IrateRapScallion
patreon
Chapter 46 version 2
🕑 Added 2018-10-17 16:59:33 +0000 UTC [Here is the new version of Chapter 46. If you read the previous chapter 46, please read this one anyway. It's different enough to warrant a second read. Or at least skim it :P Peace!]“Green, Black, three. House wins.”
A chorus of angry groans erupted from the assembled gamblers around the caretta table. Nobody’s voice was louder than Tehlmar’s. An aggrieved, drunken protest emerged from his lips as he slammed his fist onto the polished wooden tabletop.
“Bullshit!” he slurred, his long, pointed ears red from the potent combination of alcohol and rage. “This game’s rigged! This whole place’s rigged!”
The other gamblers quickly backed away as Tehlmar staggered towards the house’s roller, who stood at the other end of the table. The smoky air teamed up with the booze to make the room swim and shift in his vision. He kept his right hand on the table for balance while he fumbled beneath his shirt with his left, looking for the dagger he always kept hidden there.
Nothing. What? It had to be there! Where had it gone?
Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice tried to tell him that things were different now, but it could not pierce the inebriated din that thundered through his head. He continued to fumble as he neared the roller, the man’s desperate waving towards somebody else making no impression on him. Tehlmar reached out and grabbed the man by arm. “I know loaded dice when I see them. Give me back my money,” he demanded.
“Sir, it’s time for you to leave,” said a voice behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder, grasping it firmly.
Tehlmar’s body whirled into action, decades of training overriding conscious thought. Ducking down, he spun about with unexpected quickness, his leg extending out to sweep the person off their feet. Then he stumbled, his head spinning from the sudden explosive movements. This was far from Tehlmar’s first drunken fight, but experience couldn’t remove the penalty of alcohol. It could, however, minimize it. Instead of fighting the stumble, he went with it, turning it into a somewhat awkward tumble that placed him just beside the falling man as the man landed, flailing, chest-down on the ground.
Ignoring the panicked shouts coming from all around, Tehlmar rolled on top of his opponent and pinned him to the floor, using his weight to keep the man from getting up while he tried to grab one of the man’s two left arms. After a moment he succeeded, whereupon he twisted the man’s arm around behind him and began to pull, forcing the limb up at an angle that no shoulder was meant to handle. With a sickening pop, the shoulder dislocated and the man screamed in agony.
A body slammed into Tehlmar, knocking him prone. He struggled against his new assailant, but before he could maneuver properly a second body joined in. Then a third, and a fourth.
“You’re all bloody cheaters!” he shouted. “Dirty, rotten shitstains! I’m gonna-”
Something hard hit the back on his head, and the lights went out.
* * *
Slowly, carefully, Tehlmar sliced, the sharp knife easily turning the large vegetables from whole entities into a pile of small thin pieces. He smoothly scooped them up and dropped them into a nearby bowl, the pieces eliciting soft tinks as they bounced off the fine while porcelain. Suddenly Tehlmar’s ears picked up a low, mournful wail off in the distance, its volume slowly building and its pitch rising until it became an unearthly cry that sent waves of dread washing over him. Another wail joined the first, then another, and another, each closer than before, until the entire world seemed to be crying out in warning. Dropping the knife onto the counter, he rushed out of the kitchen and donned her straw sandals, then raced out of his small house to find a street already clogged with people. The wailing continued all around the city as thousands of others poured from their houses, all desperate to get out as quickly as possible.
Then his ears picked up a sound over the wailing, the sound of a million giant insects beating their wings in a massive swarm. Utter terror consumed him and he ran, following the tide of panicked people. He knew that sound. That was the sound of death.
* * *
Tehlmar screamed as he woke in a cold sweat. He’d had that accursed dream again. He must not have been drunk enough last night. Stopping the nightmares wasn’t the primary reason he drank, but it sure was a pleasant side effect. Tehlmar rubbed his head, trying to ease the headache that felt like it would split his head wide open any moment now. This was nothing new—pretty much every morning began with a wicked hangover. It was just that this time there was an extra coat of pain layered atop the normal one. He rubbed his head, finding a large, sore bump on the back of his skull. What happened last night?
Tehlmar wracked his memory, but found it fuzzy. This was no surprise, as his memory of most anything that had happened since he’d arrived here was hazy. It was hard to create memories when drunk off your ass, after all, and he’d been almost perpetually in such a condition from the start. Booze was the easiest, surest way to cope.
