Long skeins of tangled ivory hair spilled across the dirty floor. Individual strands sparkling like diamonds in the flashes of faint light that managed to reflect its way from the mouth of the cavern to the dank grotto where the still form of the Cleaver family matriarch rested. Her weapon, an elegantly constructed flail, had been placed on a boulder nearby with intention, placed near the slumbering queen in either reverence or warning. Although her crimson bows were rumpled and worn with the slow but inevitable march of time, she was immaculate. Her smooth sides glimmering, her grown of curved horns without a single speck of dust. She was as well cared for as an exhibit in a museum, looking as though she might sit up any moment, only the faintest hints giving away how long her body had lain here. The bruised hollowness under her eyes, the outline of her ribs and hip bones, an overwhelming sense of loneliness and despair that seemed to emanate from her still form. Despite the seemingly tranquil scene, something horrible had happened here. The shadows of past violence hung heavy in the air like humidity, palpable with each breath.
The sudden scape of hoof on stone split the silence like a lightening strike. Heavy lashes fluttered open to reveal eyes a green that contrasted so vividly against the paleness of her cheeks they were nearly aposematic in their conspicuousness. She blinked once, twice, her confused eyes scanning her surroundings without recognition. Her memory was foggy, but she was awake. She had no clue how long she had lain here, had it been hours? Days? Years? Surely not years, for she was alive, but she truly could not remember what path had led her here. She was disoriented but there were a few things she knew without question. Her name was Jacqueline, and she had to find him. She could not summon the once familiar face or recall why he mattered, her memories felt clouded, hidden, but she remembered crimson eyes, and a name.
Vincento Sinclair.