The Lords of the Middle Air

This is the half idea that came to me this morning for the Stage. It's not very good, it's not finished, and it doesn't really tell you anything. But maybe it'll spark some controversy and some other ideas. Inspiration comes from everywhere, right?

She was late. She should have been there at least a half an hour ago. The Dawnwalker was going to be very upset with her when they finally met, but she couldn’t have helped it, really. She had taken the advice of that idiot Silversmith and rode a ship through the Inter’verse Winds. He had assured her that it would get her to her destination faster, but it had been a catastrophe. Next time, she’ll just walk, thank you very much.
She couldn’t wait to get her hands around that moron’s neck. He was going to regret lying to her. He was going to regret ever meeting her.
Her hair was a mess, her scarf was askew, and her jacket didn’t sit right on her back anymore. Not to mention, her shoes were drenched.
She stalked down the rusted, crumbling hallway, passing door after door. None of them had any numbers or significant markings on them—they all looked the same. This was one of those places where you could only get to where you were going if you knew your way around. The Walkers liked it that way because they hated being bothered by strangers.
When she came to the appropriate door, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open. She didn’t knock or announce herself. There wasn’t any need. He knew who she was and why she was here. And he would probably be angry if she interrupted his procedure.
He sat in the middle of the room, kneeling down on his shins. The floor was covered in small candles, all lit up, in no particular order or pattern. He chanted a whispered mantra about the contrasts of light and void.
About a foot and a half away from him was a girl, trapped inside the invisible barrier of a large arcane circle. Enochian symbols were written on the floor and on the ceiling above her head, outlining the poor girl’s prison walls.
The young girl starting screaming at her to help, to get her out of there, but she didn’t move. She could see the girl’s mouth forming words, could see the terror and desperation in her eyes, but no sound was heard.
“You’re late,” the Dawnwalker spoke out loud. He turned his head and looked up at her, treating her to the full sight of his strange, scarred face. Meaningful lines and tattoos covered his features (even his eyelids), and his smile was ghostly.
She stood her ground, refusing to show how unnerved she was. Dawnwalkers creeped her out, no matter how much she used them or spent time around them. There was just something so wrong about beings who marked up their own faces that badly.
“I know,” she replied. “Got caught up in the Winds. That’s why I don’t look as pretty as I usually do.”
His smile grew ever so slightly wider as his eyes scanned down her body. Ew. She mentally shuttered. She shouldn’t have said anything. She needed to learn to curb her tongue better.
“Okay. Let’s get on with this.” She huffed a breath and took a few steps toward the girl in the circle. She was pretty, the obvious perfect sacrifice.
This was a new venture, a path as of yet unexplored by the general population. Using Dawnwalkers was common enough, but there were few people willing to brave a chat with the Ones that she would be chatting with.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said to the girl. “I know that doesn’t count for much, but under the circumstances, it’s really all you got.”
The girl’s lips moved fast, asking questions.
“Look, it’s nothing you did,” she replied to the silent inquiry. “It’s not like this is about you. It’s just the way things go sometimes. I need to talk to someone extremely larger than this dimension and we need a conduit.”
Now the girl was crying and pleading.
“If we hadn’t chosen you, we would’ve picked another girl, and she would be going through the same thing you are. That doesn’t really change anything in the grand scheme of things, does it? It’s nothing personal. I promise to make them kill you quick.”
The girl lowered her head and cried, running one of her hands across her face.
“If it’s any consolation,” she whispered. “I’ll make your death mean a lot more than your life ever had.”
Then she turned around and walked to the other side of the room, rubbing her mouth. She had never done this before. Maybe this was the one road she shouldn’t follow. Maybe she should just call this whole thing off.
But, no. She couldn’t. She had to make this work, had to have an answer. There were a lot of people counting on the results of what was about to happen.
The Dawnwalker was staring at her, reading her thoughts like the pages of a book. His grin reached from ear to ear, and she wanted to smack it right off him. But that would require her touching him.
She waved her hand in their direction, a motion for the séance to begin. He turned around and proceeded with his magic.
It was a few minutes before everything started to take effect. Contrary to popular belief, nothing in the room glowed or flew around or shook. Nothing outside the circle seemed to be changing at all. There was no sound. Which was eerie and ominous, in and of itself. She might’ve preferred to see a little chaos.
Inside the circle, however, was a nightmare. The girl was screaming and writhing and gripping her head. She threw herself against the walls and kicked at nothing. Her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers twisted oddly.
There was a few seconds that passed that seemed like she was trying to peel something off her skin, or wipe away a substance that was adhering to her body. Then she breathed in a huge gulp of air and froze—eyes shut, legs separated, arms at her sides, fingers stretched out as far as they could, everything straining.
The Dawnwalker turned back to his client and said, “The sound-barrier is severed. You may converse.”
She took two steps closer to the circle and eyed the girl. “Who are you?” she asked.
The girl spoke with a slack-jawed expression, her eyes still closed. “We have many names. We are known by many peoples and many generations. They all speak of us, yet they do not know us or know that we are one and the same.”
“I’ll ask again,” she said. “Who are you?”
“We are the dark. The shadows at midnight. The Secret Scions of Limbo. We are the Caretakers of the Unborn and the Banished. We hide between the walls of the Inter’verse and watch all those who go there and never return. We are the Lords of the Middle Air.”
There. That was what she had been looking for. She would’ve smiled at her triumph, had it not cost her so much already. “Good,” she replied. “Then you can help me.”