He hated it here. Nothing felt right. He couldn’t get used to the noises of the windmills that dotted the city, their creaks and groans the never ending soundtrack to his new life. He couldn’t get used to the stares, especially the feeling he got whenever he entered a room and everybody else watched him while trying to hide it. He couldn’t get used to the formality, or the luxury, or the way everybody talked about him behind his back. But most of all, he couldn’t get used to the beds. After years of sleeping on the ground, in trees, or on hard, lumpy straw mattresses found in low-quality inns, his body couldn’t handle these expensive beds that made it feel like you were sleeping on a cloud. It felt like he was being engulfed in the downy softness, and that if he weren’t careful he would sink in so deep that he’d never climb back out.
He groaned as he rolled his way towards the edge of his bed, his mind still trying to remember the previous day’s events. He could recall hearing of a gambling den, a different one than the two others he’d been kicked out of already. He’d ditched his attendants, made his way there, had a few more drinks—okay, more than just a few—and... and... well something had happened, that was for sure, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall what it was or how he’d made it home afterward.
Now thankfully at the bed’s edge, Tehlmar reached down and fished for one of his hidden bottles of liquor, only to find nothing. Strange. With a grunt he plopped himself down onto the soft throw rug placed by his bedside and got down on his hands and knees to look underneath the bed. He paled. There was nothing there.
Quickly making his way to a nearby wardrobe, he crouched down again and checked for the flask he’d hidden beneath. Nothing. A chill ran down his spine. Panic rising, he opened the wardrobe and rooted around from the secret compartment hidden in the bottom. Nothing. All his booze was gone. That could only mean one thing: he was in serious trouble.
Somebody knocked on the door. Quickly, Tehlmar straightened up, shutting the wardrobe cinching his bed wear shut. “Enter,” he called.
The door opened to reveal a well-dressed male servant, one of the stewards of the household, with two female servants behind him. The man bowed. “Your father summons you to the tea room in an hour,” he said. The two women entered and the steward shut the door, leaving Tehlmar trapped with the women against his will.
What followed was something that could only be described as torture. The two servant women forced him into a bath, after which they proceeded to dress him, cake his face with a variety of makeups, and addressed his tangled hair. The entire time, neither woman dropped her polite, servantly smile, but that smile never went to their eyes. Those eyes bothered him. They gazed at him the same way all the women here did, like they were looking at an exquisitely prepared meal on a dish.
Nearly an hour later, Tehlmar emerged from his bedroom looking like a different man. His long green hair fell down onto his shoulders in a complex series of interlocking braids, the color almost blending in with the ornate emerald outfit he wore, complete with robe and cape. The bright, vibrant colors of his hair and clothing stood in stark contrast to his bleached-white face, which was covered in so much makeup that he felt like a doll. Just once, he’d like to meet whatever moron had decided that people of his station had to dress up like idiots and cover themselves with powders and paints at all times, just so he could punch them in the throat.
His legs moved on their own, carrying him through the expansive manor. Though he hadn’t been back in decades, the layout of the place had not changed since his childhood, and so he knew his way. Soon enough he stood outside the tea room, still weighing his options. He really didn’t want to deal with his father right now, especially not with a hangover and a head injury. For a moment, Tehlmar considered running away for a few days and avoiding the whole situation, but quickly decided against it. He’d burned enough bridges these last few seasons. No, as much as he didn’t want to, he had to do this. Family, and all that junk.
Tehlmar knocked on the tea room door and waited until he heard the soft, faint voice of his father calling him in. Entering the luxurious room, he spied his father Fimnas sitting in a large armchair, a steaming cup of tea sitting on an small end table beside him. Every time Tehlmar saw his old man now, he couldn't get over how frail he looked. Fimnas had been remarkably old compared to the average Drayhadan father even back when Tehlmar had been born, and the decades since had not treated him kindly. As a child, Tehlmar had always seen his father as a large, strong figure. Now, it was like his weight and majesty had evaporated, and what had once been an endless ocean was now only a small puddle by the side of the road. His long, white hair blended with his equally long white beard to practically envelop the thin, frail body. Unlike other species, elves never suffered wrinkles, liver spots, saggy skin, or other signs of old age. They just seemed to wither away until one day their body stopped and they were gone. Judging by his appearance and the way his hands shook when he lifted the teacup to his lips, Tehlmar estimated that he only had a few more years left in him. A decade at most.
“Sit,” the old man said, his voice somewhat weak but still firm and commanding as it was in Tehlmar’s memories. Almost by reflex, Tehlmar obeyed, taking a seat in the chair opposite his father’s. The man closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, his gaze had become stern and harsh. Tehlmar returned his gaze defiantly, almost petulantly.
