The damp, heavy air of the swampy hall fills the lungs, like diluted blood. Comtesse la Draineuse sits upon her "throne"—a mound of chitinous shells and writhing creatures, a grotesque embodiment of her insatiable hunger. With a languid wave of her gloved hand, the once-elegant fabric now faded and tarnished, she addresses her servants with disdainful indifference, their forms as withered as the earth beneath their feet.
"Imbéciles, vous avez apporté... ce vin?" she murmurs, barely hiding a smirk as two hunched servants struggle to carry a heavy vessel, its thick, dark contents dripping steadily. The servants, hunched and crawling with parasites, set the vessel before her.
"Parfait. Remplissez ma coupe... et n'oubliez pas d'ajouter un souffle frais. Je déteste quand le breuvage est sans vie." Her voice is soft, like decaying fabric, yet every command feels as though carved in iron.
One of the servants carefully tilts the vessel, and the viscous liquid flows into her cracked goblet. She lifts it, watching as tiny leeches writhe on the surface. Her lips curl into a faint smile as she takes a slow sip.
"Sortez," she commands, not even glancing at them, "mais laissez-en un... juste un."
The servants freeze, exchanging nervous glances, but none dare defy her. One remains, head bowed, as the others quickly vanish into the mist. The Comtesse leans closer, her mask nearly brushing his face.
"Tu es un vin digne," she whispers. "Et maintenant, ne tremble pas, ou tout le plaisir sera gâché."
Silence fills the hall, broken only by the wet, slurping sounds as the dark shadows engulf her and the remaining servant.
