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springlockedfoxy · 5 years ago

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A more fitting end

I really didn’t like the ending to the third story in the FNaF novel series.

So... I fixed it.

Major spoilers for the third story from Into the Pit.

A More Fitting End

As Millie saw the Sword of Damocles above her, she had to reformulate her plan. The light from the small gap shone on the blade, and she recognized it as a bit of sheet metal that had been beside the bear when she’d crawled into the infernal thing.

The blade descended, peals of laughter echoing around her as the creature indulged in its private joy.

Millie braced herself, before shoving her entire body to the right of the slicing guillotine. The sheet metal lodged into the bottom of the beast, and she heard it sigh with contentment.

“Wish granted, Silly Millie,” it said, as if proud of its accomplishment.

Millie tried not to even breathe as she rested against the wall of the bear’s stomach. She did, however, shift her weight just a little, and using the new leverage found with the sheet of metal, began pushing on the door to the bear’s belly.

“Hmm?” The bear hummed, a sound that would have been in its throat... if it had had one.

Millie pushed with all of her might, bracing her shoulders against the metal, her feet planted solidly against the door, until it sprang open with a bang, and Millie wasted no time in escaping the brazen bear. She turned on it, looking at the thing she’d been trapped in, seeing its rolling eyes, and the almost startled expression.

“How...?” It asked, before the black eyebrows drew down over the angered blue eyes. “Get back here,” it growled. “I’m not through with you!”

The whole creature shuddered as it began clambering to its feet.

Millie looked around, before she huffed, and didn’t wait for it to finish its movement. She lunged for the giant electrical kill switch.

The robot gasped, reaching out to stop her, but she hauled it down with all of her might, and everything went dark.

She stood, panting in the new oppressive silence.

Until echoing laughter began ringing in her ears.

“Silly Millie,” the voice of the bear growled, the eyes suddenly appearing above her, glowing brightly, the lights overspill illuminating its mouth. “I run on batteries!”

Millie screamed, blindly running through the workshop. She banged into the door, but a heavy metal paw pressed against it, keeping it closed.

“Foolish girl, did you think you’d escape so easily?” The bear chided, before grabbing her by the arm, and began making attempts to stuff her back into its gaping belly. She screamed, again and again until she was hoarse, fingernails raking at the plastic exterior.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice Millie had never heard be so strong rang out.

A flashlight raked across Millie’s eyes and her grandfather's face swam into view. He lifted a foot and booted the bear in the face. It rocked back at the impact, sending Millie tumbling to the floor.

The old man picked up a baseball bat and pranged it across the head a few more times.

Millie watched as the bear stopped moving, and grandpa prodded it with the weapon.

“It’s dangerous in here, Millie. Back to the house.” There was nothing in his tone that brooked any kind of response except doing exactly what he said.

Millie moved back into the house, her eyes down, feeling the warmth of the home wash over her.

She had a second chance.

Her eyes stung with tears as she saw the concerned faces of her relatives swim into view in the soft candlelight.

Wait, candlelight?

After a moment, the lights flickered back on again, and there was collective elation in the home.

Grandpa came stomping back in again. “Millie threw the breaker to the house,” he said. “Something was malfunctioning in the workshop.” He nodded down to Millie, and then moved past her, leaving the remaining half of the baseball bat resting against the wall.

Slowly, Millie waded into the normalcy of the room, looking at her relatives. She smoothed her dress down, and sat on the edge of the couch, feeling very self-conscious.

“Sorry about that. It was dangerous in there,” she said quietly.

“We were just about to call your parents,” her aunt said, her tone full of that forced cheer that people have when they’re trying to recover a feeling from before. “And we’ve not yet opened presents.”

Millie nodded a little but noted a few of the gifts were wrapped in black, with delicate lace bows.

And the sticker read her name.

She tilted her head some but heard her aunt fussing with Skype.

“Hello!” came her mom's cheery voice, always as if she were excited that she woke up alive today.

Millie looked over to her mother's smiling face, with her father jockeying for position in front of the camera.

“There’s my Millie!” Her father said, smiling.

“Hi, Dad,” she said quietly. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, honey! You look like you’ve been crying! Are you okay?”

“She’s just been cold. She was outside earlier.” Her grandpa answered for her. “Her nose is red because of it.”

She looked up at him, a little surprised, but took the tissue he offered and delicately addressed her face.

“Now, I know you said you weren’t celebrating Christmas this year,” her mom said, putting on a faux guilty tone. “But we’d already shipped your gift.”

A rustling beneath the tree and two small hands shoved a box wrapped in black paper, with velvet spiderwebbing roped across it.

A moment or two later her youngest cousin smiled up at her. “I get to be Santa this year!” He chirped.

Millie reached down and picked up the box, looking at it in her lap. She carefully untied the grey lace ribbon, unstuck the tape and opened the box.

“It’s fake leather,” her mom said. “And hand made.”

