[RP] The Forsaken Halls

As you lift the crown into your hands, its weight settles with a luxurious heaviness, the unmistakable density of pure, refined gold. The metal carries a faint warmth, as if it has absorbed the ambient energy of the chamber over centuries of undisturbed slumber. Yet, the glistening gemstones embedded within its delicate filigree are cool to the touch, their crystalline surfaces smooth and unyielding beneath your fingers.

It is a masterwork, beyond mere craftsmanship—a piece of regal elegance and exquisite detail. Each gemstone catches the light, sending fractured beams of brilliance dancing across the chamber walls, their hues shifting subtly as if holding some hidden depth. The intricate etchings along the golden band speak of an age long past, whispers of forgotten dynasties, their history woven into the very metal itself.

Even without testing it, you know this is no ordinary treasure. Its worth alone is beyond measure, a fortune that could command the allegiance of nobles or buy a fleet of warships in the right hands.

The crown feels heavy and important, but other than that no other effect happens when you put on the crown.

As the dais grinds through another quarter turn, the portrait flickers back into existence, its presence reasserting itself within the glowing pillar of light. The woman's emerald-green eyes seem even more vivid than before, her gaze as penetrating as if she were not merely painted, but watching—waiting. The moment feels heavier now, the air thick with an unspoken urgency.

You press the button once more, triggering the ancient mechanism. A pulse of golden energy surges outward from the dais, snaking across the grooves carved into the floor in bright, glowing lines. The sequence unfolds with precise elegance: first, the light strikes Mirror A, sending a clear, bell-like tone through the room. Then it jumps toward Mirror F, where the sound deepens, harmonizing with the first. Finally, the glowing trail races toward Mirror C, where the mirror’s surface ripples, shifting into the familiar liquid-like form.

But something is different this time.

Beyond the shifting glass, a figure appears—a woman, her hands pressed desperately against the inside of the mirror, her fingers splayed as if reaching toward you. Her expression is one of urgency and silent pleading, her mouth moving, though no sound escapes the shimmering barrier. She waves frantically, trying to get your attention.

There is no doubt—she is the same woman from the portrait. No longer just a painted image, she is alive, trapped behind the glass, her vivid emerald eyes locked onto yours, silently begging for release.