(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

not-too-kind terms.
The Sensoriums were paved in a graceful spiral of gray stone, an elegant, if
excessively neutral color for a chamber in the Civic Festall. The scent of the
air was neither warm nor cool, neither crisp nor muggy. Everything was
unusually in-between. That is not to say it was neutral, since even the
concept of balance and imbalance wasn't present here. The comparatively
stark decor seemed to imply an empty space, a potential where an
experience will someday be born.
"The true art of the Sensoriums is not held in the walls itself," Grace mused
as if in response to the surprised wrinkle of my brow, "Rather, the appeal is
in the sensory stones they archive here. The chambers are meant to be
empty, so that there are fewer distractions to avert the mind."
I had seen sensory stones before, in the chambers beneath Grace's brothel.
They were supposed to house memories of intense, rare sensations so that
others might bask in the experiences of another. They were songs and
poems made flesh, bound in crystal and banded in silver. But between
working at the forge, running errands, and attempting to garner any hint of
a rumor about Ravel, I hadn't had time to look into the sensoriums.
It was hard to find anything more than a whisper of the night hag, since she
had been mazed so long ago that whatever memories were left had faded
into legend, bent and re-forged a hundred times over so that the barest
trace of its original form couldn't be inferred.
Oh well, might as well sample the goods.
I wandered from chamber to chamber, each one with a stand holding a
single stone with a short description of a sensation etched along its base. In
this instance, it was 'Frightened Exhilaration,' scribed in a graceful flourish. I
cupped my hands over the metal bands enrobing the glassy surface, like the
strings of a woman's bodice bound against naked flesh. The moment my
fingers touched the glassy surface, however, I could feel the warm pulse of
the memory beneath, writhing and eager for a mind to latch onto.
It didn't take much urging to pull the experience into myself. Immediately it
bubbled at the invitation, leapt toward the surface as if to press against my
fingers. My heart leapt at the shock like a splash of cold water, and for that
moment I forgot who and what I was...
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