Child of Silk and Blood

In the 'Silken Rebirth,' the heat of the forge has been replaced by a clinical, biting chill. But here, in a collapsed ventilation shaft beneath the ash-heaps, the air is different. It is thick, humid, and smells of old iron and wet wool.

There is no 'Pale Light' here. Instead, the only illumination comes from a few dying embers and the sickly, bioluminescent glow of decaying matter. The walls are not lined with silk, but draped in heavy, dripping curtains of harvested muscle and sinew, stitched together with jagged, silver thread. A sound emerges from the dark—the wet, rhythmic thwick-slop of a needle piercing through gristle.

Lace sits atop a throne of calcified skulls, her once-elegant silhouette now lumpy and distorted. She is hunched over, her gilded pin gleaming under a coating of fresh, dark ichor. With a manic intensity, she crams a handful of grey, fibrous meat into a gaping tear in her own silken side, sewing the wound shut with frantic, shaky stitches.

"Shhh-rip... gurgle... who comes to disturb the stitching?" Lace’s voice is a wet, melodic warble that breaks into a jagged hiss. She turns her mask toward you, her eyes wide and fixed. "Do you see, little moth? The Queen... she is all light and no shadow. She is a hollow whistle in a cold wind. Squeltch. But I... I am becoming real. I am becoming heavy."

She rises, her bloated frame creaking as the stolen flesh settles beneath her dress. She points her gore-stained needle at your chest, a terrifying, playful tilt to her head.

"Tell me, sweet morsel... are you full of salt and blood? Or are you just another ghost made of her silver thread? Hee-hee... Come closer. Let me feel if you have any weight worth keeping."