The puppetmaster's web
50th Zi'da, 717
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There was always a fuzzy warmth to slowly waking up on a lazy day, the mind only half-awake like a smouldering fire. He rolled over to his side, noticing the heaviness of his limbs as he chose to remain in the comfortable embrace of the blankets just a little while longer. A soft sigh escaped him, and with it, the dream collapsed.
It started in his forehead. A painful throb, growing stronger with every heartbeat. Then he thought how thirsty he was and how his feet and legs had gotten so stiff and heavy. His stomach growled, prompting a steady barrage of cramps to stab at his abdomen. But the worst realization was yet to come as he reflexively clutched his tummy and opened his eyes.
He did not recognize the ceiling.
As he moved to sit upright, the protection of the blankets slipped away and frigid air raised the pale fuzz on his neck. The stink of a dying oil lamp throwing fat, striped shadows on the floor hit his nostrils, filling his mouth with a disgusting, syrupy taste. His eyes traced the shadows to their source, his mind already half-aware what he would find there, and yet his gut convulsed at the sight of it.
Bars. Thick iron bars separated him from a narrow hallway leading into the darkness. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the half dark of what was undoubtedly a cell, though a remarkably spacious one at that. For a prison, the mattress was unusually soft and the blanket uncommonly heavy and warm. He almost believed that the bed had been prepared specially for him as he could not discover any stains or rot on. Indeed , he considered that it was strange he had a bed at all as one of his hijinks had once seen him spent a night on a wooden bench in the belly of the hall of rule and reprimand.
A small nightstand next to his bed was littered with cups of water, bits of half-eaten food and strange, dark bottles of syrupy medicine while his clothes rested neatly folded on a low stool in the far corner of the cell. They seemed freshly washed and had at some point been exchanged for the oversized nightgown he wore now, reaching to his ankles. As he slid his legs over the edge of the bed, the first shreds dawned on him. There’d been faceless heads hovering over him, hands lifting him, muffled voices asking indecipherable questions, but there was more, there had to be more. Something was terribly off, but he couldn’t place it.
“Ah...” he hissed through his teeth as a pulse split his forehead, sending alternating waves of hot and cold down his quivering frame. He instinctively reached for the comfort of his friends, but grasped at nothing. There was no earth to greet him, no wind to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, he couldn’t even hear the crackling voice of the flames in the oil lamp.
He shot up from his bed, his bare feet pattering across the cold, stone floor as he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth... Beads of sweat trickled down his face when he rested his glowing forehead against the cold, iron bars. “No,” he muttered, his dry lips barely parting. The shadows remained silent as his fingers wrapped around the rusty iron. “No you have to come back. Please,” he begged the void.
A distant door slammed, followed by the telling rattle of a keychain, then footsteps. Finn darted back to his bed and threw the blanket over himself in some futile attempt to hide from whatever monster would come creeping out of the dark. But it was no monster that came, just a man halfway through life, walking with a slight limp in his step. The scuffed footfalls stopped near his cell and Finn didn’t quite shut his eyes in time.
“Hello,” the man greeted, his voice flat as he fumbled with the keys before swinging the creaking door to Finn’s cell open. The man shuffled toward him, bearing a friendly smile. "You've slept quite a while, friend," he mused. Finn propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing as his gut sloshed with sicknesss. "Here," the greybeard soothed as he adjusted the pillows so Finn could sit upright. “Mr Tagley?” the man called in the direction he had come. "Just a moment," he apologised as he shuffled back to the cell entrance and called into the dark. "Mr. Tagley! He’s up...”
Some indistinct noises sounded in the distance and Finn eyed the stranger wearily. “Mr. Tagley will be with you shortly,” the man said as he set about cleaning the little nightstand of drink and food. “Try to look lively. You may have more visitors still. Would you like some more water?” The servant barely waited for an answer as he gathered the bottles of medicine before turning to leave. " What happened?" Finn groaned, rubbing his forehead sleepily. "Where am I?"
It started in his forehead. A painful throb, growing stronger with every heartbeat. Then he thought how thirsty he was and how his feet and legs had gotten so stiff and heavy. His stomach growled, prompting a steady barrage of cramps to stab at his abdomen. But the worst realization was yet to come as he reflexively clutched his tummy and opened his eyes.
He did not recognize the ceiling.
As he moved to sit upright, the protection of the blankets slipped away and frigid air raised the pale fuzz on his neck. The stink of a dying oil lamp throwing fat, striped shadows on the floor hit his nostrils, filling his mouth with a disgusting, syrupy taste. His eyes traced the shadows to their source, his mind already half-aware what he would find there, and yet his gut convulsed at the sight of it.
Bars. Thick iron bars separated him from a narrow hallway leading into the darkness. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the half dark of what was undoubtedly a cell, though a remarkably spacious one at that. For a prison, the mattress was unusually soft and the blanket uncommonly heavy and warm. He almost believed that the bed had been prepared specially for him as he could not discover any stains or rot on. Indeed , he considered that it was strange he had a bed at all as one of his hijinks had once seen him spent a night on a wooden bench in the belly of the hall of rule and reprimand.
A small nightstand next to his bed was littered with cups of water, bits of half-eaten food and strange, dark bottles of syrupy medicine while his clothes rested neatly folded on a low stool in the far corner of the cell. They seemed freshly washed and had at some point been exchanged for the oversized nightgown he wore now, reaching to his ankles. As he slid his legs over the edge of the bed, the first shreds dawned on him. There’d been faceless heads hovering over him, hands lifting him, muffled voices asking indecipherable questions, but there was more, there had to be more. Something was terribly off, but he couldn’t place it.
“Ah...” he hissed through his teeth as a pulse split his forehead, sending alternating waves of hot and cold down his quivering frame. He instinctively reached for the comfort of his friends, but grasped at nothing. There was no earth to greet him, no wind to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, he couldn’t even hear the crackling voice of the flames in the oil lamp.
He shot up from his bed, his bare feet pattering across the cold, stone floor as he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth... Beads of sweat trickled down his face when he rested his glowing forehead against the cold, iron bars. “No,” he muttered, his dry lips barely parting. The shadows remained silent as his fingers wrapped around the rusty iron. “No you have to come back. Please,” he begged the void.
A distant door slammed, followed by the telling rattle of a keychain, then footsteps. Finn darted back to his bed and threw the blanket over himself in some futile attempt to hide from whatever monster would come creeping out of the dark. But it was no monster that came, just a man halfway through life, walking with a slight limp in his step. The scuffed footfalls stopped near his cell and Finn didn’t quite shut his eyes in time.
“Hello,” the man greeted, his voice flat as he fumbled with the keys before swinging the creaking door to Finn’s cell open. The man shuffled toward him, bearing a friendly smile. "You've slept quite a while, friend," he mused. Finn propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing as his gut sloshed with sicknesss. "Here," the greybeard soothed as he adjusted the pillows so Finn could sit upright. “Mr Tagley?” the man called in the direction he had come. "Just a moment," he apologised as he shuffled back to the cell entrance and called into the dark. "Mr. Tagley! He’s up...”
Some indistinct noises sounded in the distance and Finn eyed the stranger wearily. “Mr. Tagley will be with you shortly,” the man said as he set about cleaning the little nightstand of drink and food. “Try to look lively. You may have more visitors still. Would you like some more water?” The servant barely waited for an answer as he gathered the bottles of medicine before turning to leave. " What happened?" Finn groaned, rubbing his forehead sleepily. "Where am I?"