“My son,” he began, “words could not describe how happy I was when you returned after all these years. When they took you away, I had never felt so powerless in my life. I thought we might never see you again, and if I ever did, you would not be the young boy that I knew and loved. That’s why I’ve done my best to give you space until you were ready.”
Tehlmar held his tongue and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This felt the same as the lectures his father had given him back when he was just a young boy. Tehlmar just braced himself for the tirade that was surely coming after these mild attempts at sympathy.
“I can’t imagine how hard it must be to transition from living with barbarians,” the elderly elf continued, “but I never imagined you would defile yourself and our entire clan the way you have since you arrived. You have disappointed me at every juncture. You spend your days as a drunken lout, gambling your money away and associating with degenerates well below your station. After your puerile little brawl last night, it has become clear to me that I have been far too lenient on you.
“None of this behavior is becoming of a prince, and I will tolerate it no longer. I don’t care who you were before. You are Tehlmar Esmae, heir to one of the four ruling clans of this land, and it’s time that you started acting like it. Your sister has filled in during your absence, but it is well past time for her to dedicate herself to her virtues and accept a suitor. Primary rule will cycle in two decades from the Casm clan to ours, and you will reign supreme over all the land. Your preparations begin now. No more drunken escapades. No more dressing like a beggar. You will behave properly from now on. Is that clear?”
“Fuck no! Don't tell me what to fucking do!” Tehlmar shot back, genuine anger in his voice.
“Tehlmar! Do not sully what is left of your reputation with such vulgarities!”
“Shut up! I’m not a fucking child! I’m a grown-ass man, and I get to decide what I do with my own life! I wouldn’t even be any good at ruling the clan, anyway! Let somebody else do it!”
“There is no one else! Do you really think I would want to elevate a crass, boorish barbarian-tainted man-child to the highest position in the country if I had any other choice?”
“You seem to have been doing just fine without me.”
“The current state of affairs cannot continue. A woman has no place on the throne, you know that as well as I. Pyria should be fulfilling her womanly duties, not inspecting crop yields. That is why it is imperative that we prepare you so that she can take her proper place in society as soon as possible. Now, in order to get you on the right path, I-”
A knock came from the door.
“Ah, there he is now. Enter!”
The door opened and a man stepped in before bowing to Fimnas. He wore the clothes of a high-level servant on his body and an dour frown on his face. Slightly shorter than Tehlmar, his dark black hair was cut so that it fell just below his ears onto one side—a standard haircut for men of his rank. His eyes inspected Tehlmar, obviously unimpressed with what he saw. Tehlmar didn’t like him from the start. The man radiated the aura of a killjoy. What gave Tehlmar such a bad feeling, however, was the man’s rather open disdain for him. No functionary would be able to get away with such a disrespectful look before a the patriarch of a noble clan and his son, unless...
“This is Artiermius, one of our best young assistants. By my authority, he has control over your schedule for the indefinite future. You will go where he says you go. You will do what he tells you to do. It is his task to rehabilitate you and I am giving him whatever power he needs in order to accomplish that.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“One must not hold back in the final hour, my son.”
“And why should I accept any of this bullshit?”
“What are you going to do? Run away? Go ahead, if you never want to see the sunlight again.”
“But how could I rule the clan from a dungeon cell, father?” Tehlmar replied, laying the sarcasm on thick.
"I wouldn't be the one throwing you in a cell, fool. Tell me, my boy, did you never stop to wonder just why the Masked Battalion was so lenient on you?”
Tehlmar stiffened as a shiver flowed down his spine. In a way, the Masked Battalion was his family far more than his birth clan. The secretive order of undercover spies had raised him since the age of eight, teaching him the secret techniques that allowed one to take another form and hold it for decades, all the while still retaining the ability to use Feeler abilities. These techniques were vital for the members of the order to fulfill their important role: being the nation’s hidden eyes and ears in the rest of the world, integrating themselves in all levels of barbarian society and keeping tabs on trends and movements.
Thanks to such an upbringing, Tehlmar knew better than anybody what the the Battalion could be like to those it viewed as enemies. The order was an independent organization created millennia ago. Only by being dogmatically secretive and paranoid at all times had it managed to maintain its independence in a country dominated by four ruling clans constantly looking for an edge against each other. They did not look kindly on such things as insubordination, of which he was most definitely guilty.
