Present
Christopher Dawson
Mary-Allison's room is a place I'm familiar with, well, years ago before the castle was made into a hotel. It makes me sick to stay here for too long, knowing the twisted history of the castle—Knowing who else stays here. The First calls the castle home, but I can't feel him within the stones.
All I feel is Mary-Allison, and I pray to a god I no longer believe in that she'll wake. From the witches' temple, I had to carry her as she went in and out of consciousness, gibberish cascading from the corners of her mouth. That was before a soft light took over my vision. But I understood the gibberish Mary-Allison was mumbling. Just the bits I was taught centuries ago.
Mary-Allison is so much like my Allison. Allison must have become an old family name, passed down
