Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter One

The midmorning wind cut against his skin, what little was showing. As befitting a modern king, he was robed from neck to toe. The cliff he stood atop only amplified the wind and he wished to be elsewhere. But still, he looked out, beyond the cliff, ignoring what was at the bottom. He wished he could forget what was at the bottom.


The gulls swooped as if in time with the crests of the sea. He suddenly found himself with a string in hand that inched through the sky to clamp against a wind-sail that was commonly used in birding excursions. He looked up further to watch the gulls as they began to take notice of the writhing fish that was attached to the tail of the birding wind-sail.


As each gull swooped in to take more of the tiny fish from the sail, he began to notice the clawing sound; a kind of scraping. He glanced behind himself, making sure something hadn’t caught on his lengthy cape. A futile gesture of hope, he knew the sounds were coming from in front. He just didn’t want to go through the experience again. Lately, it was occurring more frequently.


He resumed guiding the sail with his string, coaxing the birds back and forth to see if they would swoop as he pleased. They did and the crests from the waves below, beyond the base of the cliff, changed with the swoops. At times, it sounded odd and other times, he wished it were true; he wished to control the crushing sound of waves with the simple swoop of a bird. But the end was always the same. The dismal, nightmarish finale that he found himself attempting to avoid at the last possible minute.


For a handful of moments, he was seeing through the eyes of one of the gulls, watching himself below while fighting to keep a whole fish in his jaws. The fish fell and the gull swooped low and brought with it a tremendous crash against the rocky outcrop of wall that was almost as tall as the cliff itself. The gull, not fully comprehending what it was seeing, forgot the fish momentarily and let it fall to swim freely below and succumb to a natural death.


What the gull saw on the cliff’s face – which was barren moments ago – were strange figures. Figures shaped like the one on the cliff’s edge above.


The king’s vision reverted and he was aching to get the taste of gilltain out of his mouth while hoping the creatures on the cliff weren’t truly there. The fear of those figures caused him to tighten his grip on the string which then became taut as the air sail above was battered by an extremely large gust of wind.


The gulls were blown away which was fine since the gilltain bait had been either taken or lost. With the wind’s blow, he found himself moving forward towards the cliff’s edge. The crashing waves were silenced now and only a calm noise came from the water below. But the scrapings and scratchings increased and he knew the creatures, the figures, were ascending. Now they would come up to take him.


As he moved closer, he refocused his attention on the actual edge of the cliff. This particular spot was supposed to have a barrier due to its popularity with the birding crowd and its recent tragical history. But at the moment, no barrier existed and he was approaching at the speed of acceptance.


A withered hand threw itself over the precipice. It was white and the flesh on the surface seemed to be loosely connected to the firm bones beneath. As it applied pressure to the surface, it flattened itself and split at the sides, spilling a minimal amount of water weeds and fish eggs. With that pressure came a draped shoulder and eventually a waterlogged head with a glittery, golden crown conservatively peppered with rare gems that matched what he himself was supposed to wear but rarely did. Seaweeds were meshed among the gentle prongs of the crown and a gurgled moan rolled out of the slacked jaw.


The eyes were always what bothered him most. They looked as if they were filled with bile water and about to fall from the face that held them. They focused on him with such intensity that he always let go of the string with one hand and tightened his grip with the other, moving his free hand to rub the back of his neck. It was smooth when it shouldn’t have been. There was no kingstone there to protect him and he sighed, resigning himself to the situation.


The climber’s other hand, barren of flesh, was thrown over the edge and dug deeply into the surface, hauling the rotted, watery corpse up to finally stand in front of the frightened, sad man. Frightened because he always feared the same fate. Sad because he knew it would come again and again, without plausible end.


Other bodies in similar and deferentially vulgar states of decomposition began to sling themselves over the cliff, each wearing a crown and as overly-dressed as their victim, the king. They all moaned or screamed softly or let parts of their insides come out through their torn faceholes. He had moved beyond the point of being squeamish about these sights.


The corpses, he knew, would get him as the string he held now wrapped around him; the sail above had been conscripted by the wind to perform the binding task. The monarch was helpless and in a state of despair as the spongy bodies swarmed. Their scent was stronger up close: the stench of months-old rotted flesh; of dying children; of forgotten dreams.


