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5/31/2025, 10:38:04 PM
>>6251084
“Here,” she whispers, dropping a few bills into the boatman’s hand. Twice as much as she would owe him for the trip, but silence is golden, as they say.
And around these parts, it’s silver, which is much worse.
Sandora walks towards the entrance, and another shiver runs down her back as she glances at the decoration over the entrance: the Frigéian’s lion, holding its sword upright.
She slips into the darkness, as the boat waits for her return.
A few mores steps echo in the black silence, then the noise beneath her boots changes and she stumbles as the elevator activates.
“Starless Night,” she curses, holding onto the wall, shifting with a sharp groan of metal on stone. The platform descends, past the level of water — her throat tightens at the idea of feet and feet of ocean now over her head — and at last it stops before a precious door, steel and frosted glass giving way to a soft glow.
Sandora pushes it open and steps into the office — a man who is also wearing a white mask like she is, waiting at the desk.
He nods upon noticing her.
“Welcome. May this night bring profit.” His voice sounds young. He’s not the same one she met the last time.
“May it,” she replies, closing the door behind herself.
The office is carved inside what looks like a single piece of crystal glass, the black water pressing like a shadow of cold death around it, the glow of candles lost inside its infinite darkness.
“I have come to deal with my account.”
“As it may be your wont,” the man allows, reaching for a volume amidst the many. “May I request your—”
“[i]Ten purple below orchard sinister mayhap dozen tide aloof alabaster.[/i]”
At each of her words, a tiny clock on his desk hitches a little click, until it emits a satisfied chime.
“All correct. Would you like to know your balance?” He adds, running his fingers over the files held in the tome.
Sandora had known it for a long time. It had sat there in one of Frigéia’s banks, growing fatter and heavier with each year, like an old toad too content with its own laziness to be of use.
Well, now, thanks to that fanatic Rosandra, and indirectly thanks to Argia, she had a way to put it to use.
[cont.]
“Here,” she whispers, dropping a few bills into the boatman’s hand. Twice as much as she would owe him for the trip, but silence is golden, as they say.
And around these parts, it’s silver, which is much worse.
Sandora walks towards the entrance, and another shiver runs down her back as she glances at the decoration over the entrance: the Frigéian’s lion, holding its sword upright.
She slips into the darkness, as the boat waits for her return.
A few mores steps echo in the black silence, then the noise beneath her boots changes and she stumbles as the elevator activates.
“Starless Night,” she curses, holding onto the wall, shifting with a sharp groan of metal on stone. The platform descends, past the level of water — her throat tightens at the idea of feet and feet of ocean now over her head — and at last it stops before a precious door, steel and frosted glass giving way to a soft glow.
Sandora pushes it open and steps into the office — a man who is also wearing a white mask like she is, waiting at the desk.
He nods upon noticing her.
“Welcome. May this night bring profit.” His voice sounds young. He’s not the same one she met the last time.
“May it,” she replies, closing the door behind herself.
The office is carved inside what looks like a single piece of crystal glass, the black water pressing like a shadow of cold death around it, the glow of candles lost inside its infinite darkness.
“I have come to deal with my account.”
“As it may be your wont,” the man allows, reaching for a volume amidst the many. “May I request your—”
“[i]Ten purple below orchard sinister mayhap dozen tide aloof alabaster.[/i]”
At each of her words, a tiny clock on his desk hitches a little click, until it emits a satisfied chime.
“All correct. Would you like to know your balance?” He adds, running his fingers over the files held in the tome.
Sandora had known it for a long time. It had sat there in one of Frigéia’s banks, growing fatter and heavier with each year, like an old toad too content with its own laziness to be of use.
Well, now, thanks to that fanatic Rosandra, and indirectly thanks to Argia, she had a way to put it to use.
[cont.]
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