'This place is odd...' Willow thought as they walked through the stables and past the large gates, maids moving in to carry their belongings.
The stables were immense, stretching dozens of meters into the air with large pillars and steel fences. From the ceiling were suspended large diagonal beams, more than fitting for even the largest bird she had ever seen to perch on, though no winged creature could be seen.
Servants carried buckets of strange moss and water with them, feeding them to large onix horses, a sight which left many members of their group thoroughly confused.
The outfits were strange; loose robes and dresses seemed to be the most popular in the city, but the palace maids were by far the most bizarre.
It was always natural that maids were treated with decency; the skirts were long and sleeves too, but to have even their faces covered, and in such ornate decor no less? It screamed of opulence, one that could only be found in capital cities.
'How inspiring, so casual yet so dehumanizing.' This is what Obsidian thought.
"Um... Sir?" Willow whispered to a Paragon near her respectfully, terrified, but far more curious. "What is the purpose of these masks?"
The Paragon nodded, "They serve to protect the maids." He simply answered, and Willow raised a concerned eye. In response, the Paragon continued, "You needn't worry."
"R-Right..." Willow nodded, shrinking away like a scarred bunny once more.
'What are they protecting them from? I... I feel like I'd better not ask at this point...' She could, of course, feel Obsidian's attention on her the second she asked something, and it made her deeply uneasy.
'Also... Why are there so many stairs?' She dared not assume how long they've been walking to the throne room, where this Consort was awaiting them. Coincidentally, it was at the very top of The Ark.
Initially, she was confused why there were maids carrying refreshments walking with them. Now, feeling her parched throat and aching calves, she couldn't help but give them a grateful glance, one she quickly hid as they turned their heads toward her.
"Would you like some, Miss?" A maid asked politely, one hand behind her back, as she extended the plate to Willow.
"A-Ah, thank you... Miss." It was still weird, being treated well. They truly did believe her to be of noble blood, but it was clear they would not be half as kind if they knew her real heritage.
'I can't let them find out. If they do-' Then any hope of a happy life lived here, in security and consideration, would burn - and Obsidian would burn her with it.
Finally, a strange presence, akin to invisible waves, descended upon the group as they stood in front of the throne room doors. It made Willow's stomach moil and scatter as she forced herself to suppress the urge to vomit.
Her skin couldn't help but grow as pale as the marble around them.
Jeremy, noticing her clear sickliness, glanced at Michael, who nodded.
"Miss. You seem a little ill. Wear this ring; it will make things bearable." He said, reaching down into a pouch at his waist and pulling out a brilliant silver ring with hollow glass wrapping around it like veins, coming together to form a beautiful flower at the top.
"Oh, thank you, but I couldn't possibly..." She mumbled, eager to refuse something that looked so precious.
She gagged ever so slightly then, the sound barely hearable as she covered her mouth.
"Gods. I apologize for her, truly. I have no idea what's gotten into her." Obsidian said with barely concealed vitriol and second-hand shame.
"It's alright, these things happen sometimes," Michael answered with a polite tone.
"Of course, you're truly kind, Sir Michael." Obsidian smiled, pleased with his silver tongue while internally berating his incompetent tool.
'Useless! Can't even appear dignified or seductive, if she throws up, I swear...'
With a tearful and apologetic look, she grabbed the ring and placed it on her index finger.
Jeremy smiled, knowing the ring - an artifact designed to help those too weak to resist the supernatural yet too sensitive to avoid it - would protect her well.
'It's a good think we were prepared... A blessed item would immediately kill the spirit in the girl, and it might just kill her while at it for her connection with it. An artifact like the ring, untouched by divine influence, won't be so hostile.'
The hollow glass rapidly filled with a thick, green ooze. One that occasionally drifted to become gold or orange, with a constant line of darkness swirling through the colorful vortex. The glass flower seemed to glimmer and quake as the waves grew more bearable.
Color flooded into her skin as her stomach calmed down. The spirit deep within her veins rumbled in content, causing an alien shudder to spread through her, though she did not know its source.