The sobbing began, first with him, in heart, and then from the bodies, in mock. He wished for the end to come, to let his next chance be dealt. The soft creatures, the graveside dwellers, helped him complete his journey towards the cliff’s edge so he could go over it. The crowns glittered menacingly as the previously dull prongs began to elongate and curve to grow down and into their bearer’s heads. More seawater and weeds spilled out from those wounds to bathe the bodies and make the man gag and finally collapse under the weight of the wraiths.


Closing his eyes tightly, he felt cold, bony fingers pry open his mouth and dig into his ears, his eyes, his head and even his heart. Hatred for them began to swell and the man writhed violently, kicking his legs as best he could. He attempted to scream loudly but with every attempt, the things would force their fingers into his mouth. The disparaged king jerked his entire head to empty his mouth and the taste left behind made him wish to have the gilltain fish.


They moved him more rapidly towards the cliff. The moaning increased. The stench overpowered. The warped crowns glinted brighter than ever through his clenched eyelids. And in the huddled mass, they all went over the cliff. The water was silent below and he knew the crashing end would never come.


King Sylvester knew he would wake up before the end.


He always did.





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The king sat up in his bed with a start.


It was light outside; a golden band rimmed the thick curtains. He sighed heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead, blinking rapidly as he feared that a stray drop might enter his eyes.


King Sylvester didn’t sigh again but his breathing seemed laborious. He was thankful to be alone as he was tired of publicly appearing weak. He wanted to sob but thought better against it for his eyes would later betray the action . Instead, he withdrew himself form his heavy bedding and set his feet gently upon the brazenly cold wood flooring. In a few moments, Penson would appear to brush out the king’s hair and shallow beard, to wash away the buffering layer of dead skin, and to all around transform the king from a bedraggled man suffering from night terrors into a stately figurehead that might appear to menace the mountain with leadership and confidence.


Sylvester knew he had a few moments still and he stepped softly towards the window just behind the head of his bed, pushed back the heavy curtains, and looked to the east. As his bedchamber dominated the tallest tower of the castle, three of his four windows were set to gaze lazily in their respective compass directions. The entrance to the chamber was a double door on the western wall. A large window rested in the antechamber on the other side, but Sylvester preferred to keep the doors closed, especially during dusk: a setting sun tends to wash the color out of a room, blinding the occupants to their surroundings.


In the east, Sylvester saw the nearest land through aged glass panes and nothing of the ocean that was in the further distance. The rising sun, opposing its dusk counterpart, blinds one from seeing too far and puts focus on what is immediate. Mount Reign was not in the exact center of the continent-sized kingdom of Decennia but rather tended to lean more towards the east. The king was thankful in being unable to see the distant ocean; the nightmare he had just vacated always took place on that disparaging shoreline.


He shuddered and closed the curtain, blinking away white spots that had been planted by the sun. Soft steps were heard from outside the entrance and Sylvester moved to the vanity to begin the quasi-ritualistic morning cleansing that was to come at the hands of his groomer.


A gentle rap was heard. Sylvester knew that the man on the other side had to pound fiercely for his effort to be registered through the thick wood. “Come in, young Penson” bellowed Sylvester. He hoped he didn’t sound as horrible as he felt inside. Lately, with the frequency of the nightmares, he seemed to carry a sense of terribleness about himself and feared that it might eventually be displayed for all.


Penson the groomer entered with that a chipper smile on his otherwise bland face. Sylvester wondered if the man knew about his internal thoughts as he was the first person to see the king almost every day. He imagined sometimes that, under less demanding circumstances, they might’ve been good friends. As it was, he was contracted to work under the crown, whoever happened to be wearing it.


The groomer moved directly to the king and made a comment. “Young Penson, sir? That’s hardly befitting the reality of my age. I merely know how to preserve my looks, but you often forget that I groomed even your father when you were his age, young Sylvester.” Penson smiled weakly but almost aborted it as if he saw something cross the king’s face. He didn’t mention it but his smile seemed hollow, as if he wanted to ask what was bothering the king. Sylvester knew Penson had obviously sensed something: the groomer was the kind of person who was attuned to such sensings. Penson also knew when to ask questions and when to leave well enough alone. This morning, Sylvester was thankful for the feigned blindness.


Penson finished brushing the back of the king’s head to cover the kingstone imbedded in the base of his skull. “Okay, sir. How are we presenting you today?”


Sylvester took that moment to look over his general appearance. His thick coal colored hair and his shortened beard did well to hide much of his face, as he preferred. His emerald eyes were anything but piercing; glancing might’ve been how he described them. Glancing green eyes and a scruffy complexion. First he would be cleaned up and then properly robed and the same day would begin anew, like any other, until he died. Which might take a while if I don’t eventually produce an heir.


