Without the sun to guide them, Razlok had no sense of night or day.
They tried to be awake when others were around, and if everyone was absent or busy, they presumed it was sleeping hours.
Razlok could find something to preoccupy their time; they were the god of creation and invention, there were plenty of things to do. The early hours of the morning were one of these times where there weren’t enough people to bother unless Razlok wanted to harass Silver and the aforementioned Hartley, but the pair seemed busy when the deity passed by earlier…
So, instead, Razlok opened up a second plane behind the Dark Shrine’s door and got to work.
The shrine was the only place in which Razlok could truly stretch their abilities as a pseudo-Divine.
Everything was in reach to easily materialize, both small and large creations. Everything was in their perception, easily visible, from the spatial map of the room to the tiny details of texture on the surface of objects.
They expended no energy here, so there was no reason to worry about overdoing it, wearing themselves out.
The shrine was a perfect void for creation, the echoing silence of a room before a performance, just waiting for the first notes to sound out.
Razlok had faint memories of the creation of the cosmos, the time before Light existed and there was only Dark. It was something their human body couldn’t fully comprehend, but anything that invoked that Divine nostalgia was a good thing to do.
They manipulated the shrine to match the altered state in which they talked to Gwenllian. A high-domed ceiling littered with lightning magic like stars. A circular, vast room waiting to be filled. A black tiled floor with a geometric pattern.
Razlok knew what they wanted to do for a new, contemporary shrine that would suit the Guild in its present day. They needed Auron, though, to make it perfect. Auron would be able to help.
For now, they divided the room into three concentric circles.
The outer ring rose up into stepped platforms, stairs leading up to an empty space broken up by pillars into dozens of alcoves.
The middle circle was lined with benches, as if they were made to view the faux sky above or to look at these alcoves when they were filled.
A dais formed at the very center. Razlok thought this would be a good place for the Seats or Guild members to stage items to use as offerings. The deity couldn’t be in charge of providing their own offerings, after all.
They knew how to fill two of the alcoves already.
Over the next hour, Razlok worked on creating a statue. Art and sculpture were not their domains. It was hard, terribly hard, for Razlok to do this right, and Auron would have to come later and see to it that the colors were correct.
Eventually, one of the alcoves was filled by a carved-stone figure of Ink-Maker, who wore long, stark-white robes stained at the edges with darkness. His hands were hopefully dark too, dripping holy ink from the metal pot he bore in front of him.
He was a Hokuyamakai man with silk bandages over his eyes, which Razlok replicated from their vague memory of cultural sculpture.
The statue was roughly made, Razlok knew, but Auron would help.
They chose another alcove for a second figure. A figure wearing a feileadh mòr, a great kilt, as a cloak who held one hand out to soothe the watcher and another at their lips to quiet them. The name for this figure was Dark Eyes or Dark Friend in Thìr language.
A small village in Àrd-Tìreach believed in Dark Eyes as a local spirit, a more pleasant reaper than the one who featured in ghost stories. Dark Eyes showed up at your death to sit by your side and comfort you.
They took on many forms, but they were always your friend, you knew that the instant you saw them. They soothed your passing into Death, their tell-tale soot-dark eyes the only sign that this was an otherworldly apparition.
It was the form Razlok currently wore, and the sculpture reflected this body’s face and other features. Hidden behind their tinted glasses were the dark eyes that would give their inhumanity away.
It wasn’t vanity that led them to create these sculptures. Quite the opposite.
They knew in their soul that the human-shaped Razlok was only one of many important incarnations of the Dark. Perhaps this was the only one made truly of flesh and blood, but the Divines kept cultures alive, conjuring spirits to fulfill the worlds’ belief.
Humans needed variety. They thrived on diversity, being able to see themselves in their deities, to see their own values and personhood within the nebulous Divine.
Razlok’s absence meant that this pluralism was widespread, and they didn’t want their presence to detract from that. So… there were dozens of alcoves waiting to be filled with the statue of a mythological figure, dozens of cultures waiting to be represented.
They observed the room, all that they had made so far, and wondered what the Seats would think of it, what the Guild would think.
Something clicked.
They’d forgotten about the passage of time somehow, forgotten that Razlok needed to go finish helping Kian with her leg.
With no one around to witness, Razlok’s unfiltered swears echoed through the shrine. These spaces were outside of reality, outside of space and time, but the world would catch up to anyone who stepped outside.
