Lingering Shadows Part 4 - Campaign Stories

Read for fun, or for ideas in your own campaign!

This story comes from the community-created Share Your Campaign series, where the Eternity TTRPG community shares their games' stories. To see more from this series and others, visit the Share Your Campaign page.

Drogi

Drogi’s eyes flickered open, going from blinding darkness to blinding light. As his vision cleared, he could tell he was in the room he once flew out of. Everything was cleaned and back in order. His arms felt heavy and his neck stiff. He heard a woman gasp just out of sight by his side. She skirted the bed into view, leaned in to make sure he was not only awake but aware as well. “H-how long has it been?” Drogi asked. The woman left the room as fast as she could. Muffled, Drogi could hear that she was trying to get someone’s attention.

He went through all his moving parts to see if they were, in fact, still movable. He went through his body parts like a mental grocery list. Leg: Still no. Hips: no. Lumbar lateral flexion and rotation: still good. Shoulders: shruggable. Elbows: heavy under covers. Hands: fist good. Neck: tight. Jaw: aching. Speech: “Fuck. Shit. Damn. Ass.” He chuckled to himself and sighed in relief, “Still got it.” His hearing started to improve, demonstrated by the ability to hear the footsteps approaching in a hurried cadence. He shrugged his shoulders and brought his arms out from beneath the covers. He rubbed the sand out of his eyes noting how big they felt as they rolled down his temple and cheek. He used his thenar eminence to push his eyelids up and around, massaging his eyes underneath. Reaching overhead, his shoulders popped and clicked releasing trapped gas and encouraging a short endorphin release. He followed that up by laterally flexing his neck in each direction feeling his range of motion return.

He heard from the doorway, “Drogi?” Vatra and Iceliat both entered looking like they have known months of peace. “Drogi, can you hear me?” asked Vatra.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he said, deadpan. No one laughed. “Ah. Just like the old days.” Vatra gave an order to someone at the door, to bring something to eat. Iceliat poured a glass of water as Vatra helped Drogi sit upright. Receiving the water, he thanked Iceliat. He drank, lightly choking on the first gulp. The muscles in his throat needed some retraining. He was sure it would be the same for his arms and core. Wiping the dribble from his chin, he asked, “Is she dead?”

Vatra shook his head and pulled a lip back. Iceliat answered, “She flew off after she dropped you.” He sat on the night stand and leaned his forearms onto his thighs, “Drogi? Do you know what that was?”

Drogi shared what he remembered and revisited in his dream. “Her name was Beatrix. She was an Empyrean soldier with the Supreme Guard. I told you about a mission we had in the Whispering Wood, right?” They nodded. “She thought I had led my men into a bear den, or something like that. She thought I was being negligent and questioned my right to lead. The Supreme Guard has a tradition which allows subordinates to challenge a higher ranking leader. For her to challenge me, she needed to go through a chain of command. She killed two people to get to me. No charge against her because it followed our ways and technically didn’t do anything wrong.” Drogi stopped to readjust against the potential bed sore that may have formed under his sit bones. He completed the story, sharing the fight, the stab, and the end result.

Vatra, clearly upset, responded, “Okay. There is a lot to unpack here. First of all, you were stabbed in the spine and not cursed. What the hell were we looking for?”

“It’s not my fault you interpreted what I said as a curse!”

“You said you were looking for a cure! An artifact! That’s not how spinal cord injuries work!”

Iceliat remained leaning forward, this time elbows to knees, and face in hands. Empyreans and Ateri were proud of their intelligence and forgot that not everyone was on the same level as them. Drogi was a great soldier, not a scholar. Iceliat shared, “I suppose we all do things in desperation.” Drogi looked at him, mouth open, but with nothing to say. He closed it and turned his head away.

Vatra turned his back on the two and dropped his head, heavy with frustration. He ran both hands through his hair and inhaled deep, then exhaled longer and in control. “I’m sorry. I get it. I’m sure you were acting out of hope.” He turned back. “So, do you have any idea how she’s alive? It sounds like you almost cut her head off. Even if anyone tried to save her, she wouldn’t have been able to make it out of those caves alive.”

Drogi collected his nerves and asked for his chair. He tried to transfer on his own, but his elbow joints weren’t used to stabilizing him during a pivot yet. Iceliat helped him complete the transfer. From what he remembered, the chair should have been dented and bent more than it was. The two must have commissioned someone for repairs and replacements. The drive wheels spin on ball bearings now making for a smoother glide. The tires were wider allowing for maneuvering through dirt and mud, it increased stability but decreased speed. The backrest sat a little lower allowing for improved scapular range of motion. The companion handles placed by the previous builders had to be removed. This would improve his swing and seated rotations.