Tehlmar had no idea how his father had come to such information, but the old bastard was correct. Tehlmar’s “tour” had come to an end three years prior and the expected recall order had come. He’d ignored it, for a variety of reasons. The fact that he’d continued to send back reports had not fully cleared him of suspicion. If he were to fly the coop now, all he would accomplish would be to draw their full attention.
“I’m glad you understand your situation,” Fimnas said, Tehlmar’s look of resignation all the answer that he needed. “Now, off with you. Enough time has been wasted as it is. There’s a lot of studying, working, and courting for you to catch up on.”
* * *
“-then fiscal policy lessons from twelve to fourteen, an hour for dinner and to clean up, and from fifteen to eighteen I will personally tutor you in- are you listening to me?” Artiermius snapped his fingers in front of Tehlmar’s face.
“Etiquette, money, food, tutor, got it,” Tehlmar lied. The man’s words had barely registered with him, his own head still coming to grips with everything his father had just dropped in his lap. More than anything, though, his mind was spiraling around just one word: courting.
The nature of romance and marriage in Drayhadal was a complex one. In some ways it began with the women, who spent a large portion of their time and effort working towards what was known as the “Seven Virtues”: seven categories of femininity considered to make up the perfect woman, including things like beauty, music, poetry, and the like. The more desirable a woman made herself, the more she could demand from her suitors. That was where the men came in. In Drayhadan society, your man was your ultimate status symbol. The more great feats he’d accomplished and the higher his status, the better you looked and the better you were treated. This stood true in every rung of society; even poor commoners spent what time they had when not working practicing the Virtues in the hopes of attracting the best man they could to improve their lives.
Once a woman performed the Dance of Awakening during the Festival of Rebirth, she was considered eligible and open for suitors. That was where the second step began. An eligible woman could be approached by suitors who wanted to court her. The contact had to be initiated by the man, never the woman. The man would carve an ertani, otherwise known as a “spirit carving”, which was a small, hand-sized wooden token in the shape of the woman’s spirit, or more accurately how the suitor imagined her spirit. These carvings were such a crucial part of the courtship process that in large Drayhadan cities there were entire stores devoted to nothing but ertani supplies. Once the carving was complete and presented to the woman, the onus fell on her once more.
This was the last part of the courtship process: the judgment. While men were the only ones who could initiate courtship, the woman had the final say. If she found the man appealing and his accomplishments worthy, she could accept. If she found promise in him, she could answer that he needed greater feats before she would accept him. Otherwise, she could simply reject him and that was the end of it.
This entire process exemplified everything that Tehlmar hated about Drayhadal’s culture. Like all things Drayhadan, it was needlessly complicated, rigid in its structure, and a long, overdrawn waste of time. What really killed him, however, was that this wasn’t even the process for marriage. All that work was just to start a relationship! Given the long lifespans of the elven race, a lot of importance was placed on finding the perfect partner, as a so-so relationship would never survive the many decades they would be together. If the couple decided they didn’t like each other enough, they’d split and it would be back to the start for both of them!
This was the bullshit Tehlmar had to look forward to now. As a prince, he was expected to marry and produce heirs sooner rather than later, which meant going through this whole rigmarole several times at the least. There was nothing in the world he wanted to avoid more.
Perhaps in another world, one where he’d grown up here in the Esmae compound living the life of a normal young prince for the last eighty-five years, he would have found the idea of courting a delicate elven flower exciting. Unfortunately he didn’t have that luxury. In this reality, these poem-spouting, petal-dancing girls with their perfect faces and dainty fingers held no appeal to him. Not even all of them combined could hold a candle to Arlette Demirt.
Arlette.
His heart ached for her constantly, the pain growing worse every day. He hoped to death that she was alright. Sure, he knew she’d escaped the Kutrad dungeon, thanks to the news of the wild events in Xoginia. But since then word of her had run dry. Where was she? Was she still alive? He wanted to rush back north and go find her, to make sure she was okay and be with her again. He wanted it more than anything. But that was simply impossible. Jaquet the Quick was no more. He was a prince now. He wasn’t allowed to live that kind of life ever again. But even if he could, it wouldn’t matter. Arlette would never accept him. Not after what he’d done. Just the thought made him yearn for a flagon of booze.