The front hall was quiet, which was either very good news or very bad news. Razlok could hear someone at the front desk, so they approached it slowly, running a hand over their hair in exasperation.
“What time is it?” the deity asked, a bit embarrassed by their inattention.
Silver was manning the bar, which wasn’t a great sign, as he worked evenings, not mornings. “A little after noon,” the man answered bluntly.
Fuck, hours had passed. Five, no… six hours? Razlok sighed and grumbled out a response as they turned away. “Fell asleep… in the shrine.”
“Do you need coffee?” Silver called out after the irritated Razlok, polite but with a touch of amusement in his voice.
They waved a hand at the man as an answer, heading towards the dining hall. Hartley must be taking her lunch, which explained why Silver was at the desk.
He got plenty of socialization working the bar itself; he didn’t exactly need to go chat up people in the dining hall.
“Wait!”
Razlok stopped as they heard Silver’s footsteps catch up to them on the stone floor. Their perception caught something being held out to them, lit up by Silver’s hands.
“Gwenllian asked us to give this to you. She said it should prevent ‘any further incident.’”
The deity took the thing, feeling it with their fingers. “What is it?”
It was like a round cloak pin with a ribbon coming off it, but with some kind of insignia on it. Razlok guessed it was Auron’s emblem.
“A guest badge. Hartley was told that there was an… altercation last night, and Gwenllian wanted it to be clear which guests already had Guild-approval.”
Silver paused, then continued almost cheerfully which was weird for the gruff man. “Congrats, by the way.”
Razlok furrowed their brow. “On getting a badge?”
The deity could hear the grin in Silver’s voice now. “Neous has black eyes. Both sides. Gwenllian refused to heal them.”
Razlok declined to reply, though they did snort at the news.
So, Neous did go directly to the healer… and she refused? There was a question if she refused because of Razlok’s (secret) authority or if it was a means to teach Neous a lesson about picking fights.
Razlok guessed the latter. Gwenllian seemed the type of person to argue with Auron himself if there was a logical reason to do so.
They pinned the badge around the clip of their leather suspenders, the symbol and ribbon hanging somewhere around their belt. It seemed a waste to poke a hole in the borrowed shirt just to declare themselves an Approved Guest of the Guild.
“Thanks for this. And the warning.”
“Good luck,” was all Silver said in reply.
Razlok knew what the man meant, that Neous was incredibly vengeful and there was likely to be problems in the near future, but the deity couldn’t help but think about a different problem.
The dining hall was a place of community, where the different Guild members gathered to socialize throughout their day.
The Guild was spread out over several buildings, with workshops, archives, and communal spaces, yet the majority of the Guild came together for their meals.
Well, at least lunch. Most people could be expected to be awake and available for lunch, whereas breakfast and dinner sometimes coincided with other plans.
And, the dining hall was staffed by chefs and service staff alike, mostly fire mages with a passion for cooking and a lot of new Guild members who either needed money or needed the education of service work.
At any given moment, the Guild housed roughly thirty to forty live-in members, not including the Seats or Auron… or Razlok.
Then, there were those with families, who usually lived off-site but were welcome to attend meals regardless.
And the temporary workers, such as scholars or craftsmen who came to work with specific members.
And finally, the guests of the Guild, either diplomats or religious figures or simply travelers who wanted to experience the Guild themselves.
That put the community at around seventy-five or eighty people at their most crowded moments.
The Guild’s temporary closing changed the dynamic for the day, as it was mostly the live-in members who showed up. Families were mourning at home; scholars and other workers had been told that they couldn’t expect any progress to happen today.
This meant that the deity was far less concerned about Neous and more concerned about the trivial human problem of who to sit with.
Razlok entered the noisy dining hall, sticking as close to the wall as they could manage without running into things.
Their perception was working hard to keep up with the sheer amount of people in this room, every single one of them giving off an aura. The energy overlapped here and there, giving Razlok intimate details about what existed in those spaces.
Mostly, the things made visible were the round tables themselves and the food on it, or the hands that were gesturing, eating, working during their lunch.
It was slightly overwhelming. Maybe it wouldn’t be in the future, but at the moment, with how new Razlok’s humanity felt, this was a lot to deal with.
They tried to calm themselves and skirted around the periphery, focusing directly ahead of them and heading towards the clear signs of fire magic in the room. There were chefs at a bay of trays, an assortment of food prepared for the Guild.
Too much to process, too much to think about.
