Chapter Seven: Rude Awakening
Immortal Rose's Journal
For how long I had dozed in the Lord's chambers, I am uncertain. Yet I awoke to his voice, urgently instructing others who had entered the room. He spoke in earnest, giving commands in a tone that left no room for argument. I remained silent upon the sofa as they bowed humbly and exited to fulfill their tasks. Seeing his will done, Lord Bloodthorne turned, his eyes finding mine. I quickly rose from my place of rest to offer a bow and a stammered apology for my mortal need of rest. He seemed lost in his thoughts, for I still doubt if he heard me. His gaze seemed far, and his mind preoccupied with things I could only fathom to guess. After a few minutes of a most awkward silence, he shook his head and came back to the present, speaking.
"Forgive me, Miss Rose. I had offered you safety in repose, yet let my guard slip and fall into my own musings. I shall speak briefly, and inform you of the current situation. I trust you have seen the guards' depart, as well as heard some, if not all, of my instructions to them?"
I nodded, and he continued.
"Look then, if you will, about the whole of these chambers. The goblet is gone, and with it, a very old and malignant spirit."
I knew in that instant that he spoke of Nicolae.
I must have faltered in this realization and what it could mean to have alerted such security measures, for the Lord's visage became quite intent upon my own. He commanded that I sit, and I did so, taking deep breaths to calm myself as he once more continued.
"Where the spirit has gone, and what purpose it bears in mind, I cannot rightfully say. Yet believe me when I tell you that you are in grave danger here. Nicolae seeks vengeance upon the rose after all these years. If all goes as he wishes, you will die."
It has occurred to me here that I have yet to make a detailed description as to the Lord's features. His garments are of a deep crimson, as his nature readily implies. The hair is of dark contrast, black as ink upon the pages of this parchment. His two singular marks that strike me are as follows: The rose pendant constantly at his throat, swarmed by thorny vines; and the two deep-set eyes, the color of freshly spilled lifeblood. These two, the pair of orbs that readily see into the very heart and soul are always serious, however never as much as when he spoke these words to me.
All was black before I hit the stone floor below.
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