He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
For the first time in his short life Harren wishes he is someone other than himself, which is invariably bad for him. First: this means he is dissatisfied with his life, which is completely unacceptable. Second: that means there must be something dreadfully wrong happening, which of course, is never a good thing.
"I—I don't know," he begins, attempting to keep his composure as those callous eyes stare at him, red-rimmed and terrible. Oh, dear, oh, dear, this is terrible, terrible, terri—
What is he saying? He is Harren Russo, Twenty-Sixth Inquisitor of this place, and he is most certainly not terrified of some puny little boy throwing what obviously is a pathetic tantrum deserving nothing more than a shake of the head and snort of disgust. He would be ashamed to ever throw an ounce of such lunacy.
"I want you to find her." The pale hands seize Harren's collar, jerking him closer so he cannot avoid the stare.
"I want you to find her," he whispers. "You will search every nook and cranny of this damned place until you do. I don't care if your eyes bleed blind and your fingers wear away—" The grip tightens on his collar, squeezing it shut so he is momentarily left without air. "You find her or I swear I will watch the skin flake off your body as I roast you alive."
The remaining bodily fluids quickly leave Harren as he slumps to the floor. He watches, cowering, as the black clicking heels of the king disappear, down one of the many long corridors in this maze-dungeon he has trapped all of them in.
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"I have brought her."
And so Slyv has, though it brings him no pleasure to reveal more dark secrets to the eyeless bat before him, sulking with her deceiving airs. Her tiny hands clutch at him like claws, sinking in as if to say: You are a terrible person, you have done so much wrong, you hurt me because you are hurt, you are hurt from all that damn time you have slaved for him and now he prefers me because I have a pretty face and nice legs—
There is click and a scuttle: one beetle-like arm is crawling up the rows of books, turning left, right, up down, and left, to the side—a quick jolt down and trample up until it is found. A worn, weathered book is extracted from the alcoves and brought down to the candlelight. The bald head shrivels on his neck.
"Did you bring her?" he asks, and so strung is Slyv's tense thread of patience that it twangs at this.
"Yes, see?" He shoves her forward and she crumples, like a swift blow to wilting flower.
When she finally rises he takes the butt of his cane and pokes her straight in the back: right on her spine, between the pair of shoulder blades. He tells her to get on with it—go closer to Gobbes, he wishes to see her. Why is a mystery.
The wide eyes whirl around to stare at her as a hand whips out, plucking a strand of wispy hair and then tilting her head up in the candlelight. The other five work at a book, setting the pale golden offering into a jar. In the flickering light her skin is smooth and creamy, a rolling mass of softness, and the dark flecks of lashes jar against her cheeks. That hooked nose and those pinched lips with sharp eyes stare at the smooth face, analyzing every feature.