She couldn't help but silently stare; the ooze within the liquid felt familiar somehow. She felt like she was looking into a mirror, a representation of her being.
Something in the ring shifted, a tiny hiss escaping from a tiny hole in its surface, almost as if sighing in exhaustion.
But how could that be? She was a human, not some colorful stream.
Then, a voice snapped her back to the world.
"Are you sure you would like to meet the Consort now? Surely, he would understand if one of you is ill."
Michael said with pity in his eyes. 'The poor shaman is talented but still weak, that atunement to the metaphysical could send her into a coma in front of the Consort...'
The ring would spare her from the worst of it and keep her and her spirit in one piece, but in what state that piece would be...
'Even us Paragons can be shaken by the Consort's motions at times... This Obsidian fellow is utterly insensitive to the supernatural, but most people are not so lucky.'
The Shaman could die. The power of the Gods could eviscerate her spirit and her soul, leaving behind an empty shell for the Gods to consume. That is what Michael feared.
Yet despite this, he could not bring himself to truly warn them.
'The Consort is prepared, their delegation is lax, and there aren't many eyes on this. This is the best environment for The Consort's first meeting, as... "Sir," Obsidian seems not well-trained for these missions.'
They were lab rats. An experiment and learning experience for The Consort.
He just hoped the spirit would remain hidden, if it dared to do anything remotely disrespectful in front of a priest so beloved by the Gods...
He shuddered, remembering the Genocides their Gods didn't shy away from. From the siamese twins Hun and Ger, who ripped themselves apart, to the eternal void and radiant ring Cavum...
'They won't spare it, or her.'
Still, Michael's oath was to Charice, and no one else. They had his sympathy, but nothing more.
"She'll be fine." Obsidian asserted with a displeased tone. "I'm sure the ring is enchanted with great magic befitting Paragons such as yourselves." His eyes dug into Willow's soul as they filled with the impatience of a man desperate to prove himself.
"And it would be rude to keep the Consort waiting any longer. Therefore..." He motioned for Willow to move it. She gulped, nodded, and smiled awkwardly at Michael.
"Yes. Let us delay no longer."
Michael nodded with a brief sigh. He turned to the looming door, and with a mighty push, it creaked open.
The room within was the most grandiose thing Obsidian had ever seen.
The ceiling was a mix of navy blue and maroon, with silver and onyx dots scattered throughout like stars, as rivers of pink formed between the various colors.
To the left and right, separated by a brilliant walkway adorned by a black and silver carpet, were some of the few sources of light this room held.
A pair of large pools, one of a beautiful light blue liquid, from which small flickers of light floated into the air before vanishing in stoic silence. The other was boiling red, casting an imposing maroon, boiling and crackling with an unseen power.
Beyond them, to the left and right, were two hallways separated only by a prestigious stone railing, adorned with scriptures of gold and silver.
The two glowed and illuminated a throne in the middle of the room between them. It loomed high atop a series of marble steps, its adorned onyx backrest vanishing into the ceiling, painting a part of it in darkness.
The seat had an adorned pink cushion which stood in stark contrast to that darkness; from it, veins of pulsing pink silver traced up and down the seat, faintly illuminating the Consort's silhouette.
He was small, or rather, the seat was so immense it dwarfed him to a staggering degree. His hardly lit arms could barely reach the armrests, let alone use them. If he curled up, the seat could easily be his bed.
Willow felt her world spin as a pair of glowing pink eyes shattered any hope of tranquility. The Consort's expression was unreadable, though the two pools around him seemed to stall as Michael confidently walked into the room.
Obsidian followed swiftly, his eyes widened with awe, if only for the briefest moment. The Paragons followed and took position on the edge of the carpet, slamming their halberds into the floor.
Michael walked upon the first step of the throne and turned to the delegation, the pink eyes above blinked, providing Willow just enough time to gather her courage and step into the room.
"Kneel before The Consort!" Michael bellowed, and the Paragons all dropped to one knee, gripping their halberds tightly.