“I literally just woke up,” Drogi pushed away, “can I just have a minute and something to eat?”

Drogi stopped at the stairs and looked down. They seemed like more than one story worth of steps. He turned back and propelled to the den. Iceliat and Vatra sat in what would become “their spot”. Vatra had a servant bring a folding table large enough for a family style meal and another servant bring a honey roasted duck, smoked fish, steamed vegetables, and an apple spiced mead. Drogi attacked the feast like a wild animal and ate more than he should have. Every bite seemed like his first. He bit his lip multiple times but he was undeterred. The crispy skin of the duck was like candy. The smoked fish was salty and paired with a sauteed mushroom gravy. He was burping bits of chewed food back up his throat and painfully hiccuping for the rest of the day. He didn’t touch the mead and opted for water with lemon. His stomach was distended, but he was content with the discomfort.

Pretending the discomfort is what prevented him from descending the steps on his own, he asked two guards to help him down. One grabbed him from the back and under his pits, while the other managed his legs. He was seated on the reclining chair as someone else brought his chair. Drogi was close enough to the exit to hear a wind chime sing in a tubular melody. He stared out a window that overlooked a part of town he hadn’t visited. “We could just stop,” he thought to himself. “We can call it here. The Phoenix is too much for us, I’m sure. I couldn’t even handle someone I had already killed. What chance do we have of challenging what could be seen as a micro-god? I could just spend the rest of my days here. Maybe find a nice woman who could tolerate me. She wouldn’t have to for very long if the Phoenix is doing what I think it is. No. I’m just feeling weak and pitiful. One last adventure. Finish what I started, save the Isles, sleep with a woman.”

Drogi’s train of thought was interrupted by Iceliat and Vatra descending the steps. “We need to talk,” Vatra said. “I’ve had a thought, vision, memory, or what have you.” Iceliat leaned against a wall, arms crossed, and one heel propped up. Drogi sat opening and closing his fists, trying to reawaken his grip strength. Vatra continued, “What do you two know about the Hallowed Ones?”

The Hallowed Ones

Beatrix’s body fell for what, to her, felt like a lifetime. Though unmoving, she was still alive and conscious. She felt her brothers maneuver her body onto the tarp and wrap her up like a swaddled infant. Her anger kept her awake and alert. The air felt increasingly cold as the shroud became unwrapped around her head. She was falling facing upward, still able to see the moonlight from the opening. “Drogi,” she thought to herself. She tried to speak, but the tendons that held her mandible to her maxilla had been severed. She choked on a piece of clotted blood and coughed a mist of crimson. She felt herself fading and knew that very soon she was going to hit something solid. She hoped that was the case, so it would be a fairly quick death. If she were to hit water and survive long enough to drown, she quivered at the thought.

Eyes blinking independently, Beatrix started to feel a hollowness in her thought process. Words came to her like memories or auditory hallucinations. During missions, she often thought about what the experience of death was like. She dreamt of dying multiple times. It was always the same. She would close her eyes, feel her breath slow, and on her final exhale, there would be silence and darkness. Then her mind would linger thinking that it was still alive. “You’re not dead,” it would say. “Just open your eyes.” She’d tell herself if she got up her death might not be as peaceful. She was in a moment of complete content. If the reaper didn’t come to claim her now, she’d be too afraid to die again. When she would finally give in, she would awaken wherever she laid to rest. She believed her dreams of death readied her for this moment. Once she hits the ground, she’ll wake up and complete the next mission. “It’s just a dream,” she told herself.

Her breathing slowed. Her mind started to talk itself down in an internal whisper. “Beatrix,” it said, sounding like a whisper in an echo chamber. “Beatrix,” it said again. Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Open your eyes, Beatrix. Open them. See us.” The voice prolonged the word “see” and enunciated the “s” in “us”. She never called herself by her name, only “soldier”. She opened her eyes to the complete darkness. The shroud had completely unraveled, but remained pinned to her top, freeing her arms and legs. “Beatrix,” it said again. “We can save you.” Every word was prolonged and echoed. Beatrix had no need for saving, she knew there was no going back after this. “Heal you. Accept us. Let us in. Accept us.” Every word was stretched and never grew louder than a distant whisper.

