The Sorceress
The air hung heavy with the stench of rot and iron, clinging to the shadows that danced on the damp stone walls. A single oil lamp cast an ochre glow across the grimy room, illuminating the contorted faces of Daisy and Lear as they hunched over the pulsating cauldron.
Daisy, her raven hair plastered to her brow with sweat, stirred the viscous brew with a bone handle ladle. Each clink against the cauldron's cauldron sent shivers down her spine, the clatter echoing in the cavernous room like disembodied laughter. Blood, slick and obsidian, dripped from her fingers, staining the ladle crimson. Beside her, Lear, his face a mask of fanatical fervor, chanted in a guttural tongue, his voice rasping against the silence.