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Your name is Damara Megido, and you are tired.
You have lived so very, very long, far past the prime of your death and through a combination of Arts that you cannot even begin to grasp, and that is altogether souring. And yet, Time flows through your veins just as your blood once had, and through it, you feel it pull you when the tides begin to change, its song your one true calling.
It is your Master’s understanding in the last of his days that the Knight chased you off, but you left of your own volition.
In the southernmost tip of Derse it is hot and lush already, and the ruins of a villa are overrun with greenery. Orange trees grow thick on the grounds, the scent of their blossoms is heavy in the air. Unlike the Hall in the north, Lord Caliborn did not care to provide upkeep to the ancestral home of his royal gem, and Strider Manor shows its age. And yet, it is lived in again, if only because no one will ever think to look here.
There’s a familiar cackle as you step through the threshold, and in the creaking rafters sits a troll whom you despise. The whites of her eyes gleam in ribbons of sunlight, though you remember days where they were tyrian jewels, not too far from your maroon in truth and yet so far removed. You scowl and flip her the bird.
“Aw, come on Megido, you really gotta be like that?” Meenah hangs upside-down on the rafter, and her braids are so long that they swing just out of your grasp. You could jump up and grab one to yank her down. You’ve done it before, but you try to resist that temptation. “The gang’s schoalin’ together again!”
“I know,” You say, your words clipped even in Beforan. “I wish they weren’t.”
“You say that like living is a bad thing!” She jolts up and the braids are now far too high for you to grab, and you swear under your breath as she climbs higher. She of all people should know better, how the Life in her recoils at her flesh and senses the absolute wrongness of their existence. It must be nice to be ignorant, you think, and you ignore her laughter in favor of pressing further.
You don’t see any of the others as you approach the innermost rooms – they must be enjoying the day and how air rushes into their lungs, how the sun warms their skin. Inside it is dark and cool, and your Benefactor has already renovated, every surface a familiar dark green. In all honesty, you hate velvet. You hate how it feels. You hate how it looks.
“Yes, yes, they know she hates it. Please, move along, you’re only a page in.”
You also hate how sometimes, your Benefactor seems to talk aloud to absolutely no one. What a weirdo. With a flash of green light your old pipe appears in his hand, and a tin of tobacco appears at his side. He offers them both to you, still hidden in shadow, and you roll your eyes. The only good thing about him is that he always knows when you need a smoke.
“It appears to be about that time, hm?” He asks, and you take your vice and lounge on the chaise furthest from him. You scrunch your nose in concentration and pack your pipe. “You’re early. I think we have a few years yet before we can properly orchestrate your retirement, though I suppose a bit of planning would be prudent.”
Oh, how kind of him. You light your pipe and take a deep breath, relishing the sting in your lungs, and how you can blow the smoke out through your nostrils. Took three years for you to get that just right. “I thought it was your revenge,” You say in Beforan. For all that he knows, this language belongs only to your fellows, and in it you can speak freely.
“You’re welcome,” He says, and you smile quite easily. “I had never thought this time would come, though as is said, all good things must end to make way for better things. Not to say that you have been a poor assistant,” He is quick to add, “But this is a delicate phase of our operation. As signified by that interloper of a Knight, the Lord’s Time has come, and we must ensure that it comes again.” Something shifts in the darkness, and you realize that it’s the sheen that reflects from his head as he leans forward. It’s large and round and featureless, and you could never know what is inside, or if there is a man or troll underneath. All you know is that he is powerful, and that Caliborn had come to place an immeasurable amount of trust in him. “And to do that, he needs the strength that rallied the cry that felled him. Tell me, Damara. Are you willing to fight even in the face of Double Death?”
You shrug. “No choice,” You say in the common tongue.
“And do you think your friends will fight for him?”
You sneer. “Fuck no.”
He leans back and folds his gloved hands. “Then we’ll have to give them a cause,” He says carefully, “Something that can rile them. Something that even they can get behind, different and…peculiar as they are.”
“Got ideas?” You ask, though you know in this case it’s a stupid question. He always has at least one idea, and they have always worked flawlessly.
“Of course. I would not be much of an omniscient being if I didn’t.” You close your eyes and take another drag as he continues. “There is one thing that binds you all together, that none of you could ever deny. You are all trolls, as are so many in these lands. I think it will be easy to drum up the support we need to overwhelm these children. Events will fall into place, pawns will fall. And then…”
“Maid is yours,” You finish. His head bobs once.
“By hook or crook, Damara, I will place her in checkmate, and you will have your peace. I promise you that.”
But the Doctor always lies, a voice whispers in your mind, and he tuts.
“Come now, don’t tell them that. If I am anything, I am honest, and you and I both play the game of words. We just work towards different endings for the Princess of Prospit.”
Really, he is just a fucking weirdo.