“Do whatever you want,” she thought, giving up. “I’m done.”

Excitedly, the whispers said to themselves, “She said yes. She’s allowing us. She accepts. Go now.” Beatrix heard the words, but thought nothing of it. She believed these sounds were the brain trying its best to reconcile the impending death. “Mine. No mine. Ours. Yes, ours.” It was like listening to children argue over ownership of a toy.

Beatrix’s descent began to slow, like falling through water without the splash or being caught by guiding, loving arms. Her body was lying flat, arms and legs splayed out, head and neck supported. “Is this what a soul leaving its vessel feels like?” she thought to herself.

“No,” she heard a hundred hushed voices say in turns. “No soul. Body. Ours. Free.” She felt the supporting mass begin to envelop her. Small arms reaching and hands grasping for whatever piece of cloth or skin they could. “Ours,” they continued. “Mine. Ours. Ours.”

Beatrix lay in a pool filled with thousands of black wisp-like amorphous figures. Arms the length of a rat or raccoon pulled her deeper into the crowd. Some of the figures, about the size of a common squirrel climbed on top of her front, scurried and bounced. She continued to lay, accepting the sensation, still believing that it was her mind playing tricks. Only once the pulls and tugs began to cause additional pain did she open her eyes. She believed death wasn’t supposed to hurt once you’ve accepted it. Hands and claws tugged at her loose mouth skin, her lips, ears, each finger being splayed and tractioned. Something moved beneath her clothes. She attempted to use her arms to pry off the very real critters, but she was immobilized without any give. Fear began to creep back and confusion overwhelmed her.

A hand, then three, grabbed at the already torn skin of her right cheek and began to tug and pull. Her neck tensed and eyes widened as she felt the flesh give and tear. Her loose jaw made what a scream should have been sound like a drowning roar. More hands went for her face, some holding her by the mandible, some holding her by the maxilla, and they pulled in unison in opposite directions. Whatever tendon that was still in place lost to the tension resulting in her jaw being a loose piece of skin that happened to have a bone in it. More force was applied downward ripping into her neck and platysma. Something crawled into her mouth and tried to force its way down her throat. Another one of these things wanted the opportunity and yanked that one away. These things would take turns trying to be the first one to crawl through this opening.

She felt her orbitals being exposed by her eyelids being pulled back, and feeling pressure on her eyes like a dog trying to make a comfortable lying surface. Something tried to reach into her lacrimal gland but found nothing and retreated. Clumps of hair were being torn out leaving small bleeding patches. She couldn’t feel as every muscle in her limbs were being bored into and detached from its insertion point. Her fingers had been broken in opposing and random directions exposing bone and sinew. Both elbows and knees were bent backward. Each long bone was broken no less than three times. The whispers continued expressing their greed to one another as Beatrix’s nervous system shut down. She could no longer feel what was happening and could only see the moonlight above her shrink away and be eclipsed by these monstrosities. After the first creature successfully made its way through her mouth opening, others followed, distending her stomach and entrails. In a moment, they would find an exit. Beatrix, fortunately faded away before she could experience this.

Unwitnessed, the imp-like demons continued to pull, tear, and bend her body every which way. Her body was completely exposed, the clothing having been removed and discarded. Her body was at the whim of these destroyers to be molded however they saw fit. “Fix you,” they would say thousands of times out of sync. Every strand of hair was pulled from her body: head, brows, body, pits, and privates. Her blood was drained and replaced with something black and viscous. Her teeth had been sharpened, gum receded, and her jaw placed back into place. She was being reassembled and realigned. Some of the creatures moving around her skin sat and sank into an ink that would swirl and stain. Her bones were realigned and increased in density. Her muscles were reattached with increased muscle fibers. Her arms and legs were elongated for reach. All her fingers were lengthened and ended with a pointed, curved bone. Her cheeks had been joined together and smoothly connected. Every muscle fiber could be seen pushing outward through her skin. She was becoming the perfect vessel of anger and wrath. She didn’t know it yet, but her second chance was coming.

As Beatrix’s eyes began to open, the little voices hurriedly said to one another, “Hurry. Hurry. Awake. Wake. End.” Beatrix was still being supported by the amorphous black wave, this time she was free to move. She began to sit up and the wave followed to support her. She tried assessing the damage, but it was still too dark to see anything in detail. She thought everything had been a dream, but was reminded once she looked up and saw a flicker of daylight coming from a distant opening. She was sure that she was in the cave’s pupil. She stood and reached in a “Y” position. She could tell she was nude, but rather than feel exposed, she felt powerful. Her arms moved effortlessly and felt as light as down. The voices whispered to her one at a time, “Fixed you. In you. Strong. Together. With you now.”

