Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB7W0ETSF84CYXKVQ6MHSK

The air tasted of overripe peaches and something metallic, something akin to old pennies. Rory wrinkled her nose, pulling her black hair away from her face. It felt oddly heavy, clinging to her skin in a way it never did in London. Beside her, Nyx shifted, their form rippling like heat haze. They hadn’t spoken since stepping through the shimmering distortion in Richmond Park, hadn’t needed to. The Grove wasn’t a place for idle chatter. "Dreadfully opulent for exile," Nyx murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to emanate from the wind itself. Rory glanced at Isolde, whose silver hair shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence in the dappled light. The Seer merely regarded them with pale lavender eyes, an expression impossible to decipher. She hadn't offered a greeting, hadn't acknowledged their arrival beyond a curt nod. Isolde was like that, she supposed; a monument of stillness and veiled meaning. Around them, the Grove pulsed with an unsettling vitality. Wildflowers, riotous in color – hues Rory had never seen before – bloomed in profusion, crowding the mossy ground. Familiar English wildflowers – bluebells, primroses – were swallowed whole by blooms of obsidian black and vibrant, arterial red. The ancient oak standing stones, marking the Grove's boundary, weren't simply standing; they were *breathing*, a subtle expansion and contraction barely perceptible but undeniably present. It altered the ambient air pressure, creating a low, resonating hum in her chest. Rory reached out, brushing her fingers against the velvety petals of a flower that resembled a terrestrial orchid, only with deep crimson, almost black veining. The petals felt strangely warm, thrumming with a faint vibration. She glanced down at the Heartstone Pendant nestled against her collarbone. It pulsed faintly, a deeper crimson than the flower, a steady, rhythmic throb that intensified with each step deeper into the Grove. “It’s reacting strongly,” she muttered, mostly to herself. The artifact, a gift from someone she still didn’t know, had always been a silent guide, a faint beacon whenever places touched by Hel lingered nearby. Nyx, now solidifying somewhat, their humanoid outline less blurry, tilted their head. "Hel’s influence is… strong… but not overt. More akin to a lingering perfume than an open wound." Isolde finally moved, gliding – not walking, *gliding* – along a path that seemed to materialize beneath her feet. She left no impression on the soft earth. It was disconcerting. "The Feast draws near," she said, her voice a melodic murmur. It wasn’t a question. Rory frowned. "Feast? What feast?" Isolde didn’t reply, simply continued to move forward, deeper into the interwoven labyrinth of trees and flowers. Rory and Nyx exchanged a look before following. The deeper they went, the more unnatural the landscape became. The flowers grew larger, their forms grotesquely beautiful. Vines thick as a man’s torso twisted around the trees, bearing fruit the size of pumpkins in shades of emerald and gold. The air grew heavier, laden with the scent of sugared plums and something else… something feral, like warm fur and damp earth. A stream gurgled nearby – not water, Rory realized, but something viscous and amber-colored. It smelled of honey and something slightly rotten. Dipping a finger, she touched it cautiously. It coated her skin with a sticky sweetness, leaving a tingling sensation. “Definitely not water,” Nyx observed dryly. "More like… fermented nectar." They rounded a bend, and the Grove opened into a vast, circular clearing. And there, in the center, was a table. A table of polished obsidian, stretching impossibly long, laden with food. Mountains of glistening grapes, towers of candied fruits, roasted meats dripping with rich sauces, pastries piled high with cream and jewels of candied ginger. It was a display of such opulent excess that Rory felt a physical wave of nausea. "Gluttony’s touch is evident,” Nyx murmured, their form flickering again, as if the sight was destabilizing their permanence. The Heartstone pulsed violently now, almost painfully warm against her skin. “This is… Dymas,” Rory said, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. The realm of Gluttony, from the faded lore she’d absorbed from Yu-Fei’s cryptic collection of books. "You were warned," Isolde said, her voice devoid of emotion. “All feasts have a price.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It was broken by a sound, a soft rustling from the edges of the clearing. Then another, and another, until the entire perimeter was alive with movement. Figures emerged from the shadows, their forms indistinct at first. As they drew closer, Rory could see they were… people. Or, at least, they appeared to be. They were dressed in elaborate, faded finery: silks and velvets, jewels and gold. But their faces… their faces were blank, devoid of expression. Their eyes, dull and vacant, stared straight ahead. They began to move towards the table, shuffling forward in a silent, deliberate procession. Rory noticed something else. Each figure wore a faint, greyish pallor, their skin stretched taut over their bones. There was a hollowness to them, a profound lack of… life. “Helbound souls,” Nyx whispered, their voice low with a dawning comprehension. Rory’s stomach churned. These were people, ripped from Earth, condemned to an eternity of indulgence, trapped in Dymas. A figure detached itself from the procession and approached the head of the table. It was larger than the others, more elaborately dressed. A crown of withered grapes sat upon its head. It gestured towards the table, its hand skeletal and pale. “Eat,” the figure croaked, its voice a dry rasp. “Feast.” The procession surged forward, converging on the table with a horrifying eagerness. They began to gorge themselves, stuffing their mouths with food, oblivious to the emptiness that consumed them. The sounds of their consumption - slurps, crunches, moans of what might have been pleasure – filled the clearing. Suddenly the Heartstone flared, the crimson light blinding. Rory instinctively recoiled, clutching at the pendant. A vision flooded her mind: a swirling vortex of shadows, a gate opening, a figure beckoning. The figure was vaguely familiar, a distorted reflection of someone she knew… someone she *had* known. The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping for breath. “Evan,” she breathed, the name a choked whisper. Her abusive ex, gone these past two years. And then, a horrifying realization: the figure in the vision had been wearing a crown of withered grapes. "The feast has a host," Isolde stated flatly, her lavender eyes fixed on Rory. “And he remembers you.” Rory looked back at the figures devouring every scrap before her. The feasting souls were not merely being entertained. They were serving some purpose. Providing sustenance. “He’s feeding off their memories,” Rory realized, her voice trembling. “Their lingering regrets, their missed opportunities… their pain.” A wave of profound dread washed over her. She looked at Nyx. Then at Isolde. “We need to leave. Now.”