Marked and Cursed (Part 2)

The sorceress abruptly sprung awake, her vision obscured by a hazy blur. She struggled to grasp her surroundings, unable to comprehend where she found herself. Save for the intense, fiery crimson radiance cast by the engulfing flames, the rest remained veiled in obscurity. A frigid gust of wind swept across her face and body, reawakening her senses from their dormant state. Her muscles constricted, and her bones and joints throbbed incessantly, tormenting her with every movement.

Yet, the searing agony that tormented her stomach surpassed all else, as if it were being devoured by relentless flames. Nausea gripped her, compelling her to lean to the side and violently expel the contents of her churning insides. Her throat, mouth, and every fiber of her being felt tainted, as though she had ingested a lethal poison. Bitter bile surged up her throat, threatening to overwhelm her.

Amidst her turmoil, she sensed the presence of someone offering support, a hand steadying her shoulder. She turned her face, struggling to focus her gaze on the figure attempting to aid her, while cautiously surveying her surroundings. Gradually, her vision began to regain clarity, albeit only to a slight degree.

"Melphin," Charlotta whispered, her gaze falling upon the curly, crimson locks and bearded countenance of the round-headed gnome.

"Yes, it is I, Charlotta," the man responded calmly.

"Pray tell, where have we found ourselves?" Charlotta inquired, her eyes sweeping the surroundings.

Before her loomed a dimly lit metal hearth, its somber glow casting an air of ominousness in the room. The walls, with their angular and gothic contours, ascended in triangular forms towards the ceiling, which boasted a dome-like structure. Charlotta recognized that she was within an unsettling chamber. Nestled within the space, she reclined upon a luxurious yet melancholic chair, its anthracite-hued silk fabric embellished with intricate embroidery, and its headrests meticulously carved from wood. A massive bear skin rug adorned the floor, its majestic head directed toward the fireplace. The wooden floorboards had taken on a darkened hue.

"Fear not, for the moment you are safe," Melphin assured her.

Charlotta detected the quiver in the gnome's voice, perceiving it as an embodiment of fear. She delved into her thoughts, scouring for any incantations, only to find her recollection void of any spells. It had been an extended slumber of more than a few days since she last emerged. Every fiber of her being throbbed, teetering on the precipice of collapse.

"Have I been poisoned?" Charlotta whispered, her words barely audible.

Melphin offered no response; instead, he retreated a few paces. In that fleeting moment, a stealthy footfall brushed against her ears—the deliberate tread upon weathered and creaking floorboards. Despite the agony, Charlotta managed to straighten herself somewhat, casting her gaze backward.

Through the ajar doorway strode a figure, cloaked in obsidian black. A white silk shirt and a wine-hued waistcoat adorned his form. The source of the sound she had heard was his cane.

Charlotta softly intoned a modest incantation under her breath, exerting herself to summon a familiar spell. The man, unmistakably an elf by the enchantment bestowed upon his cane and cloak, exuded an aura of enigma. Rings and a necklace sparkled upon his fingers and throat. A chill coursed through Charlotta's spine. He was a Varylles elf, identifiable by the crimson locks adorned with ivory ribbons. Yet his countenance, it bore a deathly pallor, bereft of vitality.

"You're withering away, Charlotta, descendant of Attan," the man intoned with a frigid voice.

"Did you taint me, elf lord?" the sorceress challenged, undaunted.

"I administered a dose sufficient to plunge you into a coma," the man responded.

Charlotta struggled to comprehend. Her gaze sought out the gnome concealed in the shadows. Melphin had distanced himself upon the elf's arrival. With a gloved hand raised, the elf lord granted permission for the gnome to speak.

"You carry the affliction of cancer, Charlotta. It ravages your body, spreading swiftly. As an adept healer, I can assert that I have never witnessed such a strain before. It must be infused with magic. Hence, I accepted Lord Eldarion's offer of aid," Melphin elucidated, his head bowed.

"I grasp nothing," Charlotta whispered. Yet the searing torment within her, the excruciating creak of her joints with every movement, had long been harbingers of an unsettling truth.