While he refrained from sighing, he said, “Well, I’m meeting with the Malforcrent. Let’s aim for ‘intimidating’ and see if that works.”


“There’s no reason to believe you can’t be intimidating, sir.”


“There’s no reason to think I can be, young Penson.”





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The Malforcrent was an advisory council whose existence was rare to Decennia. Following the unexpected death of the previous king more than a decade ago, the council was created by the eight tents of the variously sized regions of the kingdom. Appointing their own successors, these advisors to the throne moved to Mount Reign and saw it best that they make the choices that the then-prepubescent Sylvester couldn’t properly handle. They had risen in a time of unforeseen crisis and Sylvester had been more than accepting of their helpful role in the early months and years following their creation.


Now, with Sylvester in his early twenties, he found that he loathed their invasiveness and manipulations with each passing day. Most acted under the public guise of being an advisor to the king while some laid themselves back and did little, if anything. One of them, Dothel op Prissen, seemed determined to always be doing nothing but occupy a previously cold seat. What was worse was that they all demanded the king stage a meeting with them once a month as if to legitimize their own positions within the government.


In the wake of his father’s death, Sylvester had been pulled from his studies in the northern Fortright Isles. The general teachings and molding of morals that took place in the Isles had been required for all Decennian kings since the first ruler had been selected from that region following the torrential Dissociative Wars.


The time when a king produces an heir leading up to when that heir is given the throne is crucial for an active king. During that time, a contingent of diligent protectors known as Gousherall Guards is assigned to protect the throne where the kingstone and its Magik cannot. It had been this way for centuries and rarely produced the scenario where a king was thrust into the kingdom’s helm without proper preparation.


Presently, the situation was far from ideal. When his had father died, Sylvester had been rushed to the throne, leaving his studies with less than half of the curriculum notched on the post. He yearned to return to those studies - to that time in general. A decade had passed and he felt his very soul to be weathered and he desired to escape out from under the crown he rarely wore.


When he entered Wakefield Hall, the Malforcrent were already seated. An elongated dining table played host to the council. With the table’s extreme length and minor width, several people were supposed to sit along both sides and the king always sat on whichever end he wanted. Almost always. At the moment, as with all advisory meetings, all members of the Malforcrent were on one side and faced the only unoccupied chair on the other. Though he knew he was carrying a semi-determined manner about himself, he felt anything but enthusiasm for these proceedings. He had no attendants with him while each councilman had one or two aides seated against the wall to their rear. Sylvester sat down heavily, adjusting his robes accordingly, and surveyed the situation.


On the farthest left sat Trisden Fellows, former tent of the Fortright Isles region. His blonde hair sat limply against his head but betrayed the inner spirit that the king knew all too well; Trisden was a power hungry man and had spoken out strongly regarding such issues as restructuring the powers of the king in relation to his advisors and even how he felt the borders between the regions were being crossed far too frequently. “How’re we to accurately know who we are governing if we can’t tell if someone is from our own region or are under the umbrella of another tent?” That was a common conjecture of Trisden, but Sylvester didn’t care to think too much about that.


Next to Trisden was the Dekenna representative, Kren Solarpaste. Kren was the kind of member who would prefer that nothing truly exciting happen in the kingdom as it might disrupt his comfortable position near the throne.


But Sylvester didn’t loathe Kren as much as he did the man from the Whismerl region. That region was very secretive and it housed no considerable benefits for the kingdom at large. And the councilman, Dothel op Prissen, was adamant in making sure that nothing advanced in Decennia. He never agreed with the majority of the Malforcrent and Sylvester couldn’t help but sometimes sympathize with the other members in regards to Dothel’s stubbornness; after all, the Malforcrent was designed to work fluidly with the crown. As it was, Dothel sat there, chewing on some pip and staring lazily around the room. Sylvester could smell the odd blend of oils and strong spices that Dothel liked to use on his clothes and hair. “Probably to cover up the stench of his decaying mind” Sylvester had muttered once. He recalled saying that and let a little smile cross his face, masked fashionably by the shallow beard.


Sitting in front of Sylvester and just to his own left was the woman from Broze, Marylyn Coiper. As Broze was the one region in all of Decennia that monopolized most of the continent’s coastline – from one northern corner almost all the way to the central southern tip – she seemed to worry more about external visitors or invaders more than anything. She was constantly reassured by everyone, including the king with his fragmented lessons in history, that it had been a very long time since any other foreign body had attempted an invasion of the once-powerful Decennia. Even the distant land of Gor Pyron had stopped claiming islands off the east coast for several decades. Still, with much conviction put into her tiny, stickly figure, she would advocate for fortified means of protecting the coastline.


