[Fae magic is a bewildering, nonsensical thing, and the hut in the distance is no exception. Though she and Alucard reach it at nearly the same time, and both approach the only door visible on the exterior, something in the glamour of the fae keeps them wholly separate, not unlike the magic surrounding Dracula's execution house, where Carmilla now permanently resides.
The oil reeks of incense and smoke; by the time she reaches the yard, she can't feel her legs, and stays upright on them only by sheer chance. Like limbs that have fallen asleep, they're clumsy like deadweight beneath her, with all feeling lost from them. It's as though the shadows are eating away at her limb by limb, until all that remains of her body is a torso and head, and even those are soon to follow.
But one step follows another. Another. Another. The filth pours into her mouth and binds her voice, like swallowing seawater as she fumbles for the door handle and throws her weight into pushing it open.]
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The oil reeks of incense and smoke; by the time she reaches the yard, she can't feel her legs, and stays upright on them only by sheer chance. Like limbs that have fallen asleep, they're clumsy like deadweight beneath her, with all feeling lost from them. It's as though the shadows are eating away at her limb by limb, until all that remains of her body is a torso and head, and even those are soon to follow.
But one step follows another. Another. Another. The filth pours into her mouth and binds her voice, like swallowing seawater as she fumbles for the door handle and throws her weight into pushing it open.]