Like thick mists rolling up from an ice-chilled marsh, a ghostly specter took shape, nearly obliterating Gudrun’s awareness of the hellishness surrounding her. The vaporous shape was unknown to her and peculiar, yet she felt no fear of it. Only a deep sense of serenity and curiosity. Similar to the other images she’d seen, this one also floated before her in a greyish, fog-like cloud. Yet, it differed in its clarity and sharpness. The others Gudrun knew to be grounded in memories, while this one struck her as being somehow real, as if she were really seeing a winged creature flying at little more than arm’s length, directly before her face. She could plainly see that the creature was a gargoyle, and yet she knew instinctively that it was unlike those acting as her jailers.
How can this be? she wondered. By what magic could I be seeing this gargoyle while these other creatures seem not to?
“Fear not! I have been sent to you, mother of Paign,” said the small gargoyle, his voice making a curious, buzzing sound.
His eyes shown in brilliant copper. Like a new teapot from the shops in Røros, she marveled.
Then it hit her. Shocked, Gudrun realized the being had spoken to her, but without actual speech. At least, not speech her captors could hear.
Gudrun knew not what to do, so she simply stared at the pearlescent wings of her visitor as they gently undulated back and forth. Feeling a tightness in her chest, Gudrun finally softly exhaled the deep breath she’d inhaled several seconds earlier.
“Ah, good! It is well that you are calm, mother of Paign,” the tiny gargoyle hummed to her. “I am Zarentil and I bring you tidings of your son.”
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