I Am Learning, Ph1LzA

Poor Servants of the Egg

Mr. Halo tread softly down the red-carpeted corridor, his business shoes making no sound whatsoever. Door after door he passed, each closed. Each locked. He never glanced at them; his eyes were fixed on a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. The dark brown wood gleamed under the warm white lights lining the ceiling and the gold doorknobs were smooth to the touch as he took them.

Halo pushed the doors open, stepping through briskly and letting the lone shadow behind him hurriedly close them once more. The room he'd just entered could have been described as equal parts macabre and elegant. Crimson was the predominant color, dyeing the lush carpet, the silky window curtains, the tablecloth, the wallpaper and even the ceiling. Which led his eyes to the tall figure who stood at a window opposite the doors Halo had just entered through, the exact personification of the portrait that hung on the wall not six feet from him. Sir Billiam the Third.

Halo advanced a few more steps, bowing quickly, then waited to be acknowledged. His superior watched something outside, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand. His red-brown hair was pulled back in a fashionable ponytail, tied with a dark red ribbon. Like his room, his clothes were mainly red in color and styled in rich taste.

Halo let his eyes wander briefly over the sleek coat, gold buttons and the sash tied about the waist, the dark red silk shirt and the lace that frilled at Sir Billiam's throat, and wished he could afford something at least roughly similar. It wasn't like he hadn't earned it, with all his years of faithful service. But then the man turned around and Halo snapped back to the present.

"So," His superior stated cooly, eyeing his employee with a stern, critical gaze from behind his dark gold mask, "I presume you are here to tell me there is still no news. Your poorly employed decision is still at large."

Halo nodded. He had enough experience to keep a straight face instead of making excuses. That only prolonged an already unpleasant exchange.

Sir Billiam swirled the wine in his glass slowly. "Tell me, Halo: how long has the fugitive been on the run now?"

"A number of days, sir."

There was a brief silence. "I asked you a question, Halo."

"Three days, sir." Halo kept his voice level.

Another brief silence. Sir Billiam nodded. "Three days, indeed." Then, abruptly, "Butler!"

The shadow from earlier manifested almost immediately. Brown and black hair, somewhat messy, thin, gaunt frame, clothes that looked as though they were his only ones, and an intense gleam in his eyes. This was Butler. It was the only name Halo had ever heard Sir Billiam use, and of course, Butler always answered to it.

"Butler," Sir Billiam repeated, "some wine for Mr. Halo. Instantly."

Almost before he had finished his sentence, the Butler sprang backwards into the shadows, to where a small glass table stood with a ceramic jar of wine and three other glasses. He was back almost immediately, with a glass and the jar, which he offered to Halo, who knew better than to refuse. He took a light sip, never looking away from Sir Billiam, who returned his gaze smoothly.

"That was almost instant, Butler. Well done. Go eat. Quickly, before I change my mind." The Lord waved a hand in the vague direction of the back of the room and Butler obeyed without a word. Halo felt Sir Billiam's attention shift back to himself.

"Sir," he began, deciding that some initiative would be fitting, "I came to you not only with bad news, but with some good."

Sir Billiam's eyes, dark as they were, visibly narrowed with interest. "Go on."

So he wasn't immediately shut down. Halo proceeded quickly. "Skeppy has finally emerged from his project. Obsidian Powerhouse is almost ready to go through. In a few days, everything should be complete and we can move to the next stage."