The heathens arrived with arrogance.

They had marched through the winding valley along the well-kept cobblestones. Dusk was settling as they arrived. They arrived at my black gates, bordering Master’s estate, and they had come with purpose. A purpose stymied by the small pale looking boy who stood waiting on the cobblestone.

It was not the first-time, nor would it be the last I would be dismissed on sight. Heathens viewed this youthful visage as one of submission. First impressions, I found, were never as insightful as one believed them to be. Few remembered that service, of any kind, required an iron will. However, they did not stray into malevolence in the first meeting.

They were here to see Master. So, I, the humble gatekeeper of the Pale Night Realm, offered them hospitality.

They requested an audience in the most demanding of tones once they realised I commanded the gate. Their leadership was a man in a decorated uniform and a woman in priestly garb. Both were eager to do away with me at first. Their military retinue behind them tinkled as their buckles and weapons were arrange in a hostile manner. I almost laughed at the sight as I stood before the black gate. That would have been poor, as these heathens were clearly foreign to the valley and may not take kind to humour.

The woman spoke prayers in alien tongues, switching dialects freely, as if testing to see if I was some dumb spectre in need of exorcising. Their uniforms were dyed in lavish reds and purples, foreign to the local ink smiths. As I was clearly not who they expected to encounter at the edge of Master’s demesnes, I scolded my shorter form to remain respectful. This was made harder when the Veil awakened my ears to translations of her sultry greetings. I imagine the priestess’s words would be quite persuasive if I was mortal. They knew so little of my kind. Alas, that was the case with most heathens. I tried not hold it against them.

I, too, had been eager for an audience with Master at a time long past. So, with the delicacy of a new mother soothing their child’s first tantrum, I advised them of my expectations.

I told them they would need gifts. For while Master’s estate appeared humble at the cast iron gates, the inner sanctum was lavish beyond mortal ken. Demesnes of deities thrived off splendour. I would be a poor acolyte to not seek further boons for Master. Exotic presents from faraway lands held potential. Even the lowest of petitioners knew to offer thanks.

“If it brooks no offense, may I offer this chest if it pleases the deity of this realm?” The priestess questioned, as soldiers brought forth a heavy chest. A question, not yet a gift, so there was some tact to her. Interestingly, ‘gift’ and ‘bribe’ were close in meaning in their language. Yet, the ‘gift’ was so… mundane.

I exaggerated my sigh.

“I see stone and ore of the deep earth. Quite… mortal, to my Master’s taste.” The decorated man squinted at the chest, clearly conflicted. I tried to be cordial, guiding them to a more apt set of gifts. “See, while the earth produces pretty gems to the eyes, it is raw. It requires more work, and that becomes an obligation and no gift at all. Master prizes the work of the hands. The willingness to partake in times of struggle and strife as to imbue one’s life into another. Those works of labour, when given freely, are a gift worthy of Master’s hospitality.”

They departed disappointed after my brief sermon. I expected resistance, but the leadership appeared pleased by the requirement of gifts. They offered thanks, with the priestess speaking of returning with the new moon. An adequate amount of time to work gifts. A welcome time to see to Master’s slumber.

It had been too long since I last conversed with those who roam beyond the valley. They had appeared quite different these new heathens than those of past parlance. Gone were the hides of local cattle from their clothes, and archaic pikes and spears were not among their armoury. They wielded new portable cannons; I could taste the grey powder they had held inside. Master kept his own stockpile of powder for the most festive of seasons. Sadly, these heathens’ own recipe tasted tart on the wind. A strong explosive, but a poor spectacle for entertainment.

While hospitality in the heathen lands differed vastly some manners remained consistent. The need for a gift upon arrival had not been lost on them. Their arrival with weapons and uniforms was not lost on me. A tricky negotiation.

I made sure to practise the priestess’s accent, while they were away. A second meeting was one of refinement. No longer a wild exploration of each other, as was the case of first impressions. It was a more probing affair.

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I aged my appearance slightly. I now stood as tall as the shortest soldier. My smile, while innocent now contained laughing lines around my eyes. My black hair was slicked back, as if I too had been wearing a hat while on march. I cleaned up my dark brown tunic, and adorned forest green pants and a jacket. To top off my appearance, I procured a small medal from Master’s wardrobe. It was fairy gold, gleaming with faux value. Apt, I thought.

Sadly, I must have spoken in the wrong tone at our first meeting for when they returned with the new moon the wind tasted sour. I remained patient. To serve the tenets of hospitality patience was no mere passing virtue; it was my very existence. So, I was subtle with my enquiries.