Staples. Rice, bread, starches, roots. No. Meats. Complicated things. Fork and knife and plates and bad eyesight. No. Simpler meals. Soup, too messy. Sandwich? Yes. Doable. Easy to hold. Greens and vegetables. No, no. Sandwich was fine. Banchan and small sides. Too much to choose from. Pickles? Pickled vegetables. Yes. That could come along.
That was enough for now. If Razlok was still hungry, they could scavenge later.
The excess food was put into a cold box in the back, and members were free to pick and choose as they pleased throughout the day. Anyone who fucked up the system by leaving food out to spoil was banned and had to run their snacking privileges through one of the chefs first.
They snagged a glass of something – it didn’t really matter what – and headed towards the best empty table they could perceive.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
It was by a wall, which allowed Razlok to guard their back and face the room. It wasn’t necessary, but it felt much more comfortable to be able to, uh, face any threats head on. Even if they didn’t perceive things so linearly.
They were only a few minutes into their quiet meal when someone approached. Razlok tensed then relaxed, recognizing the shape of Gwenllian.
“I’ve heard a lot about you today,” the woman began, her neutral tone hiding some obvious concern.
“Lies and slander,” Razlok replied instantly, crunching on a pickle.
Gwenllian observed the deity silently, in a way that mimicked Auron again. Auron really knew how to drag out stillness and quiet into unspoken yet palpable judgement. Gwenllian had been taught well.
Feeling the pressure, Razlok continued with a more honest excuse than they’d given Silver: “I lost track of time in the Shrine. Can ye tell Kian I’m sorry? If she’s available after lunch, I can sort her out then.”
“Will you need a medical room, or–?”
“Any room will do. Shouldnae be messy. Kian’s comfort first. Her quarters may do good, so she can rest. Nae like I can snoop around in her possessions.”
Gwen nodded, all business. “I will check with her first and try and negotiate for that location.”
The rest of her sentence went unsaid – that Kian was as defensive about her privacy as she was about the Guild itself.
The deity was left to their own devices once more, slowly eating their sandwich as the sounds of the Guild around them filled the air.
It was complicated. Razlok felt very conflicted. They loved how busy and communal this place was, but on a human level, the crowd and the newness felt overwhelming. Like a little buzz of anxious energy in the back of their skull.
They would adjust. It would grow on them over time.
Auron’s presence did wonders for Razlok’s general moodiness, the sheer sensation of knowing the Light was nearby was calming.
Only a minute or so had passed before Razlok felt someone else edge in on their periphery. They examined the being, expecting Gwenllian returning with an answer, and were surprised that it was the firebrand, Neous, charging toward them.
“You. Leave now. You aren’t allowed here.” The words were hurled at Razlok from a short distance away. Not within punching range, the deity noted.
Taking a bite of their sandwich, Razlok one-handedly unclipped the guest badge and set it on the table. The message was clear.
“I don’t care.” Neous was fuming. “Get out now or I will make you.”
Other people arrived, stopping just short of Neous.
Rose, the second-in-command of the Fire sect, Neous’ secretary, his favorite punching bag. Razlok wished they didn’t mean that literally.
And Gwenllian behind her, grabbing Rose’s arm, urging the woman not to participate.
“Sir,” Rose stuttered out the word, almost in a squeak. Oh, darling Rosalinda, what did Neous do to you? “We need to speak with the City Guard shortly, to compile statements for the assassin’s processing.” She was trying to avert a crisis, trying to hold up the world on her back.
Neous repeated his threat, words a snarl of anger. “Leave. Now. You don’t want me to use force.”
“No.”
The deity didn’t intend to humor the man’s meltdown. They took another bite of their sandwich. They were sure that their unfocused gaze was infuriating Neous, face ‘looking’ out over the Guild instead of paying direct attention to the Seat of Fire.
Neous could have growled. “I don’t think you understand–“
“I understand perfectly,” Razlok interrupted, muttering around a bite of beef and cheese.
They finished off their bite and snagged a drink before continuing with a nonchalance that was intentionally rude, as if Neous was wasting their time.
“Yer a bully and ye dinnae like having someone around who will stand up to ye. Go tae fuck.”
The phrase at the end was specific to Àrd-Tìreach but it certainly was easily translated. Fuck off. Go fuck yourself. Get fucked.
A gasp came from Rose who pushed forward to try to grab Neous, to try and stop the inevitable fight before it happened.
