The rustling was still following her - on her left-hand side.
They were getting closer now.
She glanced over her shoulder nonchalantly and kept going.
Lean in build.
Hairless.
Long spindly arms.
Spines arched forward.
Crooked necks.
Sharp yet widely pointed ears.
They carried the scent of old blood on them.
Their black eyes observed her from afar in the overgrown greenery.
Dark
Devoid of humanity.
She could feel more than one pair of eyes pierce through her spine.
They belonged to moving vessels of corrupted and reanimated flesh, which operated through the will of another - through their master - a puppeteer.
She knew exactly what they were.
Ghouls
A sly smile cracked across her face.
If they had any intelligence left between them, they should know not to approach her so carelessly. Without a doubt, she carries the treacherous stench of the hells. A vile odor which her soul has come to possess. No matter how much or how hard it rains, no amount of water will ever wash away her sins - nor her demonic attributes.
Her sword seethes with a molten orange at its edges - finely tuned into her emotions. She tightens her grip around the handle and delves further into the mist in stride. The wooden steps of the shrine creak under the weight of her boots.
She enters inside.
Ash lay scattered across the floorboards. The faint scent of old incense lingered, dry and hollow, as though the memory refuses to pass on. The closed incense box remained settled near the altar - adjacent to where the scrolls were once kept. The very scrolls which now lay on the floor amongst the ash, collapsed in on themselves, with their shape softened by dampness and rot. Ink bled into the fibres - beyond recognition.
Her gaze slowly moved across the partially enclosed space. Crippled statues lined the inner walls. Faces split. Some completely carved out. Some decapitated.
To her, it felt deliberate.
Paradonia recognised the evidence of desecration and sacrilege anywhere - for her, it was second nature.
She wondered deeper inside, permitting her eyes to roam further.
Her body stilled itself as the atmosphere in the shrine shifted. She could sense them approaching closer now.
Any moment now.
Paradonia steadied her breathing and fell into the shadows.
Waiting for them
She allowed the silence to draw on.
Her hands flexed in anticipation while holding her beloved blade. The seething edges dimmed; ember-lights cascading into nothingness - relinquishing themselves to oblivion - reducing the sword to an unillumined cold steel.
Paradonia listened.
The sound of scuffling inched closer - as did the shift of weight upon the wooden steps outside. The faint scrape of something being dragged along the floor beyond the shrine's threshold. I step further back. Moving without sound. I shuffle along and enter one of the backrooms - a storage room. It was small, dark, and cramped. Full of cobwebs. Animals' bones. Possibly the skeletal remains of a rat. She positioned herself just beyond the broken frame of the doorway. Keeping herself directly out of line of sight - but not shy away from observation.
And so she waited.
A crooked silhouette stalked through the entrance.
It was certain in its steps.
Steady.
Long arms, with an unnatural gait. Limbs bent in awkward angles, seeming almost disproportionate. It lowered its head, then raised it, as though it were taking in the surrounding smells.
Then it inhaled again.
Its head turned towards where the elf once stood a moment ago.
It lingered, then tilted its head to the side with an audible crack. Then two more silhouettes approached the ghoul from behind - joining it side by side - simultaneously looking in the same direction.
One by one, they spread out and began to search the interior. The air shifted between them, carrying the potent scent of dampness and decay. Paradonia remained still. Measured. She kept her breathing even and shallow.
With their mechanical motions and jitters, the ghouls crept through the shrine. Inspecting. Still searching.
Paradonia frowned at their behavior. Ghouls do not normally act like this. They act on instinct and desire. Reckless and vicious when they move, but this group acts methodically - as if there is a degree of intelligence between them.
It was as if they were being guided by an invisible hand.
The elf shifted her weight again slightly. Her hardened crimson gaze followed the ghouls' movements as they stalked closer to her - too close for comfort. But alas, she stayed silent and composed. Undetected.
Then the ghouls abruptly froze in place. Heavy footsteps descended upon the wooden steps leading into the shrine outside.
Each step was deliberate.
The ghouls began to lower their posture, trying to make themselves look smaller in response to the approaching presence...