She tried to look around to see the source of the voices, but still nothing. She looked up again. “Get me out of here.”

The voices, now excited, whispered, “Wings. Fly. Flight. We can. Let me. Me. Let us.” Out of sight, hundreds of these sprites formed into a whirling mass that attached themselves to each of Beatrix’s scapulae. They dug through the skin painlessly and fused to the bone. As the frame of the wings began to take shape, Beatrix began to lightly beat her wings. This would continue until each wing was about twice the length of her height. When she finally reached lift, the swirls stopped. The voices , proud of their work, said “Fly. She can. We can. Fly.”

Beatrix took a hand and felt where her cut had been. Dissatisfied, she took the clawed thumb and traced in a new cut on each side mirroring a scarred version of her previous injury. “Why? Why? Fixed you. Why.” the voices asked.

Beatrix, feeling blood trickling down her jaw, continued looking upward as she elevated. “A reminder. I want him to remember.”

Vatra

Vatra stood in the center of his father’s secret room holding a lantern exposing the rusted instruments used on who knows how many victims. Everything was as his father had left it, except for the vacant space between a set of blades. This is a room of embarrassment and shame. He had no intention of allowing any word of this to reach the townspeople. Intermittently, one day at a time, one bucket or bag at a time, someone would visit this place dressed as an out-of-towner and fill this dungeon of sorts. Maybe in a few years, when the earth has been compacted and leveled, he would repair the hole that hid the spiral stairwell and place a proper cabinet in its place. In time, the small house will be converted into a small shop to sell something mundane. He thought about a toy maker or a cobbler. Something innocent to paint over the blood soaked earth.

Vatra ascended the steps and squeezed past the shifted cabinet. Ekern was standing guard at the doorway facing out. He put everything back in its place and engaged the locking mechanism. “Should be good,” he said.

Ekern relaxed his posture and walked into the living area. He placed his weapon and helmet on a small table, then sat in one of the rocking chairs. Everything was dusted in Vatra’s absence. He wanted the building to look as occupied as possible to prevent squatters from breaking in and potentially finding the stairwell. Ekern was taller and much more physically fit than Vatra was. The starving little boy he had once been, grew to become an elite member of the house guard. Informally, he was Vatra’s personal guard. He stood six inches taller, shoulders were about a foot wider, and kept his hair short to never be in the way of his eyesight. His choice of weapon was a longsword, but was well adept at anything put into his hands. To become the man he is now, he focused on nothing but training and controlling his willpower. If he wanted someone dead, they would be. “Now that he’s awake, how long do you think you’ll stay in town?” Ekern asked, hoping the answer would be “forever.”

“We will probably stay in town for a few more nights, less than a week, to train Drogi’s muscles somewhere close to where he was before.”

“He was stabbed in the spine, right? Besides some serious magic, there isn’t anything to be done for that, right?” Ekern wasn’t wrong. Once a nerve is completely severed, both sensation and mobility are nonexistent. “Even if he did get feeling or mobility back, his legs are so atrophied that they wouldn’t be able to functionally maintain his weight. He’d need years of training just to balance without a cane.”

“You’re right, absolutely, but I gave him my word that I’d help him find an artifact. Whether it works or not, once we find this mirror thing, I’ll come back home.”

“And the Phoenix?”

Vatra took a moment, dropped into the other rocking chair, crossed his legs into a figure four, his back pressed the back rest, and clasped his hands behind his head. Vatra considered it, but remembered how it carried the three men effortlessly and dropped them into the ocean, and that was in the bird’s infancy. It has been close to a month since, and he couldn’t imagine the size and strength the beast has reached. “Well,” he started, “it has been a while now and we haven’t heard anything about the Isles getting attacked or anything dangerous happening in the surrounding area.” He craned his gaze upward, and continued, “While I’m away, I’d like to make connections with the towns we pass. With this new common enemy, everyone will have a reason to come together.”

Ekern nodded understanding what he was saying about putting the Phoenix concern on hold. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Vatra,” he started to say with an uncertainty in his voice, “I’d like to join. I can help.”

