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And as could be expected, she's going to open it. It can't be Demona - the woman has her own key to the room. So it's someone looking for the gargoyle or Fever herself.
There's no one standing outside, but a butterfly is clinging to the peephole of the door. It looks ill, its wings crumpled and marked with luminous, ice-blue veins.
Very, very carefully, she reaches out to touch it, to scoop it from the peephole. In her hands, no one else is going to be able to hurt it. Poor thing. The strangeness of its presence goes unremarked upon.
It feels as cold as ice in her hands. It barely moves. Faint eddies of color come and go in its scales, the brilliance sucked away just as quickly by the parasitic veins sapping vital life from the poor creature's wings. Its spots shift into patterns of screaming, wailing faces, distorted on the surface of shriveled wings.
It's so close to expiring. She brings it in her room, quickly, eyes wide with confusion and worry, and carefully tries to turn it over to see if she can find the source of the veins. If it's another creature that can be removed, or if this is all there is - if it's being consumed, and it can't be helped.
Maybe, maybe, if her magic is careful, it can help. She tries to feel for something, anything in the being that would allow a foothold.
Maybe, maybe, if her magic is careful, it can help. She tries to feel for something, anything in the being that would allow a foothold.
As she looks it over, a tiny voice, softer than a baby's breath, reaches her ears.
"Don't let him take my soul..."
"Don't let him take my soul..."
That voice and its desperate plea, and she feels a stab of worry at her heart. This little thing made it however far to seek refuge, and...
Crush it, one thought says. It'd be a mercy.
No.
"I won't let him. I promise."
Even if all she can do is guard its tiny body here, vigilant for any threat.
Crush it, one thought says. It'd be a mercy.
No.
"I won't let him. I promise."
Even if all she can do is guard its tiny body here, vigilant for any threat.
"Please. Please take it. Anyone but him... anything but an eternity in chains..."
"I'll take it."
The concept makes her blood run cold. There's enough people she knows fleeing their old chains that when something so earnestly begs, she can't turn a deaf ear.
"What do you need?" What will keep it alive. Anything that's within her power.
The concept makes her blood run cold. There's enough people she knows fleeing their old chains that when something so earnestly begs, she can't turn a deaf ear.
"What do you need?" What will keep it alive. Anything that's within her power.
"Take... take my soul. Be my safe harbor. He can't take it if you have it."
"...Okay."
Not like she hasn't thrown herself into stranger bargains without thinking very hard. She can shield another soul, if it's needed. There's more than enough room.
But if there's no magical way to do this, if the bargain itself doesn't start something, she's going to have to eat it, because she's out of ideas on how to get said soul into herself.
Not like she hasn't thrown herself into stranger bargains without thinking very hard. She can shield another soul, if it's needed. There's more than enough room.
But if there's no magical way to do this, if the bargain itself doesn't start something, she's going to have to eat it, because she's out of ideas on how to get said soul into herself.
The butterfly holds still in her hands, seeming to wait for exactly that.
She can't see another way.
Fever takes a tiny breath to brace herself, and puts the butterfly in her mouth. Like this, it can't be found. It can't be put in chains. Such thoughts will help her do what must be done, until she can swallow it. Safe.
Fever takes a tiny breath to brace herself, and puts the butterfly in her mouth. Like this, it can't be found. It can't be put in chains. Such thoughts will help her do what must be done, until she can swallow it. Safe.
It slips down her throat like crushed ice, cold and rough, and then the feeling is gone, save for a nigh-imperceptible "thank you."
Then, the world gives way beneath Fever's feet, and she's sent tumbling through the cosmos, falling down a rabbit hole.
Then, the world gives way beneath Fever's feet, and she's sent tumbling through the cosmos, falling down a rabbit hole.
"Shit."
That's the most eloquent answer she has before she's falling, desperately trying to make sure that whenever she hits the ground, she won't break every limb. Getting dropped somewhere is not anything someone ever expects, and the urgency almost overrides the idea of looking around, trying to figure out where in the hells she is.
Is this the demiplane acting up? A dream? Extreme hallucinations? It doesn't stop that it's happening.
That's the most eloquent answer she has before she's falling, desperately trying to make sure that whenever she hits the ground, she won't break every limb. Getting dropped somewhere is not anything someone ever expects, and the urgency almost overrides the idea of looking around, trying to figure out where in the hells she is.
Is this the demiplane acting up? A dream? Extreme hallucinations? It doesn't stop that it's happening.
When she lands, it's like she was never falling at all. She's in a dimly lit room with black walls and a black floor, and behind her there's a slow tick... tock... tick... tock.
Okay. Everything intact. Her name is still in her head. Now to make sense of this, the same way she made sense of the ship in the first place. Whatever's going on, she's here right now. The room is dark, but she hears a ticking, and she's going to follow her ears. Careful stepping, just in case the floor wants to play tricks again, but she's trying to follow it.
And with the edge of a spell close to mind, just in case it's needed.
And with the edge of a spell close to mind, just in case it's needed.
As she turns, she finds herself facing a carved stone desk, at which sits a mostly-bald, tired-looking, middle-aged man wearing what could only be described as subdued, professional motley- a mostly-black getup with mutton sleeves and a high, bright red jester's ruff.
"Another mortal. Quaint."
"Another mortal. Quaint."
"Who are you?"
The question is probably a natural one, when a half-elf shakes her head to clear it of the confusion, coming to grips with what's actually in the room as she turns around. The desk, the light. The person. Was this the one who cast her down?
The question is probably a natural one, when a half-elf shakes her head to clear it of the confusion, coming to grips with what's actually in the room as she turns around. The desk, the light. The person. Was this the one who cast her down?
"Let's be civil, shall we? Do sit down first, and then I will answer any questions you might have."
"I'd prefer to be a little more sure of my surroundings before I sit down."
Discretely, her hand twitches at her side. Shield, wrapped around her like a favored veil, just in case.
Discretely, her hand twitches at her side. Shield, wrapped around her like a favored veil, just in case.
"You may take your time." He sounds like he finds this whole matter particularly tiresome, like he's already had this conversation a dozen times today.
She shoots him a sharp glance, but she'll walk around the room. Checking it, making sure there's no traps. And then the chair, to make sure there's no traps on that, either.
Only then does she sit down, posture straight - she'd leap out of this at a hair's notice.
Only then does she sit down, posture straight - she'd leap out of this at a hair's notice.
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