“Greetings, Gatekeeper!” The priestess greeted eagerly. The captain was more subdued. No, that was false. He was preoccupied with my new appearance, wary.

I offered a mock salute in greeting. “I take it the time between meetings has been fruitful?” My voice was deeper now, raising the captain’s eyebrow. The Priestess continued without hesitation. “Very fruitful indeed. We have procured a gift of labour for your master.”

I raised my own eyebrow, still annoyed by the sulfuric smell that arrived with her entourage. It did not speak towards a proper gift.

“He must possess an appetite, and so we shall provide the finest of cattle and crops this land possesses. Furthermore, our chef has learnt of local dishes in an effort to best suit your master’s potential tastes.” The woman was smug. The captain wore a yellow grin by her side glowering at me.

They presented grain the heathens had not harvested, and cattle uncared for by their retinue. These gifts were the valley folks to give, not these heathens.

The cattle were accompanied by the valley folk, with heads lowered. Submission had been instilled into them. The submission of the conquered, not of mannered deference that can only be earned.

I approached one, a younger lady, to inspect her under the guise of seeing to the cattle she controlled. She shook as she handed me its reins. Her arms, raise beyond her too small makeshift cloak, were revealed to be covered in lacerations. Peering past her, many of the valley folk sported similarly bloody or bruised countenances. This would not do.

The sourness of before turned putrid. I avoided breathing, allowing a small clue towards my nature to seep from my disguise.

I offered her back the reins and contemplated this irritating predicament. My anger was hidden as I returned to the fore of the group. The stench of life given unwillingly was vile but I kept my unsettled nose in check.

“I am afraid…” it was tricky now, with emotions roiling within, to speak the language of these foreign heathens. My patience wore thin, but the Veil guided my tongue, “Master partakes in a more particular diet. These will not do, especially for what you seek to ask of him.”

The uniformed retinue behind shuffled into ranks, tense at my proclamation. Their leader no longer grinned. He slowly moved his hand to a weapon at his hip. I stood firm. However, the heathen priestess started before he violated this sacred space.

“I see we have offended you. Forgive us, our land weighs wealth differently. I believe we have misunderstood what you seek to be provided.” She stared at the young valley woman I had briefly inspected and appeared inspired. Her gaze turned fanatical, “I assure you; we will have the greatest of gifts prepared for our return.”

The Veil around us darkened with moisture as I allowed silence to reign. While they had been harmed their wounds would heal and the valley folk were a hardy sort. Rain fell along the cobblestone path as they waited in silence. I briefly glanced back towards the estate I knew to be etched into the stony mountain beyond the gates, and came to an understanding.

“Yes, I hope a misunderstanding. Appetites diverge across different lands. I cannot accept what you currently seek to offer.” Master would be appalled to be provided provisions not freely given. “I suggest you abandon hasty gifts, if you seek to return. Master does not brook mistakes made thrice.”

The captain stank of sweat and confusion at my warning. The priestess was still lost in a place beyond reality. They assembled their retinue and the valley folk, departing with haste. They claimed they would return with the full moon of the next cycle. An adequate amount of time to repent for their heresy. A welcome time to make preparations for further blasphemy.

The dawn after their departure I sent forth gifts to those native to the valley. I conspired with Master’s other creations, rallying those of middling sentient to the purpose of caring for our more fragile neighbours. Good hospitality extended beyond the homestead after all. Sadly, when they returned it was not with auspicious tidings.

For the briefest of times, I allowed my form to revert from its youthful visage. Mourning befell the Veil of the Pale Night Realm. I lambasted the foreigners for the crimes they committed. I harmed myself in failing to foster a hospitable exchange. Even in my monstrous grief I maintained the Veil as calm and placid. The heathens need not, must not, know of my anger and of my sadness.

I returned to a more mortal form with a nasty plot fermenting in my mind.

“Forgive me Master,” I spoke to his slumbering entity as I clothed him. With great effort I moved him to the audience chamber. “Your Gatekeeper must construct the cruellest of awakenings for you. I will repent, in time. Once your true hospitality is delivered to those who would egregiously seek to break the tenets thrice.”

Some of Master’s creations would say I crafted my plot with a smile emblazoned on my pale face. As if I took great glee in the retribution I plotted. I would call those creations flawed, or at least as flawed as Master deemed them to be. However, no creation of Master’s could lie.