There was a hall, bleak and dour beneath the loam. Where sunlight never kissed those dark bricks and the occultists thrived there in the shadows. Death hung heavy in the air as any hint of warmth was willed away - those frigid walls offered little respite to the weary,
A sputtering light flickered bright, leaking its miserable light; while flesh, pale and sickly, had drawn into the trivial illumination. Shrouded mostly by the blanket of darkness, only a pallid face manifested, an unnatural hue and texture rooted upon her flesh. Stone replaced where skin should rightfully be, and it glistened a soft ethereal green like the murk of a lake.
Mary.