To Marylyn’s left, Sylvester’s right, Misren OkLat of the southern Javal’ta region was placed. He was a portly man as denoted by many from that particular region. He almost always had a meal in front of him and forced those around him to speak more loudly than they otherwise would have due to his obsessive chewing. This was a problem for the tiny-voiced Marylyn Coiper.


The auditory issue was no problem for the towering man from Serres Mor, Brinttal Por Tyrenna. Though his region was one of the smallest in Decennia, he used his imposing physicality to make things happen for Serres Mor, such as the coastal defenses that Marylyn would have more greatly employed. “Just because no other lands are as close to my borders as they are yours, Madam Coiper, doesn’t mean they don’t need proper defenses! Suppose someone was smart like myself and decided to risk the voyage across the treacherous Fanway Ocean to cut deep into the heart of Decennia itself!” This had been boomed out at a previous meeting and always made Sylvester think of Brinttal as nothing more than an opportunistic bully.


Rounding out the final two regions and seats were the twin advisors Foyle and Pocquet Ghin’ra of Uv-Hren and Jint respectively. No one knew the exact details that led to a pair of siblings like the Ghin’ra twins to becoming tents of their regions and, by consequence, members of the Malforcrent. Sylvester often wondered if it was not a petty act of sibling rivalry, whereas the brother had become tent in one region and the sister, not to be outdone, had risen to become tent of the other. Sylvester was not exactly sure how this worked because he was certain that only an individual born within a particular region could become its tent. But here was just that situation and he didn’t want to think of the rules broken or the ones preserved and simply bent due to unusual circumstances. As it was, the twins were usually very solemn during the meetings, always murmuring to themselves and making other members of the Malforcrent nervous for no particular reason.


Thus, the meeting began. Trisden leapt into it without any formalities, much to Marylyn’s tiny cries of dismay. The candles seemed to flicker at the sounding of his voice. “I think the academy of Fortright Isles need better fortifications. The various bands of pirates and sea bandits have increased their raids and the marshals present have noticeably decreased in number. We either need more island marshals or maybe some ships and platform stations further away from the school grounds.”


The Fortright Isles were home to the schooling system for not only the king but for those that served him. Whereas coastal defenses weren’t wholly important for the shorelines under Marylyn and Brinttal’s realm, the Majramdic Academy was seen as being publicly essential to the preservation of the Decennian way of life. Without a properly educated king, the members of each state might look to overthrow him either through their representatives on the Malforcrent or even with personally vindictive motifs. If such an act occurred, many members agreed it would be the beginning of the end because violence would take precedence over a heritage that had been in place for centuries.


This was a near-impossible request as ships and boats of all degrees were extremely difficult to build in Decennia; large quantities of lumber had been diminished in times of rapid expansion by previously minor communities. Any ships that had been crafted beforehand had been, by now, lost to the oceans.


Misren spoke up. “Just conscript some of the Gousherall Guardsmen. Without an heir, the king doesn’t need all of them.” He took a breath and then a loud bite of something greasy. Without swallowing, he continued. “Wiff de Gawdsmen preshent, de stufents wild de more com-for-table when dey lib on da – gulp - mountain.” Sylvester couldn’t help but sneer at Misren with disgust, but the other councilmen simply nodded. They agreed with what Misren had spittled out and accepted that he would do it in that manner in the future, just as he’d always done.


Trisden seemed to think that was enough for his part and he settled himself into his seat. Marylyn looked as if she were about to say something but declined and put her hands in her lap, slouching slightly. Brinttal spoke up then. “The folks of Iigriana claim that they’d like to start exporting their cliff-grown figgle chutes.” Sylvester let a tremor of unease pass over him at the mention of any cliff, but hid it quickly. He didn’t know what a figgle chute was and didn’t care to ask as he knew Brinttal would treat him with a smack of idiocy, as would Trisden and some of the others. “They’d like to travel up and down the coasts of Serres Mor and possibly move along the edges of both Dekenna and Javal’ta in the process. I just wish to make this known, dear sirs and madams, so you may inform your tents that the figgle chutes are coming.” At that, some of the Malforcrent nodded with smiles. Others, like Dothel, just sat there.