"To impede the relentless advance of your malignant cancer, we plunged you into a state of slumber, a coma. And we accomplished this feat by harnessing the venom of the elusive moriphis fungus," Eldarion elucidated, his smile etched with an icy demeanor that mirrored his haughtiness and self-importance.

Charlotta's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The moriphis fungus was among the rarest and most precious flora known to exist. It possessed a potency that surpassed the capabilities of even the most revered priests—a flicker of hope to rekindle life in those teetering on the edge of oblivion.

"But how?" the sorceress implored, her voice steeped in desolation.

"We have scant time at our disposal. You must recount the events of that fateful day," the elf lord decreed, his tone indifferent. "We must plunge you back into the abyss of slumber," he added, unaffected by the weight of his words.

Charlotta endeavored to rise, a fervent desire to defy her affliction and deny the grim reality compelling her. Alas, her efforts proved futile as her feet remained rooted in stillness.

"I am sorry, Charly. You can't move. Your legs..." Melphin sympathetically tried to explain.

She was paralyzed.

"Even if by some miracle you were to survive, mobility would pose a formidable challenge. Your feet are in a grievous state that defies easy rectification," The pallid-faced elf spoke with disdain, his gaze fixed upon the sorceress.

"No, I cannot surrender to death," Charlotta objected, her voice laced with anguish.

"Silence!" Lord Eldarion hissed. "You squander our time. Commence your recollection. Yes, Charlotta, you found yourself amidst the towering twin peaks of Charlattan... Then?" He halted at his last sentence, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air.

Charlotta grappled to gather her thoughts. Melphin, with raised eyebrows, signaled her, but his message eluded her comprehension. A lingering silence permeated the chamber.

"Understood. We shall induce a state of conscious coma. You shall endure the torment—a manifestation of the enchanted cancer that ravages your very being. It shall unleash a protracted and excruciating demise, rest assured. For I possess the power to prolong it, to assuage your suffering," Eldarion paused, then continued, "or perhaps, I may elect not to intervene. Let us witness if your reluctance to speak persists." His gaze mirrored the cold, unyielding strength of forged iron.

"Please, my lord," Melphin implored, taking measured steps forward.

Eldarion turned away, lifting his right hand in a commanding gesture.

"Grant me leave to converse with Charlotta, my lord," Melphin pleaded once more, his tone carrying a sense of desperation.

At that very moment, the chamber's entrance welcomed the arrival of three figures, concealed behind masks and adorned in garments of black and purple. Their lithesome and nimble frames, accompanied by their elegant gait, left no doubt in Charlotta's mind—they were elves.

With disdainful force, one of the elves shoved the gnome, causing Melphin to stumble and collapse onto the ground. Charlotta yearned to voice her protest, yet her strength had forsaken her. Meanwhile, another elf ensnared the sorceress's feeble arms, firmly holding her in place.

The remaining elf clasped in hand a glass vessel, its slender tip adorned with a dart submerged in a bewitching purple elixir. Swiftly and purposefully, he pierced the woman's arm, deploying the mechanism at the dart's rear to facilitate the fluid's entrance into her bloodstream. Charlotta recognized this glass-encased instrument—it was a syringe, an ingenious creation of Melphin's. The skilled gnome healer employed it from time to time to conduct blood transfusions for his ailing patients.

"Should you refrain from inflicting harm upon Melphin, Lord Eldarion, I shall be willing to cooperate," declared the woman with fiery red tresses, just moments before experiencing the sting of the syringe.

"We shall see," uttered the departing elf lord as he exited the chamber, leaving an aura of uncertainty in his wake.

As the woman's vision succumbed to an abyss of darkness, an inferno of searing sensations surged within her physique once more. Its intensity reached such levels that it seemed as if she were being devoured alive. Desperate screams tore from her throat, but they remained trapped within, unheard by any soul within the lofty chamber. To them, she was naught but a quivering figure, immersed in the realm of slumber.

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