The Devil's Dreams, Chapter 1, IC

[Brock Marsh Runoff]

"Napkirály's bloody mouth," he says to Thom, invoking The Morninglord's Luktar name, "If I told it word for word, it would hardly be a good story!" The priest is clearly in his cups at this point. Dorgio had always been a man who enjoyed a drink, but in the nine months since Evie's murder he'd seemed to be making true and diligent study of the mysteries of the bottle.

[Adam]

Bennedict nods absentmindedly to Dorgio's story."no trouble with disease since the event I trust?" he mutters, continuing to rehearse his talk for tomorrow in the back of his mind.

*OOC: hurray for the ipad auto correct.*

[ewancummins]

Delapore estate at night



The twilight outside the parlor window gives way to true night, and still the dinner continues. Servants carry lamps out to the guests eating in the garden- those who've arrived late or who prefer a little fresh air with their meals.
As time passes, guests begin to drift away- stomachs full and headed for bed. The last guest to leave is Dorgio, who picks his way through the parlor's maze of disordered furniture with all the deliberate care of a man grown accustomed to navigating a messy room in poor lighting while fairly soaked in booze. After the priest has left the room, a pair of silent servants stalks through the clutter, neatly rearranging things for tomorrow.


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After dinner, when most of the others have gone to bed, Zandor takes a lit candle in a tin holder and makes his way to a certain second floor room, the guesthouse’s only double suite. He pauses a moment before the closed door and then softly, very softly raps on the door panel with his knuckles.
Zandor hears splashing and a soft, silken rustling within the room, followed by approaching footsteps. The doorknob turns with a thin squeal. The door opens partway, enough for Zandor to peer in and see the lovely young woman who stands on the other side of the doorway. She looks so much like her sister that, as she’s dressed in a yellow silk bathrobe and not the clothing she’d worn earlier today, the bard cannot be sure which of the twins she is. The Weathermay girl brushes a damp lock of dark hair from her face, and stares at Zandor a calm, almost stony expression on her face. She opens her delicate mouth slightly as if to speak, but then she falls silent, compressing her lips into a tight line.

Zandor speaks with confidence, his eyes meeting hers without any shyness.

‘’Ah, I was hoping that it would be you.’’
Her expression softens, her lips curl into a smile, and just the hint of a blush rises to her cheeks. She comes nearer to Zandor, one slender finger raised to her lips.

‘’My sister sleeps.’’….



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On the far side of the guesthouse, a figure in dark clothing and a mask crawls out a first floor window and creeps off into the darkness, staying low and moving stealthily.

…................................................................

Alain lies in bed wrapped in a woolen blanket, sleeping after his long ride to the estate. A faint stream of starlight falls through the open shutters, but this hardly disturbs Alain- whose mind is elsewhere at the moment.

Tonight he dreams of his homeland beyond the Mists: Furyondy’s golden fields, the alabaster walls of Royal Chendl, the deep blue waters of the Nyr Dyv, his family and his old friends- things he knew and felt and saw only two short years ago, now just dreams, memories, ghosts.


Outside Alain’s window hunches a figure all wrapped in rotten funereal shrouds, peeking through the wooden slats.
In a soft, dry whisper- not nearly loud enough to rouse Alain- the strange figure speaks-

‘’And of what, I wonder, do you dream, unkind one? Riches, fame, glory, the delights to be found in a woman’s soft flesh? Some fond memory, perhaps? Ah, but I perceive that you are troubled. Is it something that you have lost….or is it you who have become lost? Dream on, then, till morn. I will keep watch over you. Tomorrow, it begins in earnest.“



END OF CHAPTER ONE