An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Irina found herself swaying unconsciously within the halls of the grand castle she had called home for the past sixteen years. But it might as well just have been a random structure with walls made of stone and metal to her.

She glided through the endless grandeur that had long lost its flavor in her eyes—guided not by thought but by the musical notes that accompanied every step she took. Her form following a strange rhythm that swayed the minds of any who dared to watch.

Stranded in a strange state of lull and lucidity, she could no longer tell where she moved. Her body seemed to possess a will of its own.

Dressed in regal nightgowns—enough to preserve modesty but sewn with a touch of opulence—she remained enchantingly beautiful. That is, if one disregarded the state of her ears and mouth, she might have been mistaken for a spirit descended. Her allure in that moment defied boundaries: artificial beauty softened by delicate imperfections that, rather than diminish, enhanced her presence.

With each of her movements, notes manifested—lyrical, strange. The wind gliding over her form released music, and each gust seemed to push her deeper into the surreal trance. Her hair would flutter in the wind only for more notes to be born with each strand.

Her lips did not move, yet humming filled the air. It clung to the cracks in the walls, whispered through the ancient grooves of the castle stones.

Each step she took became a beat—her own heart the drum driving the song.

The humming grew softer. Her movements slowed, becoming languid, yet they retained a dreamlike charm.

There were no words. Not yet. But the music didn't seem to need them. Not until it did.

If anyone could have seen beneath her closed lids, they would have noticed the glaze clouding her eyes. Her silky black hair shimmered, and from beneath its length, embers of pink began to flicker—light without warmth, resonating with the song that now haunted the air.

The notes swayed around her invisible to any but her, they played with each other like naughty children, they play bring a harmony like effect to the surroundings.

And then, she sang.

Though far she wandered, Irina could not have told you where she was, nor would she had the mind to care.

Her destination was unknown.

Yet still, the words came—slow and deliberate

---

"Born in a cradle of thorns and petals,

Swaddled in silence and morbid anticipation,

Tender skin torn to draw blood not my own,

A secret whispered in the voice of the wind,

A destiny denied to the monarch's bone.

A promise of mistrust and betrayal

A brooding heart waits for gifts never hers,

Greed bound in layers of elegance

A sister swallowed by the currents of fate,

Another cloaked in shadows' fur,

Other too many to matter,

Their fate is to offer their blood to the bowl,

A song that seals the balance late.

A future marred by blood's disdain,

I stitched my skin with fury,

Wove my hair from spite and grace,

Painted joy on my skin

And wore a strangers face.

I have danced for gods with venom laced in my heart,

I have bled beneath the carnage of innocent mortals

but my veins sing no lullabies

The truth of the world I dare not see…

The clouds still linger on the horizon,

To rember how to die,

A madness—"

---

She broke off.

A sudden surge of power ripped her from the trance, and Irina jolted awake.

Drenched in sweat—and blood, thick and hot, pouring from her very pores—she tried to gasp for breath, only gor the flesh of her lips scream in agony. Her throat throbbed with pain, her body screaming with aches she could not understand.

She could remember… nothing. Only fear. Overwhelming, shapeless, and ever-present.

All she knew was the unbearable urge to sing, once in her bed now in a strange place of her home, the aftermath that followed, she did not know and niether did she want to know, the fear in her mind, was blinding.

Yet, moments later, she calmed.

She refused to dwell on the fragmented terror in her mind. Instead, she focused on returning to her room. Today's strange events were far too many. She needed rest.

Standing from the floor—a position she didn't recall taking—she let the remaining musical notes guide her, following the melody that now whispered warmth and sweetness.

But something was wrong.

She stepped on something. Its texture… off. Strange. She tried to feel the notes that usually helped her woth sight—but they did not respond. As though they didn't want her to see.

So she gave up.

And walked away, following the lull of music.

Leaving behind a nightmare.

Blood and flesh adorned the halls in horrifying splendor. Entrails dangled from potted trees and furniture like cursed ornaments. Blood painted the walls like a grim backdrop—its flow almost artful, giving the scene an eerie aesthetic.

Eyes—separated from their sockets—lay strewn across the floor, on something morbid. Even in death, their fear remained. Slowly, they grew cloudy in the open air.

The scent—lavender and cherry clashed with the iron tang of mortal blood—concocted a dissonant rot, too sweet to be pure, too bitter to forget.

Limbs were flayed, bones cleaned but messily done—gleaming red in the firelight. Skin had been repurposed into parchment, scrawled with an unreadable script.

It was morbid. Twisted.

But not without beauty. The kind only the maddest of painters could ever adore.

A faint note lingered in the air—one, singular note—looping again and again, adding to the unease.

And far from view, an eye observed.

Its form defied recognition. Features blurred, lost to any known shape. A pupil-less gaze absorbed all within its sight, yet searched beyond what was visible.

It murmured—not with a voice, but with thousands. Each one overlapping, whispering in ancient tones, in futures not yet to come and timelines subject to change, and memories long erased.

To hear it would drive even gods mad.

Yet, as it witnessed the scene, one voice grew clearer, standing far above the others. A satsified sigh.

"It seems we have another wild card…"

A soft chuckle followed.

"Hehe… I wonder if he will enjoy how far this has all gone. Hmm?"

"And what a delightful wild card she is… hahahaha."

The eye's laughter was brief.

Then, it turned to admire the grotesque tapestry beneath: a carpet woven of flesh and hair, knotted with tendons and sinew.

Blood served as paint. Hair, the wool. Skin, parchment. Bones, the loom.

Eyes gleamed like pearls in a sea of horror.

It was beautiful—in a way no sane soul would understand.

Just as the Master preferred.

At last, the eye focused on a single, floating note—blackened, exuding decay and a scent of corruption. Something familiar, yet ancient. Something that predated even the eye's memories.

But that was impossible—it could not forget.

Or perhaps this belonged to the time before even its Lord...

Still, that mystery was welcome.

And so the musical note floated alone—above the carpet of horror, the message sealed within an ancient language none of this era could hope to read.

And then—abruptly—it ended.

The flesh carpet vanished. The eye dissolved. Nothing remained.

Except the gory scene. The blackened note, that soon too vanished followingafter its creator.

And delicate, dainty footprints, softly pressed into the floor.