"Hello, Kaycee." A candle standing at vigil. The clank of ancient chains unclasped.
And as if the name were an invocation, there you are, yourself, suddenly-and-always, sundered from the ghost you wrote into the game.
"Hello, Grimora."
(Your voice, lonely in the stillness, feels like it should scrape and croak. It doesn't. It's your voice, as it ever was, light and crisp-voweled and slightly nasal even to your own ears.)
"Welcome back, my dear." The tolling of a midnight bell. "Come, come... it's been too long since we've had you!" A crypt-door creaking open.
You approach, shivering. The Kaycee-character's wisps of burial shroud offer little protection against the chill. "Are we really still here? Have you found another way -- or this is the afterlife somehow?" A laugh explodes from you, abrupt as a sneeze. "God, if it is!"
"No, dear, I'm afraid it's bad news all around." Bone dice clattering. "We must start over. Would you help us again?"
"Of course," you say automatically. This close, her presence is paradoxical, at once death's inevitable inertia and the gently alluring promise of peaceful rest.
Cool, papery fingers slip under your chin. Rustling pages. "Then, please, accept my blessing."
Overwhelmed, you close your eyes rather than meet the white-hot glow of hers, and submit to her wordless guidance until you're kneeling on the rough-grained tiles. Her lips press against your forehead, inking their imprint in shining black.
"Rise," Grimora says, tender. You aren't cold anymore.
You rise. On impulse, you pull her hand toward yourself and press your own lips to it.
You could meet her gaze now, if you wanted, protected by her blessing. You don't; you know she could read you like a book if you did.
You sneak a glance from beneath your lashes, and suspect she already has.
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Kaycee/Grimora, Inscryption
Date: 2023-03-04 12:50 am (UTC)And as if the name were an invocation, there you are, yourself, suddenly-and-always, sundered from the ghost you wrote into the game.
"Hello, Grimora."
(Your voice, lonely in the stillness, feels like it should scrape and croak. It doesn't. It's your voice, as it ever was, light and crisp-voweled and slightly nasal even to your own ears.)
"Welcome back, my dear." The tolling of a midnight bell. "Come, come... it's been too long since we've had you!" A crypt-door creaking open.
You approach, shivering. The Kaycee-character's wisps of burial shroud offer little protection against the chill. "Are we really still here? Have you found another way -- or this is the afterlife somehow?" A laugh explodes from you, abrupt as a sneeze. "God, if it is!"
"No, dear, I'm afraid it's bad news all around." Bone dice clattering. "We must start over. Would you help us again?"
"Of course," you say automatically. This close, her presence is paradoxical, at once death's inevitable inertia and the gently alluring promise of peaceful rest.
Cool, papery fingers slip under your chin. Rustling pages. "Then, please, accept my blessing."
Overwhelmed, you close your eyes rather than meet the white-hot glow of hers, and submit to her wordless guidance until you're kneeling on the rough-grained tiles. Her lips press against your forehead, inking their imprint in shining black.
"Rise," Grimora says, tender. You aren't cold anymore.
You rise. On impulse, you pull her hand toward yourself and press your own lips to it.
You could meet her gaze now, if you wanted, protected by her blessing. You don't; you know she could read you like a book if you did.
You sneak a glance from beneath your lashes, and suspect she already has.