The Devil Doesn't Bargain (MatD part 2)

Chapter FIFTEEN - Not the Only Ones

Perhaps it was entirely in my head, or maybe it was a reaction to the ancient magic woven into every fissure of the room, but the air felt an instant sort of warm as we stepped over the threshold and down the stone steps slick with dark moss. Though cobwebs and dust covered piles of books, velvet lined furniture and deeply worn tables, it felt a fractured sort of reality. One that could truly have been paused for only a moment, breath held and waiting for the return of some wandering soul. Or four.

The chamber felt untouched, and yet entirely worn.

A study of sorts.

Enchanted torches sprung to life as we waded into the room, footsteps echoing over forgotten quills and crumpled parchments. The walls were painted in hurried symbols, all of which I wasn't sure I recognized. Enchanted brooms swept unperturbed at the edges, their gentle brushing the only noise aside our breaths and the flicker of flames. I was reminded of the same sort of brooms in San Bakar's tower and was once again infatuated with a magic that lasted so long.

 A large rounded table rose from the center of a curved room, its top piled high with books bound in spines far taller than should be possible. A silent candelabra stood statued in cool wax, paused above half written pages, thoughts unfinished, stories untold. And over it all, dust lit moonlight danced through the cracks of the ceiling. Illuminating, beckoning, wishing us forward.

In a moment I was pulled in wanton fascination to the center.

My fingertips prickled with electric want, a yearning to touch it all, to press my fingers to the pages hers once were and perhaps press myself between the lines as well.

I pulled a parchment from its spot on the stone tabletop, the outline of it left in dust. Another journal page. 

The world floated back to me as if in a watery haze. How long had I been unconscious? I only remember his eyes. Empty. Empty of sorrow, yes, but also-

I recall feeling a sense of euphoria as I watched the pain vanish, but then everything started to turn. When I fell, I must have hit my head. I neither feel nor see a mark, but the pain is throbbing. I can only hope it is not the Black Death.

At least he is no longer in pain.

"What do you have there?" Sebastian's voice low and calm just over my shoulder. 

I handed it over, shuffling through another stack looking for more. "Another journal entry. Not sure its of much use though."

Ominis hissed as his shin slammed into a large wooden chest near an alcove a few paces away. He rubbed his leg while Anne approached, nudging his hand away so she could take a look. A single bed was tucked against the far wall behind them and I was shocked again with the notion that Isidora was here and spent so much time among it that she had needed a place to sleep.

But why a mine?

I mused aloud to no one in particular. "If Isidora was using the Undercroft and the cellar beneath her manor in Feldcroft... why would she create this space? And why hide it behind cryptic rune symbols and ancient magic."

I left Sebastian to ponder over the page, wandering around further. Empty pots settled on shelves, cauldrons of all shapes stacked precariously around the room and a large one hung over a burning fireplace, ready and warm for whatever Isidora had needed.

"Here!" Anne held up a large curled tube from within the chest aside her, an edge of it folded down to reveal a small bit of painting. "The canvas piece!"

Ominis huffed, still cradling his leg. "Our efforts weren't in vain after all... though something about this place still feels... odd." 

"That's probably just your shin there mate. Gave it a good whack you did."