Inside the box was a book, done in the style of the old leather-bound tomes she’d coveted at the library. There was embossing, and delicate gold leafed accents.

On the front, in flowing golden script, there was some Arabic writing.

It was absolutely gorgeous. She lifted it out of the box, surprised at how light it was.

She flipped it open, the pages were all blank and had those unfinished edges of hand made books. At the back of the book, she discovered something different, a small electronic device.

“Your father and I couldn’t figure out how to get you all of the books we wanted to. But, since most of them are available in the Gutenberg project... we figured we’d get you a kindle, and you could always have all of them close.”

“Tell her about the words!” Her father said excitedly.

“Oh! Right. The script on the front says “The story of a lifetime”.” Her mom blinked. “Right?”

“About right, it’s a good translation. We had it made because we know how much you like to journal. So, it’ll carry your kindle, and you can write in it! We found a bookbinder here and got to pick out all parts of it. Really interesting process. Really an art to handcrafted books.”

Millie closed the cover, her heart pounding in her chest.

She didn’t think her parents noticed her. Didn’t know what she read, or that she even journaled. She looked up at their faces, her family’s wide smiles of anticipation, and this time, there was no cold weather to blame the tears on.

“Thank you,” she managed after a few attempts.

“Oh, goodness. Honey! Of course. We love you, and we wish we could have come home this Christmas.”

She had a savage retort on her tongue, but the memory of that bear’s laugh, and the glinting of the gold leaf against her fingers, she killed it before she took a breath to voice it.

“It would be great to see you,” she said, smiling as much as she could at them. “I love you too.” She still resented their leaving, but the fire in her heart wasn’t as hot.

She clutched the book to her chest, holding it as it it were a lifeline. She sat quietly, on the periphery of the holiday cheer, thinking over the past few hours.

The family eventually said goodbye to Millie's parents and settled into eating some of the leftovers, giving Millie a chance to try the tofurkey roast her grandfather had prepared. It had a strange texture and was a little overdone. She didn’t like meat because of the texture, and the flavor, and would have been fine without the fake meat, but, she ... appreciated her grandfather going out of his way to try something new, so she would too.

The family packed up, rounding up everyone into their individual vans or cars. A round of good wishes, and near hugs, Millie wasn’t quite there yet, and the house was silent again.

Millie breathed a sigh of relief as the howling pack was gone.

“Millie?” Her grandfather called from the dining room.

He probably wanted help cleaning up.

She sighed, and walked into the room, still clutching her book.

Grandpa had already cleaned the table, and on it were two small boxes.

“I know you said -“

“I want to this year,” she said, cutting him off. “I... that thing in the garage...”

“Won’t be a problem.”

She pressed her lips into a line, then nodded.

“I... got these for you.”

Her grandpa gestured to the two boxes. “Happy Holidays, Millie.” His smile was soft and somewhat sad. Melancholy, Millie’s thoughts supplied.

She looked up at him and approached, reaching out for the bigger box first.

“I didn’t want you to open these with your nephews around. They’re very fragile.”

She looked up at him, and then back down again, and carefully opened the box.

Inside was a glass dome. She reached in and pulled it free by the base.

To say two hummingbirds sat on branches would be doing a disservice to the art of the piece. A taxidermy hummingbird floated beside a flower, suspended by a shining silver wire beside a lily it had been carefully designed to look as if it had just selected just that one. And it was caught in a moment in time. Its feathers shone like gems in the light of the dining room. Beside it, the delicate skeleton of another tilted its head, as if watching the one above it.

“I... wasn’t sure what you’d think. But don’t worry, both of them died of natural causes.” Her grandpa said. “I know... you read a lot about the beauty... uh, the beauty in death. So, I tried to find something that.. you know, captured that.”

Her breath was taken away. Sure, the bobcat in the front hall was a little creepy, but this was something different.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said quietly. Remembering the tales of Victorian homes with their small gem birds on display. Had her grandfather really taken the time to find out what she was interested in? Had he really listened to her beyond the angry words she’d flung at him, and sorted through to find out the perfect gift? “I’m... speechless.” She said with a breathy laugh.

The old man smiled, his smile still a little sad.

“And, this one.”

He gently slid the small box forward.

She carefully picked up the small box and opened it.

Inside was a small locket, with a basket weave pattern under glass.

Her heart began to pound in her ears as she looked up at her grandfather, and back down again. The basketweave pattern came in two colors. The vertical weave was one that was jet black on the left, fading to peppery silver and finally white on the right, while the horizontal was a warm chocolate brown.

She popped the locket open ever so carefully, peering at the picture inside.

She was greeted by her grandmother's smiling face, and a much younger version of her grandfather kissing her cheek.

Her grandfather sat beside her, quiet as she processed what she had just been given.

“It’s a memento mori,” she said, as soon as she recovered her breath.

Her grandfather nodded. “It’s not custom to add a living person’s hair, but, I ain’t gonna be around forever. And I wanted to be with her in your thoughts.”

