Weeks ago, he could not take a step outside without seeing half a dozen of his friends grinning, arm in drunken arm, as they danced on the roads too frightening to walk.īut the streets were empty now.
Weeks ago, effigies burned in every window. Weeks ago, his friends lit candles and sang songs outside their homes. Everywhere his eyes fall, there is death and there is emptiness. With a fingertip, he wipes the rim so that none spills on the ground as he carries it outside. Grigori picks up the bowl of his mother's blood. The people here used to think they were safe-but even those who risked work in the palaces of the damned had to provide their blood. If you worked for them, they said, you were safe.īut sometimes you die out there in the castles, while you're on the job, and what's your family to do then?Īnd now, the tithes. Some of the villagers had taken up jobs in the castles nearby. Here, the presence of vampires was as natural as the presence of the plague.īut how could you manage a plague that had so changed? In Kessig, they only suspected they were surrounded by werewolves. Everywhere on Innistrad, there were traditions, of course, but only in Stensia did it feel like they had proper application. Once, he loved this place: its spires, its secular air, its traditions. If they would have fled together for any other place than this. If she would have burned it, like he considered burning it. He watches his mother's blood drip into the bowl and wonders, idly, what she would have made of such a proclamation. Olivia Voldaren, Unquestioned Lord of Innistrad If it did not, know that your blood will serve no matter your condition. You know, I should think, the consequences of such foolish actions. Do not make the mistake of offending them. Our representatives will be by to collect. Mind that they are enchanted we shall know if you, ungrateful beast that you are, shatter them. We have even been so generous as to provide you the bowls. We eagerly await your tithes: one bowl of blood from each resident, once a night until the festivities. The decree hanging outside his door was very clear on that part.īlessings and good tidings upon the reader, for the day of most splendid joy approaches. It is likely worth more than anything he has ever touched in his life-perhaps worth more than everything he's ever touched together-but it is not his. Another prayer the angels did not deign to hear.Īnd he sees her now, weeks later, still asleep. "Innistrad will endure," she had said to him.
The magic window story skin#
He had seen her after, when the moon refused to set, skin full of wounds, something in her now broken. He had seen her before, so full of hope, carving her own effigies to burn in the streets. Two nights (it is difficult now to keep track) after the Harvesttide Massacre, his mother simply. She does not move, she does not stir, for she too is asleep-and has been for some time. Grigori presses the knife to his mother's wrist.
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