Cursed Womb Death Painting の小説・ストーリー

I froze, “I’ve heard of a ritual…where they store the energy and aura of pregnant women to create another pregnant woman.” “A living womb,” he confirmed and pushed a book toward me. “That curse drained those she‑wolves of sanity, energy, and soul. It hollowed them out.” I flipped through the pages, as drawings of symbols and mutilated wombs filled my vision. “What was all this for?” I asked, my voice rough.

If it weren't for that cup of water, I might never have realized she used occult means. The first time I heard the voice, I'd drunk the water she handed me. I'd hired a master to probe what was wrong, and only then learned my unborn baby carried an extra soul. It was the missing piece belonging to Ashley. The fragment could not harm us physically, but it could conjure voices that ruined lives. When I saw the shock on his face, I seized Ashley's arm and bared the scarred skin on her forearm. "This burn? She'd it had reconstructed by a doctor to impersonate me—an artificial mark to make herself look like the rescuer. Any hospital check would show it was recent."

The paintings… The young prince ran towards the storage room where those paintings were kept as instruction of the Queen when the Lord was about to burn them all. Both the king and Woon anxiously followed him and found him carelessly scattered the paintings. First painting that made Minah troubled in the museum was the depiction of the murder of the young prince. He studied it and discovered that the scenery truly exists. Second one was the slaughter of the whole village by serpents with one red haired woman beholding it all. Third was the moon eaten by darkness…its death. Jion’s eyes went here and there, realizing everything. “I…I died…” he gazed at the very first painting. That was as i

Cristina's man threw me down in front of her portrait, which hung nearly ten feet up the wall. He grabbed my hair and forced me to look up at Cristina's image like I was bowing before a queen. "Poor little thing. You dare provoke the future Madre of the Pushkin family again and again! Now, I'll teach you obedience!" I laughed with contempt. The real poor little thing was still dreaming about becoming Madre. My laughter set her off. She lifted her foot and stomped brutally on my hand. The sharp Prada heel sent pain shooting straight to my core.

From the stalls to the four identical sinks and all the way towards the entrance, large splashes and pools of dark red littered around, chaotically mixed with brutally severed human limbs, the whole image generally creating a truly grotesque sight to see. Yet...small, labored breaths filled the otherwise completely silent space, indicating the presence of only one living and breathing being. A single one being, placed in the center of the whole macabre painting, like a misplaced piece sitting in the middle of the mangled mass, crouched like a frightened little child facing its worst nightmare. All wide, her vibrant green eyes followed the thick rivers of crimson, watching them stretch from t

He asked her, his hand lingering on the painting of a woman who was breastfeeding her baby. "Yes, I did." Amery left her sister and Lola to join Benhail. "Everything in here was painted by me at one point in my life." She threw her hands backward and tiptoed towards him. "That?" She smiled. "I saw it in the hospital while I was admitted there. The woman was in the same world as me, she loved her child so much that she strived to live for the baby, but she didn't make it. When I heard she died, I was moved and I wanted to do something in her honor." she smiled, caressing the artwork.

The subjects of the paintings were haunting, shadowy figures, desolate landscapes, and scenes she couldn’t quite understand. She kept walking further, admiring the paintings till she stumbled upon one that brought her feet to a halt. That painting, in particular, made her stop. It depicted a forest shrouded in darkness, the skeletal trees twisting unnaturally toward the sky. In the center of the scene stood a woman holding a baby. Blood dripped from her, pooling around her feet in a crimson puddle. Her face was pale and hollow, her eyes two dark voids that seemed to stare directly at Adele.

It wasn’t deep — maybe twenty steps — but when I reached the bottom, my breath caught. An underground chamber stretched before me, lit faintly by threads of bioluminescent moss. At the center stood a pedestal with a crystal basin carved into its top. Faint runes circled the rim. And above the pedestal, painted in fading pigments that had somehow survived the years… was a mural. A woman with Nayla’s eyes stood beside a man with a sun mark on his chest. Between them, a child wrapped in silver and flame. Two wolves circled the figures—one white, one black.

I had also noticed that even my painting flowed better when I had a bit of a buzz. I had slowed down an hour or so before dinner then ate quickly in silence and went back upstairs where I now sat staring at the canvas. The painting was of a large room where every dark corner was populated by some type of demonic creature crawling out of the darkness and reaching for the center of the room, they were coming from the floor and ceiling as well, each stretching their long claw tipped arms out towards the two figures kneeling in a small circle of light in the center of the room. The figures were on their knees hugging, trying to protect each other.

The chamber at the end was round and high-ceilinged, and the walls were covered in paintings. They were ancient, the pigments faded but the images still clear. Theron, surrounded by three alphas, his white wolf blazing under a full moon. Mirren, building the Gray Reach, her hands full of stones. A timeline of Moon-Wolf history, painted by generations of artists who had never forgotten where they came from. And at the end of the chamber, the newest painting. A white wolf with three shadows. A battlefield soaked in red. A mother with amber-gold eyes. And beneath it, a single word painted in white.