Sylvester then mentally drifted as he became bored with the proceedings. In his thoughts, he focused on the notion that Dothel never brought any points of order up in these meetings. If anything, the only time he ever made a fuss is if it proved disruptive of any goings-on inside Whismerl. Sylvester sometimes wished to act boldly and confront Dothel on the matter, but he never did. Sylvester never felt he had the proper authority to do such a thing, despite the fact that he was the land’s king.


This bothered Sylvester greatly because he was the king of Decennia. His bloodline was the only one designed to rule the kingdom, as was decided centuries ago. The Malforcrent might be seen by some as a pure abomination of the throne. There were those in the castle or on the mountain, like Penson, who sometimes expressed doubt in what the Malforcrent did and wondered if they had the notions of Decennia as a whole in their hearts. Sylvester didn’t know what to think. He knew that the Malforcrent handled complicated issues specific to each region and that these former tents were best suited to handle them, but they seemed to be selfish and somewhat kipheaded in their decision making.


And there was Dothel who refused to move towards any kind of progress. Sylvester wondered if he even cared for the Malforcrent or if he was just filling a mandatory seat that would’ve otherwise left Whismerl without any representation.


As the meeting wore on, Sylvester began to grow uncomfortable and would prop himself against his arm, hoping that the feeling in his rear would come back sooner rather than later. In propping himself up, he absently slid his hand against the back of his neck, rubbing gently over the stone there. He was certain that none of the Malforcrent knew of it’s presence but didn’t take any chances.


He had been told from a very young age that the kingstone was born to the first child, always a male, sired by the king. With it, knowledge preserved by the bloodline was supposed to be passed down and made accessible to each king.


As it was, the kingstone did very little in aiding Sylvester. Glimpses of the past were afforded but they were of unimportant events or situations. No one need know that a woman in his family’s past made the best crustbread cake in the land or that a former king preferred the company of livestock over more commonly domesticated creatures like felines and canines. No, this was useless information. It, combined with the improper amount of educational experiences, made him feel like one of the most ineffectual kings that had ever bore the crown.


King Sylvester became even more disheartened when he remembered, yet again, that the kingstone was also designed to save him from death itself. It was a powerful Magik that Sylvester himself didn’t think he could comprehend, but when it was boiled down and explained to him, he took away the fact that he was deemed some kind of Immortal until he fathered his own offspring.


But none of these advisors, this Malforcrent, could know that. They couldn’t know that he was both impervious and incompetent. If they did, they’d most likely focus all of their attention of getting him a bride so that when a baby was born with a kingstone of his own, they could act. Though one kingstone was said to protect without fail, two at the same time were vulnerable. That’s why the Gousheralls had been created. Misren had mentioned their present lack of use in regards to the king, but Sylvester was certain that the Javal’tan was recalling past arrangements.


These and other thoughts bided Sylvester’s time as the meeting with the Malforcrent wore on boorishly. He glanced at Misren as the squatish man motioned for one of his aides to bring forth more gravy, which sloshed onto the smooth table in front of Marylyn. She sneered in disgust and scooted her chair from the table with loud floor scrapings. Noting the small amount of food that Misren had left on his plates, Sylvester deduced that he should animate his attention again as the meeting was likely to be over soon.


He picked up on something that Kren Solarpaste was saying. Something about passages or pathways. “My citizens of loyal Dekenna have expressed concern over the deterioration of the Nementor Paths. How they are finding it more difficult to travel here to Mount Reign or to and region that borders Dekenna in some respect. The Nementor Paths were fashioned in a time when free travel was not only condoned but encouraged.” This was true. Concerning the Nementor Paths, Sylvester knew that much.


They had been cleared to make at least one continuous pathway throughout the kingdom, primarily as a means of promoting trade, but also to allow regional citizens to feel freer in conversing and “getting to know” their respective neighbors. It was an idea crafted by King Nementor centuries ago, during a time when the regions had stifled under bouts of isolationism. The paths had apparently fallen into various degrees of decomposition. It was most likely a result of disuse as most regions tended now to maintain a policy of “If you weren’t born here, you shouldn’t live here.” It would’ve made King Nementor sick to his stomach and, presently, it was making Sylvester a little agitated.


