The dying thing had a manlike shape — two arms, two legs, head and torso arranged symmetrically — but the facial structure was closer to that of a pig. Two jutting tusks thrust out from the lower lip, the left one cracked off halfway down. The jowls were thick and dangling, and the nose was a rounded snout with two slits instead of nostrils. The eyes — all three of them — were small and beady, but the artist had done well applying very human pain into the carving.
He glanced around himself, noting the people who were now backing away from him — he suspected it wasn’t every day that strangers suddenly just appeared in their square, let alone strangers wearing clothing that probably appeared freakish and strange to them — and their manner and bearing; all seemed to have dusky flesh, be taller than he — though at only five and a half feet tall, that wasn’t saying much — and have thick dark hair and green or brown eyes. Most were wearing expensive clothing cut in formal — though old, from his standpoint — style, heavy velvet and silk with fur trim and silver accessories. Reds and browns seemed to be the colors of the day, and he found himself laughing inside. Don’t imagine black jeans and purple t-shirts are too common around here, he thought. Not that he particularly cared.
Ignoring them — though the wave of curiosity, fear and hope that came from the crowd was tantalizing to his dreamself, the emotions dribbling out like honey beading on a bit of beeswax — Andrew stepped towards the stature, locking eyes with the porcine figure.
“Fomori,” he whispered. “Did me mother not see fit to wipe you out, eh?”
He extended a hand, running it along the side of the agonized face, then glanced up to the human figure and the blade he wielded. Giving a derisive snort, Andrew stepped back. As if humans could actually kill fomori. Give me a break.
He glanced over his shoulder, hearing the sound of booted feet stomping on the cobbles and saw that most of the crowd who had been present to witness his arrival were now gone. Coming through one of the side streets, between a tall and garish building that claimed to offer “Fine Clothes and Notions Abound” and a more humble building of brick that was chuffing bread-scented smoke from the chimney, were six men. Larger still than those who had fled, all six had skin the color of onyx and eyes to match. The shortest was a full foot taller than Andrew and the largest had to be approaching seven feet; all were garbed in blood red steel chest plates lined with thick fur and leather sleeves, with matching greaves and boots. They carried an array of weaponry — thankfully none of it iron, so far as Andrew could tell — ranging from short swords to long spears, all with silver adornments and looking deadly enough for a town guard patrol. Five were wearing similar helms, the shape pointed at the top and above the eyes, with stylized birds etched into the sides. The one in front — the largest and likely to be their leader, Andrew assumed — wore a plumed headdress, decorated with what appeared to be raven feathers.
Ah, he bears the sign of my mother. Likely without even realizing it. Andrew smiled. “Hile, sirs. Adhradh an Morrigan?” He doubted such would get a response, assuming they even understood either English or Gaelic, but he didn’t see the harm in trying.
His violet eyes widened in faint surprise when the one in front grunted out a response, his tone terse and commanding despite the playful voice with which he had been addressed. “Hile. Dean mar a dheanaimse. From whence do you come?”
Andrew cocked his head. They had heard of his mother here? Wherever here is, he amended. He shrugged, taking a step towards the guardsmen as he raised his palms. “From somewhere far away, I think. A place far less pleasant than this. Someone called, I came. I’d like to talk to your leader.” A flippant tone had crept into his voice; it was clear to him that they were unlikely to skewer him on the spot, and whoever was in charge was likely to have better answers, from Andrew’s past experiences.
The guardsman shook his head. “The bones were cast; Lady Falloth knew you would come. She instructed us to see you to lodgings and keep you there until King Yadi calls for you.”
One of Andrew’s eyebrows popped up. Kings? Ladies? Such might have been common in the days of his youth, or in the place he had been born. But he was far more accustomed to the idea of presidents and business moguls… and police who wore cloth uniforms and kevlar. Still… it was better than where he had been. He shrugged again. “As you will.”
The lead guard grunted and nodded. “Then follow. The Overhollow will serve as your home, and your needs will be met there.” He cast a disapproving eye over Andrew. “And a tailor will see to your clothing. Yours is unfit for our climate.”
Andrew glanced around, wondering what the man was talking about; it was a bit chilly in the square, but certainly no worse than where he’d come from. Then he noticed the snowpack to either side of the street the guards had come from, and similar drifts along the other walkways, and understood. Something in the square — likely the statue — was enchanted in some way, keeping the area clear of snow and ice. He nodded, centering his gaze once more on the guard.
“I… see. Alright, then. Lead the way, I guess.”
They had turned and formed an honor guard around him as they led him to the place where he’d thought his dreams would once again be made real.
The Overhollow had turned out to be a practical castle carved into one of the mountains. The guards claimed it had been done ages ago by one of the great Lords of Ebulon; supposedly, after doing so, the Lord had then begun to tunnel below the earth, venturing into the kingdoms of Those Who Lie Beneath, leaving his estate uncared for. The Lady Falloth had allegedly taken up residence some five years prior, at the insistence of the King, who claimed that what was beneath the Overhollow needed guarding. The whispers of invasion had only reinforced that belief; now that the invasion had come — things the guards called Orcs, which Andrew interpreted as the fomori of his own youth — there was concern that the Underhollow might likewise be infested, leaving Lady Falloth with the unenviable position of having to watch both the gates into her sector — the Rose Quarter — and whatever might bubble up from below.
All of this Andrew digested with elation; freed from his cell in the miserable pit of Homeview, summoned to a place that promised both the fear and vengeance that his dreamself craved and his ancient enemies lying in wait? The only trouble would be how poor his living conditions were to be — at first, anyway — and how many restrictions on his “games” this lady and king might place.
Those thoughts were dispelled when he was led into his quarters and abandoned there. Finely furnished — with great leather couches, three fireplaces to battle the constant cold, a plush monstrosity that made the queen-size waterbed in his previous den seem like a toy, velvet drapes and silver runners everywhere — the lounge, bedroom and small toilet that made up his quarters seemed more lavish than anything he had known save for the deepest pits of memory, from the time when he and others like him were worshipped as gods. Even with no running water or toilet paper it was more than pleasing to him.
When a knock had come half an hour later and he had opened the door to see two women — one wearing a functional fur-lined jerkin, the other with a shimmering see-through gown, both with pale skin, ice-blue eyes and thick blonde hair, he couldn’t help smiling.
The one in the jerkin had set about taking his measurements, holding up several small slates of different hues to his skin and disdainfully tugging at the crow’s nest of black hair that he hadn’t bothered to try to style.