Tehlmar drank for many reasons. He drank to liven up his empty days. He drank to drive away annoying sycophants who wanted to kiss up to the new prince. He drank because it made him feel better. He drank because it sometimes kept the nightmares away. But more than anything else, Tehlmar drank to forget. He drank to forget all those lazy days with her, traveling down endless roads on overcrowded wagons. He drank to forget the annoyed smile on her face when he’d tell a particularly bad joke, where she seemed equally ready to laugh and to punch him in the face. He drank to forget how she stood tall against any opponent, how not even an entire country hunting them was enough to break her.
Most of all, he drank to forget that day. He drank to forget the pain in her voice when she’d realized the truth. He drank to forget her haunting laughter echoing down the hall as he left. He drank to forget the fact that he’d never looked at her, not once the entire time, too afraid of the betrayal he would find in her eyes.
It never worked. Every morning he would wake up, the fog in his mind gone, and he’d remember the truth all over again. He would remember that he was a coward.
* * *
“-which is why when Casm investment into the clothing industry upset the delicate balance, the end result was a cascade of inter-house alliances that nearly led to war between the clans. It was with this in mind that the Kechouyae Accords were established-”
Tehlmar fought to keep his head up as Artiermius droned on and on. He wanted to die. This entire day had been a parade of boredom, each exercise somehow worse than the last, but nothing had prepared him for this pedantic jerkoff’s idea of “history lessons”. The man had not made a good first impression, and by now Tehlmar was convinced that Artiermius was the sort of person who counted his bath soaps to make sure he had an even number or kept a journal of everything he ate, including all the mundane details like weight and coloring. To make matters worse, the functionary seemed to really relish the second-hand power he held over the prince. Tehlmar hated his very existence.
The bureaucrat’s long-winded blathering came to a halt as Tehlmar stood up and stretched. “What are you doing? Sit down,” Artiermius demanded. “There are still two hours of lessons remaining.”
“I’m done,” Tehlmar stated. “I can’t take any more of this today.”
“You will sit down this instant! I am in charge here, not you!”
Yeah, this guy was practically getting off on his authority. Tehlmar decided it was time for a slight attitude adjustment. Straightening up, he closed in on the smaller man until he was practically breathing down the other man’s face. “Look, pal. I’m going to make this simple for you. I am going to walk out that door, and you can’t stop me. You know where I came from. You know what I can do. And so you know that if you piss me off, nobody will ever find your body. Is that clear?”
To Tehlmar’s shock, Artiermius didn’t even flinch. Tehlmar begrudgingly raised his opinion of the man just slightly out of respect. “You know I have to report this uncouth behavior,” the man said, staring Tehlmar right back in the eyes.
“Go right ahead. Tell that bitch everything, I don’t care.”
“My authority comes from the clan head himself.”
“Come off it. We both know who has the real power here. Father just likes to feel important and pretend that he’s still running the clan but we both know that she’s the one really pulling the strings. I’d bet money that she hand-picked you, didn’t she?” This time Artiermius flinched ever so slightly. “That’s what I thought. I’m done with this for today.”
Turning around, Tehlmar strode towards the door, leaving the stammering servant to blabber at his back. He didn’t know where he was going, or what he would do; he just knew that if he didn’t leave now he’d go crazy. He’d figure something out, he was sure. This was actually the first evening since his arrival where he wasn’t completely sloshed. Surely there was something he’d intended to do that he could busy himself with.
As he made his way towards the door, he passed by a window just as a large flock of birds flew by, their shadows peppering his eyes with darkness and light, and suddenly the world was in flames.
Flames roared in his ears. Everything burned. Everything. There was no escape from this inferno, this hellscape. He could feel the heat singing his skin as he ran, but try as he might, he could not outrun the great flocks of metal birds soaring high above in the night sky, nor could he outrun the eggs they dropped that turned everything around into fire. He was going to die here. There was no escape, only death and despair. All around him, his city burned and his countrymen died. He would be joining them soon.
“-ince! Wake up! Prince Tehlmar!”
Tehlmar bolted to his feet, his heart racing, his breath quick and strained. It took him a moment to realize he was back in the palace room with Artiermius and not roasting alive in a foreign city that felt like home. He’d had a flashback. Again. The terror of the vision gave way to a fierce anger. He hadn’t had a flashback in more than twenty days. Why wasn’t he over this?!
“FUCK!” he roared, lashing out with his foot and sending a small nearby table flying across the room.
“Calm yourself, Prince. This is no way for a noble to-.”
“You shut you fucking face, you pompous shitbag,” Tehlmar growled, spinning about and seizing the other man by the throat and slamming him against the nearby wall. “Now you listen, and you listen well. I’m going to ask you a simple question, and if I don’t like your answer, I might do something we’ll both regret. Understand? Good. During the last invasion, somebody took down the entire army by themselves. Who was it, Artiermius? Who fucked with my mind?”