Gwenllian stopped her, pulling her backwards, saying something that Razlok didn’t hear. The Seat of Water was in her work-mode, out to reduce the harm as best she could. That meant gesturing not so subtly to the nearby members of the Guild, pointing at Neous’ rigid, seething frame.
They understood immediately and cleared out, moving fifteen, twenty feet away from the Seat of Fire and his tendencies to rage.
“You will not insult me in my own Guild. I am the Seat of Fire, you should respect that authority for your own sa–“
Razlok interrupted him again. “Yer own Guild? Dinnae think ye own it, Carter.”
The air went cold, but it was due to Carter’s radiating anger rapidly burning up around him and creating a draft.
The room was growing quieter, more of the members of the Guild backing away, gathering to watch this mess unfold.
It seemed like Gwenllian was preventing others from interfering. Itto and Elias were holding Rose, forcing her to remain still, remain with them where it was safe.
Was she worried about Razlok? Were all of them worried for this stranger?
“What did you call me?” Flames licked around the man’s mouth, his aura shimmering with the sheer heat he radiated.
The deity ate another pickle as infuriatingly as Razlok could manage, taking their time and making their aggressor wait for the satisfaction of an answer.
“Carter. Are ye too high and mighty now to use yer own name?”
A wave of magic caught Razlok’s attention. A translucent wall appeared in front of the onlookers. Kian’s magic, defensive, protective. She was gesturing in frustration from her wheelchair to Gwenllian, who shook her head as an answer.
“My name is Neous, and the Dark help me, if you don’t leave I will make you regret it.” The man slammed a hand down on the table, making the cutlery rattle on the plate.
Razlok laughed, loudly and openly.
“Pish, your name is Carter Sylwan and somewhere along the line ye thought that using Neous as yer title as a Seat would make ye more scary and intimidating.”
Carter was a farm boy from Arkas, a rural nation primarily known for its peaceful life and communal values.
He probably grew up doing farm labor, herding sheep or goats, or working as a craftsman’s apprentice.
His change of name was specifically for appearances only. It wasn’t a new identity as much as it was like calling yourself The Hammer or Inferno. Carter wanted to invoke an aesthetic to reinforce their reputation, and Igneous suited his needs.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The demand was delivered through gritted teeth, which was unlikely to be any restraint on Carter’s part, but a slow-cooking decision on how, exactly, to eviscerate his new enemy.
Razlok shrugged, continuing to push Carter’s buttons.
“Some nobody who broke yer nose last night and now I cannae eat me lunch in peace.”
The man demanded formality and respect, and he sure wasn’t going to get it from Razlok. Not like this.
Carter was burning up now, flames tracing along his silhouette and scorching air. It felt dry here, dry and almost breezy. The draft created by Carter was quite pleasant, actually.
From the background, Razlok could hear people shout for them to leave, to apologize and run, or shouting at Neous to let it go. Members with fire magic, who knew how awful their boss could be.
The magical barrier constructed by Kian was steadfast. The Seats knew of Carter’s failures too.
Why did they keep him around?
Razlok went to take another bite of his sandwich, drawing it out, but Carter’s temper flared.
The man leaned forward and swept his hand across the table, throwing Razlok’s lunch to the floor. Water spilled but it dried up impossibly quick, evaporated by the heat in the air.
Brushing food off their clothing, Razlok shook their head at the man. “Why are ye throwing a temper tantrum? Aren’t ye a Seat? Behave yourself, lad.”
“Don’t call me lad.”
“Would you rather me call you boy?”
“I’ll kill you.”
Razlok was unimpressed. They should be scared, terrified of Carter’s clear destructive power, but they weren’t some human to be pushed around.
Was this the tipping point? Was this how they would be found out? Because some stupid, insolent, arrogant prick wanted to fight in public?
Yeah, that tracked.
“Can ye leave me alone?” They questioned, lightly. “Is that an option? I think it’s a sound option that ye should take.”
Carter literally growled this time. He lit his hand ablaze as a show of force. “Are you threatening me?”
“Ye don’t listen to threats, ye only listen to getting yer nose broken apparently.”
This was going nowhere. Razlok was biding time, trying to figure out their best way out of this situation. Right now, it seemed their only option would be to kick Carter’s ass and call it a day.
With a huff of laughter, Razlok leaned back in their chair, gesturing to Carter with a hand but speaking loudly, to the crowd.
“This how he normally behaves? Or is it because Auron’s gone that he’s run rampant?”
