Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
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UGLINESS IS TO HAVE THE MISFORTUNE of looking like Fat Pete, smelling like Fat Pete, having Fat Pete's horrid personality.
But nightmarish?
Nightmarish is the Azdag that stares at me – nightmarish is how the longer it gazes at me the more horrific it becomes – the drooping grey flesh, the pointy yellow teeth, the eyeless eye sockets.
"On with it, then!" My shrill voice rings off in the forest night. "Do it!"
But the Azdag continues to blindly watch me, as if waiting for something.
Why won't it just attack me and be done with it!
I slowly stand, my eyes upon its ... well, sockets, for I do not dare look away. I take one shaking step back and then another.
The Azdag follows.
I step to the left. It floats beside me. To the right and it follows once again. My shadow. My horrific nightmarish shadow.
"What do you want from me?" For obviously it did not wish to attack me just yet. At first I am not sure the creature understands me, but then it leans its rangy head to the side as if listening to the wind. Then it opens its mouth –
The smell of death and rot encircles me worse than the creature's humid fog.
"Y-y-yooo-you," it groans.
Its gravelly voice echoes out pathetically – just as one would expect from a rotting being. It smiles wider as if proud of being able to speak. I cringe and step back.
"You speak?"
It nods proudly, uncaring of the piece of grey flesh that slouches off its face and plops onto the grass next to my feet.
I swallow down my nausea. "What do you want with me?"
Again it tilts its head to the side as if listening to something I am oblivious to.
"Y—yooou ..."
I nod. "Yes, me what? You rotting piece of donkey flesh."
"Co --- come..."
I take another step back, taking advantage of the Azdag's distraction in trying to speak. It focuses on making words through its rotting throat and does not notice my slight retreat.
"Wiiiiiiii—thhhhhhh," it hisses.
You. Come. With.
"Meee!"
Me.
A shiver runs through my back, cold and slithery. Uh. No. Not going to happen. Perhaps over my dead body – although I would like to survive this night. The Azdag smiles even wider than before, which I did not think was possible, but then again, not much was holding its face together. I know that I must prolong the conversation, if I were to survive this encounter.
