AI The world dissolved around Rory, twisting into a kaleidoscope of impossible light and impossible darkness. Her stomach lurched, the familiar ache of inter-realm travel a dull ghost compared to the dizzying visual assault. Then, as quickly as it began, it ceased.
Her boots landed on soil that felt unnaturally soft, yielding with each step like velvet foam. The air, instead of the crisp London chill she’d left behind, was thick and warm, heavy with a thousand intoxicating scents. Sweet, cloying, like overripe figs mixed with something metallic, something like… wine and blood, perhaps. Rory pushed the thought away, her cool-headed nature asserting itself. She blinked, forcing her bright blue eyes to focus, trying to make sense of the new reality.
Above, the sky was a deep, unbreaking amber, like solidified honey. No sun, no moon, just this vast, glowing dome, casting everything in a perpetual twilight of gold and bronze. In the distance, impossibly tall trees, their trunks spiraling upwards like twisted corkscrews, bore leaves of burnished copper and deep emerald. Their branches drooped under the weight of fruits alien to any Earth catalogue. She saw spheres of pulsating violet, clusters of luminous green globes, and others that resembled gigantic, segmented jewels, glittering beneath the amber sky.
“Hel,” Isolde murmured, her voice a soft, bell-like chime. The half-Fae seer stood beside Rory, her silver hair shimmering, her pale lavender eyes vast with knowing, yet utterly unreadable . She wore a strange, serene smile, as if this place, for all its alien majesty, was simply another variation on a theme.
Nyx solidified beside them, a towering silhouette of living shadow against the amber glow. Their faint violet eyes swept across the landscape, unblinking. A low whisper, like wind rustling dry leaves, emanated from their form. "Dymas. The Glutton's Feast."
Rory’s fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, its moonsilver cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of the air. Her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed faintly, a phantom echo of a childhood accident, or perhaps just nerves. The Heartstone Pendant, usually a subtle weight against her collarbone, now pulsed with a distinct, insistent warmth . She could feel the faint inner glow against her skin, a constant reminder of the portal they’d just crossed.
“Feast is right,” Rory muttered, the words catching in her throat, thick with the saccharine air. The sprawling vineyards stretched into the distance, endless rows of impossibly vibrant vines. Grapes hung in decadent bunches, not just deep purple, but iridescent, shimmering with the colours of spilled oil, each berry the size of a plum. Some were so engorged they seemed ready to burst, their skins stretched taut and translucent, revealing the rich, dark pulp within .
They began to walk, the soft, rich earth cushioning their steps. Isolde, true to her nature, left no footprints in the pliable soil. Rory, however, sank slightly with each stride, a testament to the foreign weight of the world. The sounds were as alien as the sights: a low hum that seemed to emanate from the very ground, a symphony of buzzing insects with wings like stained glass, and the occasional soft *thump* of overripe fruit falling from overhead branches . Each time, the impact sent a sickeningly sweet aroma billowing into the air.
Rory reached out to touch a vine, her fingers brushing against a cluster of grapes. They felt cool and slick, almost oily. A deep crimson liquid, thick like syrup, slowly oozed from a tiny tear in one of the berries, coating her fingertip. She pulled her hand back quickly . Everything here felt *alive * in a way that was overwhelming, almost aggressive. The vegetation seemed to writhe and undulate with a slow, heavy breath.
"This is… a lot," she finally said, voicing the thought that had been rattling in her skull.
Nyx’s whisper -voice rippled, "Excess. The very air is sustenance here. The soil, the fruit, the light. All, a banquet."
They passed through a grove of what looked like enormous, squat mushrooms, their caps broader than any table, glowing with a soft, bioluminescent light that added layers to the amber sky's illumination. Beneath them, smaller fungi pulsed with slow, rhythmic beats, like subterranean hearts. Rory saw a faint sheen of dew on the caps, iridescent, clinging like scattered jewels.
The path, if one could call it that, wound deeper into this gluttonous paradise. Towering structures of intricate latticework, woven from living vines and hardened sap, rose in the distance. They looked like open-air pavilions, designed for vast gatherings. Within the shadows of these structures, Rory glimpsed massive, stone serving platters, some still piled high with skeletal remains of what might have once been exotic beasts, now picked clean.
"You said master chefs are here," Rory said, glancing at Nyx. "Helbound souls. Are we likely to run into… staff?" She kept her hand on the Fae-Forged Blade. It was meant to be effective against demons. She wondered if the 'chefs' counted.
