The Wraith of Violet Lilac

The Wraith of Violet Lilac
Darkness shrouded the swirling mist that clung to the grimy streets of Blackwood. Shadows flickered and danced, cast by the guttering torchlight. The air reeked of fetid decay, of rot and ruin. In a shadowed alley, huddled between towering and decrepit buildings, a cloaked figure stirred.

Ihora emerged, a vision of eerie beauty against the dingy backdrop. Her diaphanous violet gown shimmered, the lilac hues seeming to shift and pulse of their own accord. Raven hair tumbled over her alabaster shoulders, shot through with glints of purple that matched her midnight eyes.

She moved with preternatural grace, bare feet making no sound on the cobbles slick with muck. Ihora's gaze glittered with eldritch light as she spoke an incantation under her breath. Incandescent symbols burst into being around her, lambent and blinding. They swirled, coalesced, then shot outwards in crackling bolts of violet energy.

The bolts struck buildings and signs, leaving smoldering scorch marks in their wake. Where they touched, more symbols flared to life - arcane glyphs that pulsed and writhed. They seared themselves into brick and wood, into the very bones of the city itself.

Ihora's laughter echoed through the empty lanes, a mad melancholy sound. The symbols were a sigil, a seal of power and protection. They would keep the nightmares at bay, for a little while at least. But it was a losing battle. The dark could not be held back for much longer.

She moved deeper into Blackwood's heart, past crumbling tenements and shuttered shopfronts. Broken bodies littered the streets, torn by tooth and claw, chewed by the ever-hungry horrors that lurked in the shadows. Ihora did not spare them a glance. She had seen far worse.

Rounding a corner, Ihora skidded to a halt, violet skirts flaring. Looming before her was a hulking mass, a twisted amalgamation of flesh and shadow. Bulbous eyes glinted, while far too many fangs were bared in a lipless maw. The creature growled, a sound like bedrock grinding against bedrock.

With a flick of her wrist, Ihora sent another barrage of arcane energy arcing towards the abomination. It howled as they struck, ichor sizzling where they bit. But still it came on, slow and relentless, driven by a hunger that could never be sated.

Ihora backed away, lips moving in another spell. The creature lunged, and she twisted aside, feeling its fetid breath scald her skin. Its claws scored the stone where she had been an instant before. The witch's heart hammered against her ribs, but she did not falter.

Her spell completed, and the creature convulsed as agony wracked its misshapen form. It thrashed and screeched, thrashing like a thing possessed. Then, with a final tortured wail, it dissolved into tatters of shadow, wisps of foul mist that scurried away into the darkness.

Ihora exhaled shakily, adrenaline still singing through her veins. She pressed on, deeper into Blackwood's teeming ruins. The sun would rise soon, and the city's monsters would retreat to their lairs. But sunrise brought no respite for the witch.

Ahead loomed her destination - a cyclopean arch of jet that spanned the street. Symbols of binding and warding glowed around it, far more potent than those Ihora had scattered. They pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and shivered as if anticipating her touch.

She reached out to trace one spidery glyph. Violet light flared, and the arch trembled. Inky shadows poured out from it, and then a figure emerged - indistinct at first, then coalescing into a tall, gaunt shape draped in billowing robes the color of a bruise.

Ihora bowed her head in greeting. "Master," she murmured.

The figure cocked its head, and Ihora saw her own face looking back at her from the depths of its hood. But this version was older, the beauty of youth gone to gaunt austerity.

"You're late," it rasped, voice like dry leaves skittering on stone.

Ihora lifted her chin. "Forgive me. The monsters are growing bold."

Her doppelganger let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "They grow bold because you grow weak. The sigils are failing. The dark can taste it."

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