She gently closed the locket again, and looked up at him.

She felt like the world as she’d seen it lay shattered before her. That whatever dark glasses she’d been wearing had been ripped away, and she was left staring into this brilliance that wasn’t criticizing her but was trying to learn who she was, and okay they made mistakes along the way, but these people cared for her. They didn’t try to talk her away from what she spent her creative pursuits on.

And they got to know her, got to know who she was, so they could offer her something that catered to her. Something she would enjoy.

And she had not made it easy on any of them.

The weight of the locket settled comfortably against the hollow of her throat, but as her grandfather finished clasping it and let it rest, she felt the weight of the past year resting there as well. She touched the locket, the memento mori, not some strangers memento, but that of her own family, and felt she was able to breathe again.

She was cared for. She was loved.

She recognized her nastiness and the hard closing of doors between herself and others had been a way to protect herself from those she felt wouldn’t understand. But that protective shell had become a tomb in which she hadn’t let anyone in, for fear of being hurt, she had hurt those around her, who had just wanted to know who she was, who had wanted to share her interests.

And then she’d been upset that no one had understood.

She looked at the gifts, every one of them thoughtful and perfect.

And she had nearly lost all of this. Had her body bisected by a freaky robot bear.

She got up and gently wrapped her arms around the old man's shoulders.

“New Years is coming up soon,” she said. “I can’t promise anything, but... I want to be more mindful. And... more thankful.” She said, as he patted her arm gently. “I’ve ... really been kind of a brat, haven’t I?”

The old man shrugged. “You’re 14. You’re smart as a whip and twice as quick. You’re sorting out a lot of emotions, and life isn’t easy for you. I expect a little difficulty.” He said, smiling.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He shrugged before he nodded again. “Let’s try starting with being more honest?” He asked.

Millie nodded her head. “I’ll try.”

“And maybe a little more grateful.”

Millie felt her cheeks flush, embarrassment at her prior behavior. “I think I can do that.”

The old man smiled. “And maybe doing your homework without a battle.”

“I’ve been doing that!” Millie said, smiling, sitting down again.

“I know. I just wanted to complain.”

“Speaking of complaints,” she said hesitantly. “I know I don’t have much room to ask. But, could we maybe make my room a little more... mine?”

Her grandfather tilted his head some.

“It doesn’t feel like I... fit in. I feel like I’ve just sort of been stuffed into grandmas old sewing room. Could we maybe move some of those things into storage, and let me reclaim the space?”

He looked at her, before he nodded. “I do understand that. And I think that’s something we can do.”

Millie smiled a little more. “Maybe put some new wallpaper up?”

“Don’t push your luck, girlie,” he chided gently.

Spring came in its usual way, and Millie was dressed in the most unlike her outfit she had ever worn. Overalls and a Tshirt.

“You hardly look like yourself,” Dillon said, draping some plastic over her bed.

“I feel so out of place!” Millie whined.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” Brooke said, helping Dillon spread the plastic out so it covered all parts of the bed they’d decided to just leave in the room. “You look cute. Not something I’d go to school in, but perfect for what we’re doing?”

She’d talked to Dillon, and a long conversation had melted the ice between them. The following weekend, they’d all gone to the tea house together, Dillon bringing Brooke along, and Millie had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Brooke’s mother was the taxidermist who had done the hummingbird display. Her mother worked with dead animals, which made Brooke want to learn how to keep them alive. She also had a wickedly dark sense of humor.

Brookes mother had also agreed to begin teaching Millie how to perform taxidermy so that she could bring death to life, and craft her own macabre creations.

A friendship had grown from the ice, and before long, the three of them were close friends.

Millie frowned. “As soon as we’re done here, I’m changing out of these.”

Brooke smiled and looked to the door as Grandpa hefted the bucket of wallpaper paste into the room. “You kids think this is going to be a one day deal?” He asked. “You’re in for a world of disappointment.”

He passed a scraper to each teen.

“Don’t dig into the plaster, were just scraping the paper off so we can put the new stuff up.”

The three teens looked at each other and nodded. “Goth princess room, here we come!” Brooke said, smiling brightly, thrusting her scraper into the air.

Millie smiled, watching as her new friends attacked the wallpaper.

It was symbolic, in a way, the thought, as she joined in. Peeling away layers to put something new, something where she fit. With the help of those who had helped her, by making room, so that she fit with them.

She reached up and touched the locket, smiling to the others, listening to Brooke excitedly exclaim how she’d found just the perfect starting point and grandpa fussing over the plaster.

Dillon smiled at her too, and she smiled back. She’d found her friends, and while her interests hadn’t changed, she still loved the concept of death and darkness, she had a whole new appreciation for life.

#into the pit spoilers #spoilers #into the pit #fnaf into the pit spoilers #Five nights at freddy's into the pit spoilers #five nights at freddys #fnaf

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worstfruit · 5 years ago

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Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

“Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?”

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

#LONG #r

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