"Perhaps. Or guests," Nyx replied, the whisper fading slightly as their form flickered , their shadows deepening in the gloom of the massive vines. "Dymas beckons all who hunger."
Isolde stopped, her head tilted, her long silver hair falling over her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them, the pale lavender glowing. "The whispers here… they are not of hunger, but of desire fulfilled . And renewed. A cycle unending."
They came upon a river. But it was not water that flowed there. This river was a slow, viscous current of what looked like molten honey, glowing faintly from within. Large, fleshy fruits, like swollen pumpkins, bobbed sluggishly in its golden depths , their skins sticky and glistening . The scent here was overwhelmingly sweet, almost nauseating, a thick layer of vanilla and caramel hanging heavy in the air. Rory had to fight the urge to gag.
"The nectar of the land," Isolde mused, her gaze serene . "From root and bloom, a living chalice."
Rory couldn't help but feel a primal unease. This place was too rich, too perfect , too much. The beauty was overwhelming, threatening to suffocate. It felt like walking through a dream, or a nightmare of consumption. She longed for the harsh grit of London pavements, for the smell of concrete and rain, for something solid and real. She ran a thumb over the polished moonsilver of the Fae-Forged blade. Its coldness was a comfort.
Moving away from the honey-river, they discovered a clearing. Here, the ground was not soil, but a carpet of velvety mosses and gigantic, fleshy petals, all in shades of crimson and deep rose. In the center, a colossal tree, unlike any other they had seen. Its trunk was a smooth, obsidian-like surface, and instead of branches, it had vast, curving platforms, each laden with different arrays of incredible food. Clusters of iridescent caviar, mounds of glistening , purple-fleshed meat, towers of pastry spun like gossamer and filled with liquid light. The sheer quantity was staggering , an altar to indulgence.
"This," Rory breathed, "this is what they mean by gluttony."
Nyx moved closer to the tree, their shadow form seeming to drink in the dark trunk. "A larder for Belphegor, perhaps."
The thought of the realm's prince, the demon of gluttony, sent a shiver down Rory’s spine. Prince Belphegor. The place felt like it was waiting for someone, something, to devour from this bounty.
Isolde, however, walked towards one of the lowest platforms, her ethereal form gliding over the petal-strewn ground. She extended a delicate hand, her fingers hovering over a perfectly symmetrical pyramid of what looked like crystallized , multi-colored sugar. "To partake of such delights… is to be bound." She didn't touch it, but the implication hung heavy in the air .
Rory felt a different kind of fear claw at her gut. Not a fear of physical danger, not yet, but a fear of the seductive power of Dymas . What would happen if she touched that sugar ? If she took a bite of that glistening fruit? Could the very act of consumption bind her here? The heavy, sweet air, the endless visual stimuli, the sheer overwhelming *abundance * — it was a trap in itself.
She noticed, then, a faint glint from beneath one of the lowest platforms. Pushing aside a curtain of thick, fleshy leaves, Rory saw a discarded chalice. It was exquisitely crafted, wrought from a dark, polished wood, intricately carved with swirling patterns. But it wasn't the chalice itself that caught her eye. It was the faint, lingering scent clinging to its rim. A rich, musky aroma, utterly distinct from the pervasive sweetness of Dymas. It was the scent of something animal, something predatory.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice low . She pulled the chalice out, careful not to touch its rim directly, but holding it by its base .
Isolde approached, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the chalice. "A vessel. To hold that which fuels the appetite."
Nyx stood beside her, their shadow form rippling. "A hunter's cup, perhaps. Or a hunter's warning."
Rory examined the carvings. They depicted lean, sinuous figures, vaguely humanoid, but with elongated limbs and sharp, beak-like mouths. They seemed to be in various states of pursuit and consumption, preying upon smaller, more ethereal creatures. It was a stark visual contrast to the decadent feast above.
The chalice was cool in her hand, almost cold like her blade, but without the blade's reassuring weight . It felt… hungry. Rory suddenly felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warmth of Dymas. This exquisite, overflowing world wasn't just about leisurely indulgence. There was a lurking predator here, a dark undercurrent to the ocean of sweetness. Dymas was a feast, yes, but for whom? And what, or who, was the prey?
She looked up at the amber sky, then back at the endless vineyards and orchards, the silently swaying trees laden with impossible bounty. The silence , broken only by the hum of insects and the thud of falling fruit, suddenly felt less peaceful, more expectant. They had walked into a trap, she knew it. The question now was: what kind of trap, and when would it spring?