Carter sent a burst of fire past Razlok’s face. The deity didn’t flinch, but instead moved their hand in a ‘really?’ gesture.
“Auron doesn’t control me; I am a Seat of Darkness.”
Fates, this man was annoying. Did he hear himself? How pretentious he sounded? “Oh, aye I’m well aware, what with the fire. Is that helping? Do ye feel better venting the rage?”
“Shut up.”
Razlok was finished with this. They didn’t even have food to go back to, they couldn’t simply ignore Carter and make him leave that way.
They tapped the table with a finger and raised their voice to a dramatic level, projecting to both Carter and the assembled Guild.
“I wish Auron had the good sense to fire ye seven years ago when ye started acting out like this, throwing tantrums.”
A mumble of soft sound from the crowd. Agreement or fear?
“You know why, right? Auron doesnae believe he can fire a Seat of Darkness, it’s nae his domain. It’s a bit silly, but he is unyielding about order and continuity.”
Carter snapped back quickly: “You don’t speak for Auron.”
But the man’s fire seemed less fierce, less sure. The problem with relying on rage as a motivator was that any blow to your confidence sapped away your strength.
“Debatable.”
Razlok was willing to throw away their entire pretense of being a foreigner, a stranger, if it meant getting rid of Carter. They weren’t at that point yet, but then again, the man was stubborn as a mule.
They remained seated, unfazed by Carter towering over them, unaffected by the threat of fire.
“I believe I do speak for most of us here when I say that ye dinnae deserve the Seat of Fire, Carter. Ye havenae deserved it for years.”
The room went dead silent, broken only by an enraged Carter.
“What? How dare–“
Razlok raised up a hand. “Apologies, let me speak yer language.”
As dramatically clear as possible, the deity enunciated their words in the same dialect as Carter’s —
“You do not deserve the Seat of Fire, Carter Sylwan.”
This time, the man was stunned, mouth held open as he processed the indignity of being insulted so clearly in front of the Guild.
Razlok didn’t let him figure out his words. They gestured to the Guild standing behind Carter.
“Have ye thought much about this scenario? Thirty-seven people, thirty-eight – excuse me – who are watching ye throw a fit at a right stranger. And why? Do they know why, Carter?”
“Cause ye are grumpy that ye had yer nose broken. Why that? Ye decided to throw slurs at me and insult my mate, all in one breath. Does that seem like something the Guild would publicly defend?”
“Thirty-eight people now know that I smacked ye for calling me a faggot. And that’s not even the interesting part, Carter.”
The man tried to interrupt, but Razlok let out a sharp-voiced “silence” that nearly filled the room with its authority.
“The interesting part is that they didnae know that before, and yet… have ye heard anyone other than you interrupt?”
Razlok leaned forward a bit, stressing their words in a patient, dominant voice, like they were explaining how it was mean to hit people to a small child.
“I’m a fucking nobody here. You’re the Seat of Fire, here for a full decade.”
“Two people know who I am, out of those thirty-eight. So, what do ye think, Carter, about the other thirty-six who are watching a complete stranger, a foreigner openly disgrace one of their own, a Seat of Power–”
Razlok tapped the table to emphasize their point.
“– And yet they’ve done nothing to defend ye.”
The man’s flames were nearly out.
Razlok was not one for speeches, not one to plan out and perform to a crowd. But they were a god of war, and warfare started long before the fighting. It started in the hearts of the aggressors. Razlok knew if you reached in there and pulled a few strings, planted a few doubts, there would be no war.
Carter had already lost. He might try and argue some pedantic notions, but the Guild knew now that he had no power other than fear. They knew that the others around them had no love for Carter, wouldn’t support him.
“I–” The man struggled to get out a thought.
“No, no,” Razlok chided, slowly getting to their feet and brushing crumbs off their clothing. “I’m nae finished. Let’s make this clear for ye.”
“Fire sect,” they called out to the crowd, putting a hand to their ear. “Do ye have anything tae say? Any defense of Carter?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. People turned their heads, covered their mouths.
“No? Right, then. Seats, next.”
“Itto, Elias,” Razlok called out casually. “Different question. Do you support Carter maintaining the Seat of Fire?”
“No,” Itto said immediately, loudly. “I do not.”
Elias took a moment longer in the tension of the room, but he answered by shaking his head. Itto chimed in for his husband. “Elias says no, as well.”
Razlok flippantly strolled past Carter, to stand closer to the crowd. Every eye was on them, but it was in their control. Not like yesterday. Not like Auron’s death.
