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Weekly Contest #305
Candlesticks marked the edges of a circle. Black smoke curled, congealed, tangled overhead into wet strands - like hair. The sigils didn’t glow: they drank light and spat it back out. No lanterns. No windows. Only bloodred flame eating the wax. Even then, the shine they cast on her face looked more like charcoal than embers. Regardless, she could ‘see’ well enough; though no longer with her eyes. The taskmasters of the deep didn’t need them. They prayed and bled to contract the parasite, the Curse of the Other, the fumes of decay. Day and ni...
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