Artiermius swallowed fearfully and looked away, avoiding his gaze. Tehlmar could see the indecision, the thoughts warring with each other inside the man’s head. The servant took a long, deep breath. “They call her the Mother of Nightmares,” he said, almost too softly for Tehlmar to hear.
Tehlmar released his grip on the man’s throat and took a half-step back. The Mother of Nightmares. Tehlmar had never heard such a name before. Somehow it helped a little just to be able to put a name to it. And what a name. He’d met a myriad soldiers and mercenaries with names and titles forged from feats in battle, but had never heard one so... chilling before. And yet... it was an incredibly accurate title. He’d be one to know.
“Where is she? Take me to her.”
“I-I do not think it is wise for me to do that,” the servant said, hesitantly.
“Look, I’ll start cooperating, alright? I’ll pay attention to your stupid lessons, I’ll practice the stupid dances, I’ll eat with the right fucking fork, I’ll do whatever you tell me if you will take me to her. I need to see her, Artiermius, or I will never be free of her curse. But this is the only time I will offer you this. This is your one chance.”
The servant frowned and let out a disapproving hum. “Very well, if you will swear on your honor as Prince of the Esmae, I will do as you ask.”
“I swear.”
“Then let us depart at once,” Artiermius said, taking a glance out the window at the sun as it neared the horizon. “I hear that she goes to sleep quite early.”
* * *
An hour of travel later, Tehlmar and Artiermius found themselves walking through a field southwest of Esmaeyae, approaching a large house standing atop a small hill off in the distance. For a long time, Tehlmar had been very confused and unsure that the servant knew where he was going, but seeing almost a hundred soldiers standing guard and patrolling the area around the hill was enough to convince him that they were at the right place. Not that he understood why this powerful person would be out in the middle of nowhere instead of enjoying a soft, pampered life inside the city.
“Halt! Who goes there?” came a shout as a squad of soldiers hustled over.
Tehlmar let his thoughts drift as he let Artiermius do the talking, his mind wondering about just who this person was. Every time he had the vision, it all felt so terribly real. He could hear the sound of the strange birds overhead, smell the smoke from the inferno and feel its searing heat. He would even taste his own blood in his mouth. Even beyond the senses, everything had felt like it made sense. The birds high up in the sky, for example. Whenever he saw them, he’d feel like he knew what they were, and the fear was not the fear of the unknown. But whenever he thought back on it after he woke, he couldn’t recall why he had felt that way. They were unknown to him, no doubt about it.
In a way, Tehlmar had to admit that part of him was simply reluctant to acknowledge that Sofie might have been right. That annoying girl had always claimed to be from another world, and he’d always chalked it up to her being a poor delusional fool, but she’d been the only person who seemed to understand their experiences. Maybe she’d been right all along... not that he would ever admit such a thing to her face.
The guards waved them through after inspecting some sort of official document that Artiermius had pulled out. As they approached the house, Tehlmar took note of the building’s condition. Everything, the stone, the wood, the curtains he could see in the windows, looked new, almost as if this building had been built for the Mother of Nightmares herself. The sun had set just a short time ago, and little light could be seen in the house except in one room, where he could see the telltale flicking light of a fire raging in a fireplace.
A servant emerged from the front door and bowed, then led them inside. “Mistress,” he said, entering the room with the fireplace while the two of them waited at the door, “there are two visitors here to see you.”
“Oh?” asked a raspy voice coming from an armchair facing away from them. “Visitors at this hour? How interesting! Please come in!”
Tehlmar entered, marching by the exiting servant with a full head of steam. He felt the simmering anger from before bubble up from deep inside him, an anger that had been slowly building up ever since the battle with each nightmare and flashback. Until today, he’d never thought that he’d get the opportunity to actually let it out on the person responsible for the pain and anguish he’d suffered. But here he was, and he was about to give this person everything he had.
“So you’re the one who fucked with my mind?” he asked rounding the pair of chairs. “I should... I...”
Tehlmar’s voice trailed off into the nether, his mind locking up as he finally looked upon the being capable of stopping an entire army in its tracks. He couldn’t process what his eyes were telling him. He’d expected many possibilities, but this... this was far beyond anything he’d imagined possible. Yet he could not deny what he saw. Smiling up at him with a puzzled look on her face sat the Mother of Nightmares, the oldest-looking person he’d ever fucking seen.