Kren, being of Dekenna, was advocating for their rebuilding as that region had always been extremely loyal to any and all ideas fashioned by kings of the past. Knowing this now, Sylvester found it odd that it was Kren who had suggested the creation of the Malforcrent over a decade ago. The king never lost humor in the dry irony. The supposed loyalist continued. “Like Brinttal stated earlier, merchants from one region might wish to trade their wares in another region or just sell their stock elsewhere in general. Their immediate markets risk overexposure if the consumers aren’t already tired of the same items designed for local retail.” Sylvester nodded as what Kren said made sense.


But Trisden interjected. “And once these paths are refurbished, who will guard them? It’d be the same problem my academy is facing.” Sylvester let slide the idea that Majramdic Academy belonged solely to Trisden but silently decided to not forget the slip of the tongue. “There aren’t enough people under the crown to be spread across the whole land of Decennia.”


Kren turned towards Trisden, pushing his chair slightly back and away so that he could face the islander. “What difference does it make if they work directly under the crown or are hired within each region? It’s our tent’s primary job to safeguard the citizens of their respective regions, is it not? And the tents answer to us, to the king,” he said as he motioned in Sylvester’s general direction. Actually, he motioned to a tapestry behind and to the right of the monarch but, again, Sylvester let it slide as it was generally nice to have someone take up for him. “So, Trisden of Fortright Isles, what do you say to that?”


Trisden seemed to boil and Sylvester resisted the urge to squirm at the looks of confusion on the man’s face. Even Dothel was sitting up, taking notice of the proceedings. Sylvester thought that it was mostly because Kren had pushed his chair against Dothel’s and had forced him to pay attention. Finally, Trisden spoke. “And who will protect those that refurbish the paths? Who will actually perform the repairs? Who will pay for it all, and will it all be done at one time or in seasoned batches? Have you, young Solarpaste, given any of these notions a second thought?”


Kren made as if he was about to speak, but didn’t. He obviously had not thought of such ideas. His face reddened and Sylvester felt heat rise in his own face, but he was not sure if he was empathizing with the loyal Kren’s embarrassment or if he was angry that the man hadn’t thought through what he had put forth.


The man of Dekenna reset his chair, allowing Dothel to resume his lazy gaze, and Trisden continued loudly while addressing all of Wakefield Hall. “I’m well aware of the legacy left behind by King Nementor. But it would be best if certain advisors researched their proposals more thoroughly.” Kren blushed again, despite Trisden failing to acknowledge him visually. “I agree that the Nementor Paths would be better suited for bringing together our great nation, solidifying the already sturdy bonds that have been in place for all these long centuries. Eventually. I agree that this is a project that should be undertaken. Eventually. Right now, it’d be best if we allocated guardsmen and funding towards situations that can provide more immediate results. Like my own requirements at Majramdic Academy and the necessary assistance that will be upon those merchants traveling the western coastline of Decennia.”


Sylvester didn’t understand why guardsmen could be allotted to those two specific cases of potential need when something like restoring the Nementor Paths would be more gratifying and beneficial to the whole of Decennia in the long run. But, again, he didn’t put such a thought out where everyone could see it, poke holes in it, and force him to take it away, damaged and possibly unrecognizable. He didn’t want to give this Malforcrent, this advising council, that little satisfaction. He, as the king, probably wouldn’t know what he was talking about anyway.


I often wonder if I ever know what I’m talking about.


Trisden blithered on and the rest of the Malforcrent were roped into his way of thinking, one way or another. The aides were gathering their respective notes – dishes in Misren’s case – long before the meeting was officially adjourned, but once it was, the advisors were quick to leave.


That is, all of them except Dothel op Prissen and Misren OkLat. They stood, conversing in low tones. Dothel then seemed to give something to the glutton and Misren pocketed it. It looked like nothing more than a rock and Sylvester thought to ask, but Dothel was away through the closest entrance while Misren exited through another on the northern end of the room. He didn’t know which to follow as he didn’t want to have to deal with the lazy mannerisms of Dothel or the boorish attitude of Misren.


Instead, he stood and propped himself forward against the solid table. The gravy stain was on the surface. It hadn’t spread as much as Sylvester thought it should’ve and he noticed how it sort of, in a fashion, resembled what many map makers had made Decennia out to be: it was basically a smatter on the top of a table. Crumbs from stale-yet-devoured bread rested in the liquid and Sylvester faintly wondered if this was how the gods viewed Decennia from above or afar or wherever they were stationed in regards to the world of Valent.


Peering more closely, he realized it was upside down, with his own body being closest to where the northern Fortright Isles were obscurely represented. He let out a weak breath, straightened himself, and left Wakefield Hall. Someone else would clean up the mess.