… oops been a few weeks but we got there!
It’s a different hallway.
He’s not here. Even with blurred Wyrdsight I can tell that much, the door to the study having opened back out into a much deeper part of the Bleed than it opened in from. Very deep, in fact, down past the mist and isolation, into the blood and bile.
“David?” I try, just on the off chance. He’s not here either, but that doesn’t mean I’m alone. The hallway carpet squelches under my feet, and my outstretched claws leave wet, glistening grooves in the walls as I walk toward the staircase. The house doesn’t like that much; I can hear the wheeze in its breath at the wounds but fuck it. I’m well past the mood of being nice.
There’s light coming from the staircase, red and flickering, accompanied by the greasy smell of rancid flesh, slowly roasting. Peering over the landing, I can see huge swathes of downstairs are on fire, and they don’t look like they plan on being in any other state any time soon. I try to calm it, but it doesn’t listen. Fire at all in Niflhel is unusual, but when it does take root it’s Múspell all the way down. And the fires of Múspell burn eternal.
They’re also hot, one of the few fires that can burn me, and the memory of the one other—of Baldr’s hands searing on my skin—sends me back a step.