The back of your head aches. The world swims. All is darkness.
The ground is cold and wet beneath you. Unseasonably. Your head throbs.
There is the scent of mold, of fungus, of blood, of gore. The sounds are strange.
With effort, you open your eyes.
The ground is cold and wet beneath you. Unseasonably. Your head throbs.
There is the scent of mold, of fungus, of blood, of gore. The sounds are strange.
With effort, you open your eyes.
Burnie winced, putting his hands beneath him upon the ground. He was wearing gloves. Strange. He barely owned any. They were hardy, fashionable perhaps, but mainly for work. The rest of the his clothes seemed to match, though they were int he earth tones he'd worn for the last year or two. The sun beat down upon him and there was a sense he'd been seeping in it for some time now.
With a grunt he sat up, rubbing at his eyes. How did he get here? The previous night was a blur. He'd returned from Razasan, had gone to the ball, had met with Giuseppe and...
Off in the distance, you hear a distracting, inhuman growl.
You smell strange and mundane plants nearby.
Your world finally comes into focus.
You smell strange and mundane plants nearby.
Your world finally comes into focus.
Hedges around him, unnaturally tall. There was a pack beside him. His sword was at his side. His head ached, still, but he'd made it to his feet, at least. Glenn Burnie was still in Myrken Wood. Somehow he knew it. A flutter and crinkle caught his attention. There was a note attached to the pack, comprised of beautiful, expensive paper. He rubbed at his eyes and opened it.
He read and a look of fatalistic exasperation came over his face. It'd gone all wrong, not all of it, but most, so much of it. The memories were streaming back now. There was little question now where he was, but his bethrothed (his wife? He didn't remember that part, certainly) sorely underestimated him. One does not put a mapmaker in a place like this. One does not put a man like Glenn Burnie with his back against the wall in a trap of geography and logic. Ones does...
You turn your head.
You see the remains of the man against the nearest hedge.
His body is mangled.
The gore is intense. Something had eaten off chunks of him.
You hear the distant growl again.
You see the remains of the man against the nearest hedge.
His body is mangled.
The gore is intense. Something had eaten off chunks of him.
You hear the distant growl again.
"Oh Stefan," Burnie's was soft as he recoiled one small step at the sight of the very recently created viscera. Delegation had been necessary both morally and due to time constraints. This was a lapse and while in some ways it was useful or important, it was mostly a way to relieve the pressure of the Governor's ever-lessening madness. Perhaps it was the last floodgate that needed to be opened on the uneven road to sanity. "What have you done?"
What had Golben become?