Vatra would have loved nothing more than to have his friend by his side. Everything they had been through together and everything they shared made them more than brothers. In another life, they could have been soulmates. Vatra reluctantly responded, “I wish you and I were the only ones going, honestly. But I need you here. You’ll be the one taking the lead of the house guard.” This was a surprise to Ekern. “Don’t be surprised. People will assume that since you were willing to shift blame to me, that you were more loyal to my parents. It’ll make me look merciful and without a grudge. It only makes sense to promote you to this position.” Ekern leaned back unsure of what to say. “We’re going to change the way things are in this town. We’ll expand when the time is right. This can’t be rushed.”

“I trust you, Vatra.” Ekern was looking ahead, unsure of what to do next. “Of everyone I know, you’re the only one who can hurt me now.”

Vatra didn’t know how to respond. They sat in silence for several moments before a pounding at the door jostled the two upward and rotated. Vatra hummed to himself and stood. Ekern stood as well and grabbed his gear. Placing his polished metal helmet with the cheekbone guards and red tassel snuggly onto his head. He held his sword with arm low and extended. “Let me,” Ekern said. “Look like you’re reading.” Ekern approached the door. The thumping continued in raps of three. Everything sounded low level to Ekern, but this sounded especially low. He thought to himself someone was crouching, ready to attack. Then he calmed himself. It’s daylight and nothing like what he was thinking ever happened in this town. He relaxed his shoulders. The thumps came again, same height, same intensity. The two already knew who it was.

DroGi

“If I have to knock one more time, I swear I’m going to,” he thought to himself. The door opened as if the person behind was expecting guests. A large man, broad at the shoulders and padded with fine clothes looked down at him. He could see his eyes in the crack of his barbute, intense but suspecting. He could tell the man pitied DroGi’s situation and thought of him as an invalid. “About time, you shithead.” He tried to push himself past, but bumped into the guard and rolled back slightly. DroGi looked up angrily ready to spew profanities, then he saw the man coyly smile and step to the side. DroGi was jealous for a moment, remembering his own feats. He wondered if he’d ever be the warrior he once was. He prayed that his hope wouldn’t break his heart.

He propelled into the small house and saw Vatra sitting in a rocking chair, legs in a figure-four, reading a velvet lined book. DroGi thought less of the intellectual types. He believed they weren’t real men, as they stayed behind in the comforts of their homes while men like DroGi died in the fields. “Of course you’d be reading.” DroGi looked around this unremarkable house and pictured himself living in something like this after he retired. Unfortunately, he knew, there was no retirement for an injured soldier who left his company without a word. He was technically a deserter and deserters were not well respected. Living on the streets for someone going absent would be a privilege. This ignited a new anger inside of himself. “You know there are soldiers out there who have family that don’t know if they’ll ever see their loved one again? That those families are sitting in a house smaller than this, with dirt floors. And what do you rich people do? Sit and read and eat figs while they eat sticks and leather. Why is it that the ones with less fight for the ones with too much? If you’re all so smart, why don’t you all come up with a solution? Why don’t you fight your own wars, huh?”

Vatra uncrossed his legs, placed his book on the small table and stretched his upper body with rotations and reaches. He moaned in relief and smiled. “You’re right.” This caught DroGi off guard. He was expecting an argument. “We are smart, Vatra continued. “We’re so smart that the solution we found was to have people like you fight our wars.” DroGi rushed forward. Vatra, expecting this, moved the second chair in his way, creating a barrier. “Calm down, DroGi. It’s a joke.” He laughed. “I didn’t send anyone anywhere. That’s above my level.” DroGi halted his aggression, lifted the chair, and threw it against a wall, just as a way to demonstrate his power. Vatra ended with, “Politics is just a bunch of old men arguing about the best way to control dogs.”

“Dogs,” DroGi said to himself silently. He thought back on his training in a flash. “We obey commands, speak when given permission, and live within quarters on a short leash,” he thought. Then, he pushed the idea out of his head. “No, no. That was just during training. We had the choice of what to do next. And,” he paused internally, “punished if it was the wrong choice.” DroGi shook his head to stop these thoughts and said out loud, “Listen, fucker, it’s time to go. We’re heading south.”

“Oh?” Vatra, satisfied with his jest, leaned back and inquired, “Why south?”

DroGi took a minute before answering. He was taking time to absorb the environment around him. A few of the shadows that normally followed him were present, so were others unfamiliar to him. Staying in place he checked all the corners and the ceiling. Nothing obvious to be seen. Some of his shadows were grouped in the one extra room of the house looking at something out of sight to him. “First off, this house reeks of death.” Vatra and the guard looked at one another, then back to DroGi. He shook his head and returned his attention to Vatra. Thumbing his now grayed obsidian ring, DroGi said “I went and saw Nelvis. Without you around he’s a little more talkative.”

