Alright, here it is necessary to clarify, because dream is one heck of a variegated, many-meaning word. It can mean aspiration: as in the goals we strive for. It can be a synonym for rest: made interchangeable for its assumption of sleep. And ‘dream’ can also arrive as a convoluted, and portentous sequence of hazy vignettes: visions into the core, inner-world of the self.
Thankfully, that isn’t what the Hero suffered here and neither will we.
Instead, Rhode fell into an in-between state, a liminal boundary just shy of true [Hibernation]. He experienced the world around him like a sleepwalker, and his perception distorted and blurred.
Rhode and his semi-professional babysitter-soldiers turned to pass through a great arch and into a festival of warm colors: bold reds and golds, with subtle lilacs and blues; all of it tied together with pale carpentry and soft white marble. So – still over the top, but at least it was different. Generally, it was surprisingly easy for newcomers to get lost in the irregular curves and intersections of Four Ring. But a simple explanation of the floor plan was that each individual ring was designated with a theme.
The gold and green ring was Ancestors’ Hall, largely in keeping with the tastes and style of the earliest Earls of Malachite. Since those times, the lower floor had been maintained as a tribute to the history of the family, which is largely to say that few members of House Tintalline really used it anymore. Now after a long, roundabout route, Rhode had switched rings at a far junction. This hall was often referred to as the Spousal Hall: as it had so often served (over the years) as the private quarters of the various lesser nobles who had married into the Tintalline family.
Everywhere one looked, the lush, but mismatching furnishings displayed the proud colors of houses long since absorbed by the heirs of Malachite.
“Okay, I’m here. Thanks for bringing the big guy,” huffed a voice.
None of Rhode’s three guides saluted. They stepped to the side instead, with the senior guard tugging the youngest by his ear. It was difficult to tell whether their posture conveyed respect or not, and it was likely the soldiers weren’t sure if they intended it either.
A young man jogged to a stop in front of them. He was tall, surprisingly so; and wearing a long, pale yellow smock over fraying, comfortable brown leggings. His hair was tousled and he carried himself with a casual, raffish ease.
“Sorry I’m late,” apologized the elf. He effected a wry grin, and right away at least one of the soldiers’ scowls noticeably melted. “Nobody put this on the schedule. I’m not even sure who would have approved–”
The young man ran his hand through his hair, chuckled, then froze.
“What’s wrong with the big guy?”
The Second Prince’s soldier tilted her head and picked at her ear. “Don’t know. He’s wobbled. Checked him for a flask, in case he got something good. But nope.”
Rhode squinted at the new arrival. Not every word was sinking in. His eyelids drooped. “Do I know you?” he asked.
“Huh,” the elf hesitated, “that’s weird. Doesn’t matter though, come on. We’re setting up in the Baroness’ Blue Reprieve. Get him in.”
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Unexpectedly, the soldiers refused. They had been ordered to help secure the hall after delivering the Hero, and abruptly left to do just that.
“I think I know you?” Rhode repeated thickly. It was hard to think, as a sensation of woolly static scratched at him just behind his sinuses.
“Gods, you really are out of it, Rhode,” mumbled the young man. He motioned at the homunculus and backed away, like he was signaling for heavy equipment to follow.
“I’m kind of hungry,” Rhode announced.
“Have you eaten anything today?” asked the elf.
Rhode shook his head and the elf smiled.
“Good. It’s better if you don’t eat first. Now come on, let’s get you prepped, it’s going to take a few minutes for everyone to get here.”
After it became clear that Rhode wasn’t going to follow, he found himself getting pushed from behind once again, and he trudged towards a wide, circular door which was set into a broad section of stone wall: it particularly reminded him of some kind of porthole.
The great door swung open easily and inward, made possible by an ingenious hidden mechanism behind its hinge. Rhode stepped over the stone lip beneath him, and from there into a paradise of cool blue tiles. There were fountains along the walls, and lightly running streams of water. A number of artfully designed baths were scattered about the chamber in various sizes and heights, but together they gave the appearance of tranquil ponds. It was lovely. It was calming. It was nice.
But unfortunately, he was only here because this room had the largest available floor drain.
Rhode stepped forward and discovered a huge lounging divan, out of place and next to a sunken metal grate in the middle of the baths. The couch-like piece had an arched profile, as if meant to fit the back and spine more comfortably, and thin padding. Richly stained and lacquered wood was carved into ornate, clawed legs, and the cushion was faded silk. The fact that it would soon be ruined was a terrible, wasteful shame.
“Try to lie down as comfortably as you can,” the young man winced. “Again, I’m sorry. This is all such short notice. Honestly, I’m surprised you agreed to this.”
“I think I didn’t,” Rhode mused as his massive weight settled across the furniture. The proportions were completely wrong for his body, and (groggily) he shifted to lessen the discomfort. “Hey, you’re one of my guys: one of the kids. You’re around all the time. Sorry for being rude, why haven’t I asked you your name?”
“I’m Btiobhan,” (that’s Tuh-vahn to y’all at home, elf names are ridiculous and I’m sorry for that) the young man answered patiently. His eyes narrowed, with their strange, round pupils. “And don’t worry, this is actually probably the tenth time we’ve officially met. We chat all the time, Rhode.”
“But you’re an elf though,” Rhode considered. His voice dropped towards a menacing rumble.
“Yea, sorry,” Btiobhan sighed, ignoring (or overlooking) the change in tone. He stepped away, around the other side of a raised bath, and returned with a loose drawer. It had clinking brass handles, and a painted front face. As he hefted it, it made a muffled clunk as its heavy contents slid; then the box was set down carelessly next to his patient. “If it helps,” the young man poked Rhode in the arm with a finger, “I’m sort of a crummy example of my noble kind. Or at least, that’s what Dad always said.”
“Hm,” Rhode said. He chewed on that detail. “That would be a lot more relatable if you weren’t the [Ectoplasmic Anchor] guy, I think.”
“Wow, you are remembering me better this time, big guy,” grinned the elf.
Btiobhan stepped outside of the bath (in search of a working table), and while he was gone, an older goblin arrived with a pair of shabby leather valises. He carried one in each hand and set them down on the floor next to the supply drawer. Then he leaned over Rhode.
“Saggy butts of my fore-fathers, you are a big one, aren’t you, Ser?” the man exclaimed. He had a dark complexion, with unnecessarily thick sideburns, and wore a tabard in silver and myrtle. He picked up one of his bags and clicked it open. Rhode watched as he pulled out a pair of ivory combs and a long, single-blade razor.
“Oh, are you the barber? It’s not a haircut,” Btiobhan called out. He had found a rolling dinner-cart with the help of some of the soldiers. It clattered, then squealed as he pulled it through the doorway and across the floor. The young man was pink in the face from the exertion. “We’re giving him [Iron Bones],” he exhaled.
The barber nodded serenely. He put his tools back into his case and set it down on the floor. Then he picked up the other one and pulled out a gleaming, ragged toothed bone saw from inside. “Of course, Goodman. We can do that. But I think I’d still like to give him a quick trim after.”