Time moved strangely when one traveled on the Dreadwater. Cynorath traveled by rowboat, on a watercraft so small it nearly capsized at even the smallest disturbance in the surface of the accursed lake, and even his shrunken, bent form struggled to fit within it. Still, he thought as he rowed ever onward with the fervent energy of a man gone mad quite a long time ago, he was on a mission from the master! He was off to kill that vile creature of the north.
It felt like it had been months since he’d hurriedly departed from Arkham. He knew it should have only taken him about two weeks to cross the Dreadwater, rowing during the night without stopping to rest, eat, or drink, as he needed neither food, nor slumber. During the days, he would flip the boat over and hide among the water— the creatures of the lake did not dare draw near him, and he could not stand the hateful glare of the sun. He still thirsted, albeit not for water, and his thirst grew worse during the night, when his arms strained and his throat burned with the memory of his last meal, a delicious girl from Mercantilis. He mused that he should have brought along one of his master’s many servants for a drink, but dismissed the idea: the boat was much too small.
The time wore on, the hours of night flowing by much too quickly and the hours of daylight seeming to move much too slowly. Cynorath contented himself by imagining all of the ways in which he could kill the creature of the north. Perhaps he would rip out his eyes and let him bleed to death clutching his face, or perhaps he--
The fog that sat over the Dreadwater during the night parted, and he rammed directly into a dock piling. He scrambled out of his boat, abandoning it and the oars, scuttling up the piling and flopping onto the dock like a fish out of water. He was immediately confronted by a great shining lantern, to which he held his hands up to his face and let out a pained hiss. Standing over him was some kind of great man dressed in heavy armor, he had seen that much before the light forced him to shield his face.
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“Raaaaam child. Raaaam child will die!”
“Ett, this thing’s bleeding black! It’s hissing at me too! Get over here!” The man towering above Cynorath shouted over his shoulder to another man some distance away, who began to hurry over, if the sound of heavy footsteps was any indication. Cynorath knew he was on the Black Docks, and that meant he was one step closer to his target. He giggled to himself. Once he got away from this horrendous lantern light, he would be free to do his master’s bidding.
“Chain it up and take it back to the brig, Jörgen.” The one known as Ett said in a stern voice. “I don’t know how it got past the lantern posts, but if it can do that it must be dangerous enough to be worth having the scrivs dissect it. Maybe it’s a new kind of freak. You never know.” The man kicked Cynorath, who lashed out with a clawed hand to no avail.
At once, he was up and being bound in chains. He cringed against the bright light, but he was not like some of the creatures of darkness. He had begun as a human, all those years ago, and so he could stand the light enough to spit at his captors, which earned him a second, harder kick.
Cynorath knew now that all he had to do was bide his time. Sure, being captured was unexpected, but from the prison of their precious Dreadhold he could break free, and from there he would find Ram’s child and slit its throat.