Towards something familiar

As the doors close behind, you mutter a few words under your breath and dispel the enchantment upon your voice, returning it to normal. You stomp down the corridor and turn the corner quickly, your very body language lets everyone know to steer clear of you. The memory of your decision haunts you, and puts you into a sour mood. You round several corners and ascend a flight of stairs with haste bringing you to the living quarters of the Keep as you hear a deep rumble of thunder outside. It's then that you pause for a moment and take a few deep breaths.

Control is critical for a noble in any part of the world. You know one can not command power capable of wreaking untold havoc upon the land and act without thought; if one did... such is the stuff tyrants are made of. This is made doubly true for you, as the very elements respond to your will. And while many have accused your ancestors of being 'evil' men, you knew that everything they did was measured for the greater good of their people. While their demeanor instilled fear, their actions inspired loyalty.

With a deep breath you shut your eyes and feel the discontent within your form. Anger courses through your veins like a plague and radiates outward into the world. It pollutes the air itself which cracks and crashes in rage filled lightning across the horizon. For the common folk, it must seem as though the goddess of the sky herself expresses her discontent at some unknown trespass. But you know better. With long exhales you feel your emotions subsiding and the crackling thunder die down and eventually fade away. With a sigh you push on down the hallway and into one of the rooms near the end.

The original fortress was a simple Keep built millennia ago at the northern base of the White Spire by a legendary Dark Wizard. Although the structure was built with strong stone excavated from the mountain, obsidian, black onyx and dark granite were the decorative materials of choice. Dragon motifs, gargoyles and grotesques became the themes of architecture. The very appearance was intended to evoke foreboding, and a feeling of dread as one approached; and its success was impressive to say the least. Every facet of the fortification seemed to be dominated with dark creatures, bleak tones, and hidden terrors. Not for the first time you think of your ancestral home more akin to a dungeon than a palace.

Save the room you enter.

Compared to the rest of the castle these chambers are lavish, with fine silks, plush rugs, and rich scents. Vibrant colors pleasingly **** your eyes, as well kept potted plants are placed here and there. Bright light shines through windows along the wall opposite the door, illuminating the room with sunshine that somehow always seems to penetrate the eternal cloud cover. Tall bookshelves stacked with rare leather-bound tomes adorn the adjacent wall, while a large fireplace takes up most of the one connecting the two on your right. A large upholstered love-seat filled with soft feathers sits in front of the hearth and above the mantle rests a relic sword as old as the fortress itself.

Although thousands of years old, the weapon appears as though it was forged yesterday by such artisans that today's grand-masters would weep in despair at their own inadequacy. The steel of the blade is pure black and always seems to absorb light yet, impossibly, shimmers like glass when touched by it. The method of its forging has long since been lost to time, but magic no doubt played a part in its construction. Though it makes no sound, you hear it sing the most exciting tune when you are in its proximity; and you can almost see vapor emanate from the sword like warm breath on a cold winter night.

You reach out and gently graze the flat of the blade with your finger-tips. The steel is so cold it almost burns your fingers. Fighting the instinctive recoil, you continue to trace along the length of the weapon. You feel the ridges of faded inscriptions along its face; and as your skin makes contact, pale gold so dim you must strain your eyes to see it, briefly illuminates the spots you caress before fading back to the impossible black.

"It's a good thing I keep that blasted thing here, or I'd never see you."

The woman's voice is smooth, like rock polished by eons of a river surging across it. Her accent is impossible to place; neither northern, nor coming from any other known kingdom. Yet it is unquestioningly refined, and carries a dignity about it that marks her as nobility. It is uniquely distinguishable and instantly recognizable to your ears, and carries with it a calming quality that imbues your instinctive and unquestioning trust.

"It's not the sword I come to see..." you reply with a smirk and turn around to face her.

The woman is remarkably beautiful. Long hair the shade of a raven's feathers cascades down her back, while piercing eyes of winter ice stare into yours. Although she wears a cream-colored wool shawl around her shoulders, her gown (if it could be called that) does nothing to hide her voluptuous form. Fabric of an emerald dye falls over each of her shoulders and flows down her more than generous bosom barely concealing her large breasts. The two strips join together below her navel where they form into a rectangular drape that descends about her knees. The back is identical, and the garment is tied together at her waist by a thin golden chain. Knee-high, dark brown, calfskin boots lined with white fur, that spills over the top, cover her feet. Despite her provocative appearance, she carries herself with poise and grace befitting a queen. She's older than you, but by how much is impossible to determine. You remember her when you left for the Coven all those years ago, she was as young then as she is now. Although you know it to be impossible, it appeared as though the grasp of time itself could not reach her.

"... but rather you-"