The ancient derlict halls of Eltwyn Castle had seen only a collection of dust in the past seven hundred years; no living thing could come near without death seeping into their hearts and minds, rotting them from the inside out. The castle lay deep within a dense forrest, The Iln, and was surrounded by a moat filled with a dark, seething body of liquid that that seemed at once both vaporous and congealed. All vegetation within one hundred meters in any direction was decayed and mutated, oozing pusses and filling the air with a putrid stench. Anyone could see at first glance that the land was under a vile curse.
Myrianna Syllvresh, Syllvresh the Bloodweaver to some, Myri to only one, stood just at the edge of the curse's influence, surveilling the area. She peered with emerald irises through a pair of protective goggles, her measured breaths sounded like hissing steam through the mechanical apparatus covering her nose and mouth. Both Dwarrian inventions, the goggles and breathing apparatus would help protect her when the time came to cross the threshold onto the damned grounds of the castle.
She wore crimson robes, shining slightly with the distinctive sheen of enchantments, that were draped loosely around her petite frame, covering her hands and feet. Gold-white hair cascaded down to ger calves, enveloping her as if to help guard against the night's cold and the curse itself. Numerous rings adorned each of her fingers and she wore sapphire earings and a circlet of pure silver upon her brow.
After an hour spent gazing into the mire of filth and rot, Myrianna was ready to venture forth into the arms of chaos, her mind steeled and her body afforded the highest protection possible. Closing her eyes, she crossed the boundary of the curse.