Hall of Infinite Doors
You rise and dress for the day, choosing your attire with care (some servants take offense to their masters showing obvious wealth, while others are easily dazzled by a flashy outfit) while you run over the list of staff in your mind. You don't usually handle staff - that's one of the few things your brother still delegates directly - but you've paid special attention to the baffling disappearances on castle grounds. Many of the abductees have been female, though several men were taken as well, and few return. Those who do ALWAYS have something "missing", however. Sometimes actual body parts are gone, though most often when they reappear they're either vastly traumatized (often mad to the point of violence) or with severely decreased mental capabilities. It's always scared you, a little, how childlike and quiescent they've been, but your brother retains them at the castle, supposedly on mercy, though you'd be just as happy if they hadn't come back at all, as their grimness worries you.
Dressing in sharp black slacks with a silk shirt and crisp military jacket overtop, you exit your room into the cramped circular hallway of your personal spire. As a last-minute thought, you grab your longsword, a thin and light mithril blade and one of two given to you and Diurden upon your brother's ascension to the throne. Belting it to your waist, you set out for a place you rarely go in the Castle: the staff kitchen.
In a place as large as the Castle of Swans, the kitchen is kept in full heat almost constantly, and you're not noticed at first when you step into the steam and rapid movement of the room. You take the time to look around, trying to notice your target but unable to really see anything in the bustle and the steam and the movement. Before long, however, the head cook, an older, larger woman named Cabbeth, strides up beside you and bows, begging you to retreat with her to a less crowded area and asking what in the world you could be after. You mention the name of the person you're looking for and, after a curious look by the old cook, she tells you to wait but a moment and disappears into the crowd. Soon she re-emerges, bearing with her a plump, blonde-haired young woman with a crudely-fashioned though attractive face and the emptiest of blue eyes.
"Elen," you tell her, "come with me to the hall," and she follows you without saying a word.
Elen disappeared two months ago, and reappeared four days after her vanishing. It was assumed she had run away, since she was a romantic girl always making up stories about milkmaids and washerwomen who turn out to be faerie princesses and are swept away by beautiful kings on white horses. That all went away when she returned, however. Since then she has not been dreaming, hoping, or even thinking very much. Her eyes are empty and she rarely speaks, and seems not to understand some larger words or names. She had grown confused and overweight, not knowing when to stop doing things like eating or bathing or working, and speaks rarely, and only as response. What's worse, ever since she disappeared a section of her scalp has been bare. Just above her left ear, a square patch of pale skull could be seen, barren amid her corn-colored hair and somewhat appropriate considering her dead, lifeless expression. She follows where you bid, sits when you tell her to, and does not respond to your speech.
"Elen, I need to speak to you about two months ago," you say, and you have no idea if she's heard you or not. Changing tactics, you say "Elen, I need to speak to you about Raeden."
Then she responds. Her head shoots upward, her eyes filled with anxiety and fear. "She'll give it back," she says, "she said she would if I'd be good." Except all her words slur together to the point where you can barely hear it. "Shelgifihbuch. Shehsaadhshehwudifuhdbehgud."
"What did she take?" you ask, but only the girl's tears respond. You try again: "Please tell me about her."
"I can't," she cries, "then I'll be like this forever."
"How long has it been, Elen?"
Two fat tears run down her squinting cheeks. "A day. Forever. I don't know. I don't know!"
She makes to move but you grasp her by the shoulder, and she begins crying like a child, full of sadness doubly painful because of the confusion about its origin. "Elen, tell me about her, please, and I'll... I'll get it back."
Gobs of snot begin dripping from her nose, and she snorts them back with a sniff. "She said I wasn't special but she took them anyway, she took my dreams, said she'd give them back if I was good and didn't give her away, but I can't think of anything, I can't want to be like this, you said you'd help, she told me I was... I..."
Your grip tightens in the flesh of her shoulder. "What were you?"
The words come out as a sob, louder than you'd want, echoing down the steam-smelling corridor by the kitchens:
"Practice."
Dressing in sharp black slacks with a silk shirt and crisp military jacket overtop, you exit your room into the cramped circular hallway of your personal spire. As a last-minute thought, you grab your longsword, a thin and light mithril blade and one of two given to you and Diurden upon your brother's ascension to the throne. Belting it to your waist, you set out for a place you rarely go in the Castle: the staff kitchen.
In a place as large as the Castle of Swans, the kitchen is kept in full heat almost constantly, and you're not noticed at first when you step into the steam and rapid movement of the room. You take the time to look around, trying to notice your target but unable to really see anything in the bustle and the steam and the movement. Before long, however, the head cook, an older, larger woman named Cabbeth, strides up beside you and bows, begging you to retreat with her to a less crowded area and asking what in the world you could be after. You mention the name of the person you're looking for and, after a curious look by the old cook, she tells you to wait but a moment and disappears into the crowd. Soon she re-emerges, bearing with her a plump, blonde-haired young woman with a crudely-fashioned though attractive face and the emptiest of blue eyes.
"Elen," you tell her, "come with me to the hall," and she follows you without saying a word.
Elen disappeared two months ago, and reappeared four days after her vanishing. It was assumed she had run away, since she was a romantic girl always making up stories about milkmaids and washerwomen who turn out to be faerie princesses and are swept away by beautiful kings on white horses. That all went away when she returned, however. Since then she has not been dreaming, hoping, or even thinking very much. Her eyes are empty and she rarely speaks, and seems not to understand some larger words or names. She had grown confused and overweight, not knowing when to stop doing things like eating or bathing or working, and speaks rarely, and only as response. What's worse, ever since she disappeared a section of her scalp has been bare. Just above her left ear, a square patch of pale skull could be seen, barren amid her corn-colored hair and somewhat appropriate considering her dead, lifeless expression. She follows where you bid, sits when you tell her to, and does not respond to your speech.
"Elen, I need to speak to you about two months ago," you say, and you have no idea if she's heard you or not. Changing tactics, you say "Elen, I need to speak to you about Raeden."
Then she responds. Her head shoots upward, her eyes filled with anxiety and fear. "She'll give it back," she says, "she said she would if I'd be good." Except all her words slur together to the point where you can barely hear it. "Shelgifihbuch. Shehsaadhshehwudifuhdbehgud."
"What did she take?" you ask, but only the girl's tears respond. You try again: "Please tell me about her."
"I can't," she cries, "then I'll be like this forever."
"How long has it been, Elen?"
Two fat tears run down her squinting cheeks. "A day. Forever. I don't know. I don't know!"
She makes to move but you grasp her by the shoulder, and she begins crying like a child, full of sadness doubly painful because of the confusion about its origin. "Elen, tell me about her, please, and I'll... I'll get it back."
Gobs of snot begin dripping from her nose, and she snorts them back with a sniff. "She said I wasn't special but she took them anyway, she took my dreams, said she'd give them back if I was good and didn't give her away, but I can't think of anything, I can't want to be like this, you said you'd help, she told me I was... I..."
Your grip tightens in the flesh of her shoulder. "What were you?"
The words come out as a sob, louder than you'd want, echoing down the steam-smelling corridor by the kitchens:
"Practice."