Vatra looked at DroGi’s ring then his own. He had put together that he used Vatra’s location as his return point to town. As if coming back from a train of thought, he began to say, “Yea, I don’t know what I was thi-”

“Shut up,” DroGi cut off. “He told me he’d heard stories about another mirror in the Black Mist Forest.”

“And?”

“‘And?’ And we’re going! Fuck, let’s go, already!”

Vatra looked to his guard, “What do we know of the Black Mist Forest?”

DroGi tuned the conversation between the two out as he went back to scanning the area. His hearing became honed in the room. The shadows were gone, but he still felt a presence. The room was too perfect. No dust, no scratches, nicks, or blemishes. The window sill wasn’t sun damaged, the floors looked as if no one with shoes had ever stepped foot inside, and the walls behind doors were smooth like the doors must have been slowly opened enough to allow a person through and nothing more. He pushed off as the other two continued their planning.

At the entrance of the bedroom, he could smell citrus cleaner. The living room smelled of old books and potpourri, so he wondered why would this room be the only one to smell as if it were cleaned. He rolled toward the bed and pressed on the layer of skins and furs. It was cold on his callouses, but inviting all the same. He imagined what it would feel like for the furs to brush against his skin and what it must’ve felt like to kick his legs underneath. He shook that last thought from his mind and continued to inspect. He checked under the bed for dust, but found nothing. He thought this house was too perfect, and the idea of something being perfect is usually a mask for something else. He liked to think you could tell a lot about a person’s mindset by the house they kept. A cluttered house usually meant a busy mind. A clean house usually meant the person either had a housekeeper or thought methodically. This house, on the other hand, did not match up to the other men in the room. The guard was too large, robust, and heavy in stature. The bed would be too small for him, the rocking chairs and small tables were not his style as they would barely be able to maintain his weight or the amount of food he’d need to eat to sustain his physique. Vatra, although rich and can afford a housekeeper, didn’t maintain this type of cleanliness within the mansion. He also had a much larger staff there. So, unless he sent the entire service to this particular place to maintain it, there was no explanation. This house was wrong. He looked back into the main room to see the men clarify questions and tactics. DroGi scoffed at the idea of making a plan with a house guard. He wondered what they could possibly know about the world outside of these pampered walls.

His attention turned to the single cabinet placed against a wall. Nothing fancy, but it was nicely smoothed and waxed. Like all the other objects in the house, it was unscathed. He was feeling nosey and decided to look inside. The drawers slid open without a sound of friction, as if moving effortlessly through air. Whoever built this was a master of their craft. Upon opening one of the other drawers, he could tell it didn’t slide as smoothly. It was like an annoying splinter had found its way loose and jammed itself into the track. There was nothing in any of the openings, so he closed everything. He reversed enough to allow his legs to swing past the piece he found to be a work of art. As he turned, he felt his drive wheels and hands dip slightly. It was almost unnoticeable, but with the perfection of the rest of the house it might as well have been a hole to the nether world. He wheeled past, then rotated the half circle to assess the imperfection. There were pressure marks that followed a symmetrical, curving path. They led to three of the legs of the cabinet, meaning one must have been the pivot point. He reached down to feel the indention to make sure it wasn’t a trick of light. It wasn’t. His fingertips followed the tracks back to the cabinet and held it by the bottom rim. He tugged lightly and felt a slight give. He tugged even harder resulting in the doors jostling, but still, the cabinet did not budge from its spot. He sat upright and inspected the narrow gap in the back between itself and the wall.

“DroGi?” He heard from the other room. “What are you doing, friend?”

He scoffed at the word “friend”, then responded with a hollow echo cheek smashed against the wall, “This place smells of death and citrus.”

“Maybe the cleaners had to clear out rats,” someone said.

He thought to himself that no living creature beyond a human has entered this house. He knew the signs of rats. They would chew on corners and edges. The idea of the cleaners coming in here, sanding everything down, then ridding the space of dander and splinter was beyond belief. “There has only been one family of rats in this house,” he said, squinting into the space looking for any sign of abnormality. He sat back and turned around, “I don’t have time for this shit. Come on, let’s go. I’ll see you at the mansion. Grab your shit. We need to see Shield.”

Author Credit

Sean Kuttner