Carter didn’t move. Was it fear that kept him from facing the rest of the Guild?
“Rose,” the deity called out, softly. “Same question. Silence is an acceptable answer.”
They were sad to put Rose on the spot, but it needed to be done. She shrunk in on herself, clinging tightly to Itto. But she didn’t answer, even after Razlok waited.
Carter looked weak now. How he was holding himself, still, motionless, scared. His body was rigid, unlike Razlok’s motions which were fluid, languid, unconcerned by this conflict.
“The Seats of Light are Auron’s darlings. They embody knowledge, justice, wellness. Why aren’t they defending you, Carter? Do they know something? Do they think it’s better to let this happen?”
The man moved now, finding some thread to grasp at in Razlok’s argument, to try and pull it apart. He turned to face the deity, who stood between him and the rest of the Guild with their arms crossed.
“You- You don’t have the authority for this. None of you do.”
Razlok almost laughed. They’d been right, Carter did want to cling to a pedantic argument as his last hope.
“Doesnae matter. You’re done. Everyone knows you’re an abusive piece of shite, Carter. They’ve been waiting for a good excuse tae get rid of ye. Hoping and praying that ye would be fired, leave, retire.”
“And, let me tell ye, lad, they’re glad that someone is standing up to ye finally.”
“No, you can’t do this.” Carter was beginning to sound stressed, edging on frantic. Razlok could only imagine what fear was showing in his face.
“I can, and I am.”
No one argued with this statement. Not even a whispered question from the Seats.
The man refused to let go. “It’s– No, this was an appointed position, by Auron. He has to fire me. Not you. You’re– You’re nobody.”
So, it was going to end with a bang, huh? Razlok felt oddly calm.
They should be stressed too, anxious about what was about to happen but… as a human, as this fake person who no one even knew, the Guild had their back. So maybe, maybe if they were honest, this loyalty would stay.
“Ach,” the deity made an exaggerated sound of annoyance, their own temper starting to show.
They weren’t an inferno; they were much more pointed and precise than that. An assassin, an arrow fired at the heart.
But they needed to put on a show, to put the nails in Carter’s coffin so the man realized it was truly over.
Razlok did enjoy a bit of drama, however.
“Ye willnae let this go without a fight.”
It was a statement, not a question. Carter started to answer, but Razlok interrupted, tilting their head at the man.
“You’re Arkasian, aye? What do ye believe in, Carter? What Dark thing do ye fear?”
The man stumbled over a reply, visibly confused. “What?”
Razlok tapped their chin, contemplating their next move while Carter and the crowd tried to figure out what in the world the stranger was getting at.
“Oh, I know.” The deity began, a wide, feral grin spreading across their face. “The Revenant. Ye grew up on stories of that undead that stalks ye while ye sleep, set on vengeance, ever-hunting.”
“What are you-”
Razlok leaned forward, taking off their glasses and winking at Carter with a pitch-black gaze.
“Ye better start running,” they said with a deranged cheerfulness.
As Carter stumbled backward in fear, Razlok conjured a sharp boarding ax into their outstretched palm.
A dark smoke-like magic swirled around their body, flesh turning skeletal, clothing to crude Arkasian armor, face slipping seamlessly into a skull.
There were plenty of sounds from the gathered Guild, but Razlok was not paying attention. They had one job: send a Divine-damned message to Carter to get it through his thick fucking head.
The man seemed to have made the right connections.
He was being fired, not by some stranger, but by the Dark Deity themselves, who had conjured up a weapon and turned into a monster. The folktales of the Revenant fueled Carter’s fear, much like the bogeyman under the bed scared a child.
Except this one was real, too real.
He bolted, tripping over chairs and scrambling for the exit. Razlok let him get almost to the door before they reared back and hurled the boarding ax.
It embedded into the door with a merciless thunk, wood splintering near Carter’s face. He yelped and scurried out, footsteps echoing on the hallway floor.
The gaze of the crowd was momentarily affixed to the ax and Carter’s narrow – calculated, scripted – escape. By the time they looked back at Razlok, they were their normal human-shaped self again, summoning their glasses once more and brushing themselves off like the undead flesh lingered.
They gestured to the door, a bit half-heartedly.
“I’ll fix that,” they said in apology.
Now, it was time to pay the price. Razlok was still coming to terms with being human, with being back in the world, with the loss of Auron, and they now had to face the Guild.
They hadn’t even finished their sandwich.