Obsidian knelt, and she swiftly followed, lowering her head as low as she possibly could, her body rattled with fear that wasn't only hers. She shut her mouth tight, feeling her teeth grind as she suppressed her rattling jaw.
There was silence for a few seconds, and even though she couldn't see, Willow could keenly feel The Consort's gaze shifting to and away from her, its weight akin to that of a catastrophe.
'I-It's looking at Michael? W-W-Were we being tes... tested? Was he observing us the whole time? No, please no, I don't want to die...' She vibrated in fear, silently grateful the darkness made that harder to notice, though it was still easily spotted by everyone except Obsidian, as he was too busy fantasizing about the throne above him.
"You may..." The Consort spoke slowly as if carefully measuring his words. His voice was so soft, alluring, gentle, that Willow thought she was in a sea of clouds for the briefest seconds. "...Raise your heads." He finished.
Both Willow and Obsidian did as permitted, though the former dared not look too high, and the latter suppressed the urge to click his tongue. After all, they were a delegation, not subordinates; it was only polite that they be allowed to stand.
Silence hung for a tense second until Obsidian broke it.
"Thank you, Consort." He said, his voice echoing in the immense chamber. The throne room likely took up an entire floor of its own, and he could not help but lick his lips.
"Your home is gorgeous, I dare say I've seen nothing quite like it." He praised, voice as sweet as a mug of sugar, and equally excessive.
"T-" The Consort stuttered, and the pools to the sides seemed to quiver as he paused for a brief moment, something swimming deep within. "...Thank you." He simply stated, bluntly enigmatic in his tone.
Obsidian was at a bit of a loss, 'He's not interested in small talk, but being blunt isn't an option...' Not when he wanted to manipulate and scheme, that would not be easy if he had to be honest.
He looked to his right, finally realizing Willow was a barely functional mess. And for good reason.
'I... I can't...' She suppressed another whimper as Charice looked down on her, his gaze heavier than the burden of Emperors and sharper than the finest blade.
Before he could snap at her, Charice crossed his legs and arms, the velvet outlines of his clothes subtly pulsing with the same glow of the throne around him.
"I hope your trip was comfortable." He almost whispered, his thighs pressing together as his hands uncrossed and played with his hair, though it was hard to see. The menacing glow in his lowered, and the air in the room shifted into a less imperialistic one.
"It indeed was, Great Consort..." He looked at Willow again, pleased to see her getting a grip, "I apologize for my companion, she's... Overwhelmed by your kindness, Magnificent Consort."
"Oh...?" Charice mumbled, quickly realizing that Willow must also be new to the art of diplomacy, especially given her young age.
"I see, then we should get along well." He said with a kind smile, also feeling something shivering in Willow's stomach. For the first time since she knelt, Willow looked up at his form.
She found only kindness and warmth, yet she still shivered; something inside her felt, knew even, the unrelenting cruelty of the beings that empowered it.
Michael narrowed his eyes, feeling the spirit within Willow entirely paralyzed by fear, incapable of even the slightest movement.
'Good. That is the best thing for everyone here.'
Charice paused, looking down at Willow's scared expression. He played with his hair more, pressing his thighs together tighter, feeling his fabrics soothe him and his spirit. The lakes soothed too, casting a serene authority over the room.
'She seems really sick and scared...' It reminded him of himself, in a way. 'Let's give her some time to rest. We both did well for our first time, I think.'
"Well. Since you must be exhausted after your long travels... And all those stairs..." Charice quipped, happy to find Obsidian politely chuckling, and Willow genuinely cracking a small smirk. "...You should head to your rooms; the Paragons will guide you there and will also inform you when talks will begin. Oh, and you can stand now."
Obsidian, finally allowed to stand, nodded at The Consort, "Thank you, Great Consort, for your understanding." Willow also stood, but she didn't merely nod; she bowed respectfully. Which irked Obsidian, as it made him look impolite in comparison.
They turned and left, the Paragons standing and escorting them, with Michael staying behind as the immense doors closed behind the delegation, leaving behind a peaceful silence.