Meeting with Eileen Wilson

Helgarde, headquarters of New Genisis.

Virgil Solis, also known as the Baron, sat in his dimly lit room, where the flickering candlelight played shadow games on the cold stone walls. The room was a bastion of opulence, a stark contrast to the desolation of the city streets, with velvet curtains covering the windows and a heavy oak desk dominating the room.

He sat on his throne and gazed at a book decorated in gold. He was a study in contrasts, his crimson eyes standing out clearly against his pale skin. His hair was mottled black and his features were sharp, chiseled by the hand of a sculptor obsessed with perfection, every line and curve a silent declaration of his dominance. His skin was unnaturally smooth, unblemished by the ravages of time or the scars of battle, giving him an eerie, almost ethereal beauty that was as terrifying as it was mesmerizing. His mouth, a cruel red line, bore witness to his hunger for power, for control.

The knock on the door was like a gunshot in the silent room, jolting him out of his reverie. He didn't bother to hide his annoyance as he called out, "Enter." The doors swung open with a creak, revealing a figure shrouded in a cloak.

Virgil laid his book to the side and asked with some curiosity, "How have things been at the Shrine of the Forgotten?"

The cloaked figure stepped closer, revealing the shadowy form of Vidan Sutulin, also known as the Crimson Merchant. "The ritual... it didn't go as planned. The two who were supposed to be the vessel, they did not survive."

Virgil wasn't surprised, as if he had seen something like this coming. "I don't think it's satisfied with the choice we're making... Well, let's leave that for now. Once the time comes, it will have no choice but to follow our condition!"

....

The cobblestone streets of Choucsea were slick with the remnants of last night's snowfall. Despite the early hour, the district was not entirely devoid of life; a few hardy souls braved the cold, their breaths misting in the air as they hurried about their business.

Aldwyn's eyes scanned the area, noting the subtle signs of the city's nocturnal activities being swept away by the early-morning cleanup crews. He approached the Library of Worlds, an imposing stone structure that stood tall and proud amidst the surrounding chaos. Its grand arched doors were guarded by two stone lions, silent sentinels that had witnessed centuries of knowledge seekers and conspirators alike.

The Library's warm glow beckoned him like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. Upon entering, the scent of aged tomes and dusty parchments enveloped him, a scent he found comforting in its familiarity. He moved through the cavernous halls, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the whispers of secrets long forgotten, or perhaps not so forgotten after all.

The librarian, an elderly man with spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose, eyed Aldwyn warily as he approached the counter. "What brings you to our hallowed halls, young traveler?" he inquired, his voice a gentle rasp.

Aldwyn's gaze remained calm as he replied, "I seek knowledge. Texts about the history of the world, the gods that once walked among us, and everything connected to it."

The librarian's expression softened, recognizing a fellow seeker of truth. He turned and disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves, the rustle of his robes fading into the quietude of the library. The minutes stretched and just when Aldwyn thought he might have been forgotten, the man reemerged, a trio of ancient tomes cradled in his arms. He placed them on the counter with a thud that echoed through the vast room.

"These are the texts you requested," he said, pushing the books closer to Aldwyn.

The first book, "The Era of the Old Gods," was bound in leather that was almost as black as Aldwyn's blade, the title embossed in gold that had faded with time. The pages were brittle and yellowed with age.

The second book, "The Great War," was slightly larger, its spine cracked and worn from years of use. The pages within held tales of battles so fierce, the very earth was said to have trembled beneath the gods' wrath. The illustrations of ancient deities and monstrous beings were disturbingly vivid, as if they had been drawn from the darkest recesses of a nightmare.

The final book, "The Resurrection of the Old Powers," was the smallest but heaviest of the three. Its cover was adorned with intricate patterns of runes that seemed to dance before his eyes, hinting at the arcane knowledge contained within.

Aldwyn gathered the tomes with a sense of reverence and found a secluded corner of the library, surrounded by dusty scrolls and forgotten manuscripts. The only sound was the occasional cough from a scholar lost in their research. He cleared a space on a heavy oak table and arranged the books before him like a general laying out his battle plans.

....

Lila approached Zena's lodgings with a sense of unease. The stark contrast between the modest building and the opulent carriage parked outside was unmistakable. The four armored guards standing sentinel added a layer of tension that thickened the already heavy air. Their gleaming armor reflected the early morning light, casting eerie shadows across the cobblestone street.

As she drew closer, one of the guards broke away from his comrades, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon her. She felt his scrutiny like the weight of a mountain, his gaze probing into the depths of her soul, searching for any sign of deceit. He was a towering figure, his face a mask of stern indifference. "Your business here?" he barked, his voice gruff and unyielding.

Lila gave him a small but determined smile. "I have an appointment with Eileen Wilson," she said.

The guard's expression didn't change, but his eyes searched hers for a moment before he nodded curtly. "Wait here," he said, turning on his heel and disappearing into zena's house.

Lila's heart hammered in her chest as she waited, the cold air doing little to soothe her nerves. The sound of the guard's footsteps faded into the distance, replaced by the distant toll of a bell from one of the city's many towers.

When the guard returned, he gestured for her to follow. Inside, the lodging was a stark contrast to the cold, with a warm, welcoming aroma of fresh bread and brewing coffee wafting through the air.

The room was still sparsely furnished, just a single desk, a chair and a bookshelf crammed with books and scrolls. The floor was bare except for a threadbare carpet, and the air was thick with the smell of old paper and candle wax.

Zena was sitting on the chair. Her hair was as dark as a moonless night and fell in wild, unkempt waves over her shoulders. Her eyes had a golden hue and seemed to shine with a fierce intelligence. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her features were sharp, as if they had been chiseled by an artist. A purple scar ran through her left eyebrow.

Next to her sat Eileen Wilson, who looked much younger than Lila had expected. She was blind, her eyes covered by a black blindfold that stood in stark contrast to the brightness of the room. Her youth was surprising; Lila had imagined her to be much older. But here she was, barely in her early twenties, with gently curved cheekbones, long blonde hair that fell curly over her shoulders and a soft mouth that hid the strength of her spirit. Her skin was flawless, except for the faint scars on her wrists and ankles that hinted at a past of restraint.

„This is supposed to be the woman with great power and influence?" Lila asked herself, visibly surprised.