Unhallowed: The Common Man's Trade

Regent's P.O.V. "The Hearts and Flowers of the Everman Estate"

The bastard shot me! Of all the things that any of the imbisils in this house have ever done to evoke my anger, Claec has taken the cake. He didn't even bother to try to make it a decent shot, no. It was an amateur shot. If I were an actual intruder with the intent of harming or thievery or whatever people fancy now a days, I would have been done with my business and been on my merry way. The incompatence astounds me, but what is worse is the fact that Claec is who Dalyn uses as his escort when he sends me away. Sure, he's level-headed in most instances, but he couldn't tell it was me though we sleep in the same servants quarters and serve the same employer and spend eighty-seven percent of our lives in this mansion together. I can distinguish his light footsteps in the staircases above my head within moments. He couldn't even figure out who I was standing ten feet from me. However, he did do what he thought was right to protect his Lord, which in hindsight is respectable enough. Still, the bastard shot me.

Warm blood oozes out from between my fingers and splatters on the floor in steady rhythm. The pain isn't as sharp and searing as it was, but it nags at me with a throbbing, heavy ache. I know that as soon as Grace begins to take the bullet out of my muscle that the sensation will come running back with twice the bite, so I savor the journey down beneath the mansion. The mansion was far too large to only have one servant entrance in my mind, but the creator of the Everman Mansion's blueprint was clearly not a man of reason. However, the single door is in the most logical place; the kitchen. It's a long way from the uppermost halls, and Claec will have to clean up every drop of blood I leave in my wake. With that in mind, I make sure to drop a few extra drops here and there.

No light illuminates the foyer as I guide myself down the wooden staircase by the carpet runner beneath my feet. The paisley printed curtains are untied and hanging over the windows. They are too thick for the moonlight to find their way through. The echoes of my feet sound so loudly I'm afraid the portraits hanging on the walls will shake off of their nails and fall. Bronze frames that hold paintings of the Everman family hang along the staircase, depicting the lives of Lord Ethan and Lady Katya Everman all the way back to the portrait done of Lady Katya when she was still Katya Usnavich. A marriage portrait, a portrait of proud young parents expecting their first born son, all the way through the last Christmas Dalyn spent with his parents a little less than four years ago. It is one of the only images where all three members of the house are fully smiling, with teeth and everything. They look so happy. How times have changed.

I maneuvered the familiar halls of my home effortlessly, passing through the various halls and rooms without the aid of light. However, the glowing orange light pulsing under the servant door in the kitchen said that someone is still up burning the midnight oil. I hope that person is Grace, otherwise I'm dealing with the bullet in my arm for the night. As much pain as I am in, I will last until morning without treatment. She needs sleep more than I need help.

"Who's alive down there?" I call as I start down the creaky stairs. The basement is brightly lit, with much more than the mere candleabras upstairs. I can hear the generator hum and the clacking of shotgun shells as a box is slammed on the table.

"God damn it, Regent!" Dahm exclaims, "I almost shot you!"

I can't help but laugh as I reach the bottom step. Blood is still dripping to the floor, but not as steadily as it was. "Go ahead, it wouldn't be the first time today."

Dahm leans on the round table with both of his hands firmly placed beside a double-barrel shotgun that is in the process of being loaded. Stray shells sit on the table ready for him to load up. This is the standard procedure when the house is in distress. If I am not around to be on the front line, it's Dahm's job to get the gun and take my place. He had clearly been startled out of his sleep. The mess of hair the color of muddy hay is clearly the result of bedhead and he hasn't bothered to throw on a shirt. A pair of sweatpants hung from his hipbones, letting his Celtic heritage shine through a tattoo that means something in the language that doesn't exist anymore. It faded away, along with most Hispanic and Asian tongues when new tongues formed. The only true way to know the tattoo's meaning is to ask Dahm himself, but he never spills the secret. He just shakes his head and changes the subject. His eyes go to meet mine but are quickly distracted by the blood dripping to the floor. He suddenly turns back and dips into a room, calling for Grace. I take it upon myself to plop into a chair at the table and rest my arm on it.