Her Nightlight
| Her Nightlight | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 08 October 2012 |
| Location: | Cornelia |
| Synopsis: | All that goes 'bump in the night' for one troubled Elf, and how she deals with it. |
| Cast of Characters: | Morgan Albaste |
(NOTE: Had to let this brainwave out.. pardon if it's a tad.. melodramatic.
Italics represent the nightmarish portion. c_c;
Reference music)
//Where were you..?//
A cavernous manse hall of sorts; a long, rambling room with far corners etched in shadow. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the walls but admit no form of light, for they are grimy and obscured by the tattered wisps of curtains. Dust and neglect comprise this one room, serving as its sole identity.
//I -said-... where. Were. You?//
There stands an old chair; one of those oaken, sturdy numbers with a great arching back and thick, splintered arms which arch forth as if seeking to grapple. Other fixtures are present: an empty hutch that lurches slightly to the left in its alcove; a barren table; tri-corner chairs that, like other articles in this room, are covered with dusty white sheets. But there is something about that aforementioned chair that draws attention... there is something settled upon it.
A long form, but that which is wrapped in a twisting, writhing mass of pitch blackness. It twitches sinuously as if attempting to free itself from these clutching shadows... and only one figure is present to bear witness to this struggle. A willowy form, shrouded in a black and wine red cloak that bears the Seal of Heresy... she quakes as the monstrosity in the chair jerks to the side to 'face' her. The shadows part from what is to be discerned as this being's head, and his face -- a mask of pain and rage -- pins the lone woman with a baleful glare. He is losing his battle to the Heartless minions that constrict around him and greedily siphon his darkness; his soul. The aquiline features of what once once a powerful Shadow Lord are very rapidly being reduced to something beyond angular... he is wasting away.
But the light in his pupiless gaze is still brilliant with hatred.
//It should be you. -YOU- should die, not I! YOU were the pawn. Get into this chair and free your master...!//
Malachy's teeth gnash, his lips pull back into a sneer---
....
......
The filthy windows brighten, each pane bursting into light. There is a jolt; that which surpasses the slow ascent into consciousness from the deepest of sleeps, vaulting the dreamer wholly into awakeness. Like many times before, Morgan Albaste's frantic fingers settle firstly to her mouth, then her collarbone, and finally above her heart. There her palm pauses, feeling the frantic beats as she comes to the realization -- for it never gets old -- that it was all a nightmare. She wears not a cloak but a simple nightgown, and upon the front of this garment there is no terrible symbol...
The Elf leans forth, knees drawing up beneath the heavy quilt, palms pressing to her temples. She stays this way for quite some time, finely etched shoulder blades shaking, before she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and departs, barefoot, from her comfortable bedroom. Safe in her home; safe in Cornelia.
~Their home... my home...~
This Morgan repeats to herself mentally as she moves through the upper level of her home to reach one room in particular. A twisting of the knob, a step forth, and the Elf drifts into the former dwelling of two people whom she loved extensively and well. To combat the darkness of the 'dead hours', the switch of small antiquated lamp is flicked and a wash of soft light kisses the walls. It is then that the shaken Elf lowers herself into an armchair, dropping her head back against the cushions and allowing her black tangle of tresses to hang loose. She breathes, long and deep; she draws in the barest hints of potpourri long since spent, of old wood and safety.
~I am safe. I was loved, once. I loved them well in turn.~
Dark lashes flutter closed, and Morgan takes the first tentative steps toward slumber. Surely these ghosts will haunt her no longer, while she allows herself respite in the room of Gloria and Henri Albaste.
~I am safe. I must be safe.~
A final thought as she slips away once more, bathed in the security of the lamp's glow. In the trappings of those who were so loved.
