scream is mine. It’s the last of me that exists before it transforms into a terrifying roar and I am no more.
Chapter Twelve
When he wakes he is on the cold stone floor with no notion how he got there, or why every bone in his body hurts so much he can hardly move. Through the pounding in his head he hears sobs. He groans and slowly opens his eyes. There are bright sparks flashing everywhere, making it difficult to focus, but as they begin to fade he can see the fire has gone out. The only illumination comes from candles and torches held by the people around him. Maids, servants, hostlers and cooks, the entire household staff is there, staring and weeping.
None of them come to his aid, so he is forced to struggle to rise on his own. Every move is agony when he is weak and aching like a weathered old man, but at last he makes it to his feet.
The women scream, causing needles of pain to stab through his ears and he snarls.
Torches wave back and forth as though to ward him off, and the staff backs away from him with garbled shouts. They are so small he towers over them. It must be some sort of illusion. He must be feverish or injured in the head somehow.
His balance is wavering. He sways and tilts sideways, and before he can catch himself he is falling against an empty suit of armor. It clatters to the floor along with him, the sound piercing his sensitive ears. He roars, startling himself as well as the others. His limbs are tangled in the armor, but he can’t fight himself free and falls back to fours more often than not.
Panic begins to sink in. Nothing is working right, not his arms, or his legs. His tail swishes of its own accord, knocking down a candlestick and setting the tatters of his clothes on fire. He tries to cry out and produces something akin to an animal wail. Uncomprehending, terrified, he lashes out at the armor breastplate, sends it flying into what remains of the crowd of servants.
They scatter.
An acrid taste on his tongue has him sneezing. Fear. He is tasting the air, and it’s saturated with fear. Desperate to escape, he bounds up the staircase, pieces of armor still threaded onto his limbs. He runs as though a monster is nipping at his heels, and when he slips and collides with the door, it is knocked off its hinges. Nothing to place between him and the beast. He runs into the darkest corner he can find and curls up, making himself as small as possible. Even so, he is larger than the massive bed.
Footsteps rush up the staircase toward him. He is trapped. Cornered. His lips draw back in a feral snarl and a growl reverberates in his massive chest. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.
What happened to him?
The footsteps slow out in the hall. Three men approach with caution whispering to each other. He can scent their apprehension and something else. Something... cold and metallic.
Weapons. Without conscious thought, his claws curl downward and snatch on the carpet, ripping into it. He stares down at his own paw. It used to be something else. Something smaller, more delicate. It used to hold things and not destroy them.
“Stop!” someone out there shouts. A fourth man, his voice calm and steady, familiar. “Put those away this instant.”
“You saw it! You saw what it did!”
What did it do? What is it ? Are they talking about him?
“Let me speak to him.”
“Are you mad?”
“You can stand guard by the door. If I need assistance I’ll call for it. Until then, stay out of sight!”
The man comes inside. His scent is in the anteroom, and then closer. His shadow fills the doorway and stops. “My Lord?” he says in a tempered tone. “My Lord.”
The creature in shadow works his tongue around in his mouth. He remembers how he used to use it. Now his mouth feels different. His tongue and throat are strange. “I...” he tries, frightened by his own rumbling voice. But it is a voice. Not a growl, howl, or wail. He can speak. “I am... no lord.”
The man in the doorway
Chapter Twelve
When he wakes he is on the cold stone floor with no notion how he got there, or why every bone in his body hurts so much he can hardly move. Through the pounding in his head he hears sobs. He groans and slowly opens his eyes. There are bright sparks flashing everywhere, making it difficult to focus, but as they begin to fade he can see the fire has gone out. The only illumination comes from candles and torches held by the people around him. Maids, servants, hostlers and cooks, the entire household staff is there, staring and weeping.
None of them come to his aid, so he is forced to struggle to rise on his own. Every move is agony when he is weak and aching like a weathered old man, but at last he makes it to his feet.
The women scream, causing needles of pain to stab through his ears and he snarls.
Torches wave back and forth as though to ward him off, and the staff backs away from him with garbled shouts. They are so small he towers over them. It must be some sort of illusion. He must be feverish or injured in the head somehow.
His balance is wavering. He sways and tilts sideways, and before he can catch himself he is falling against an empty suit of armor. It clatters to the floor along with him, the sound piercing his sensitive ears. He roars, startling himself as well as the others. His limbs are tangled in the armor, but he can’t fight himself free and falls back to fours more often than not.
Panic begins to sink in. Nothing is working right, not his arms, or his legs. His tail swishes of its own accord, knocking down a candlestick and setting the tatters of his clothes on fire. He tries to cry out and produces something akin to an animal wail. Uncomprehending, terrified, he lashes out at the armor breastplate, sends it flying into what remains of the crowd of servants.
They scatter.
An acrid taste on his tongue has him sneezing. Fear. He is tasting the air, and it’s saturated with fear. Desperate to escape, he bounds up the staircase, pieces of armor still threaded onto his limbs. He runs as though a monster is nipping at his heels, and when he slips and collides with the door, it is knocked off its hinges. Nothing to place between him and the beast. He runs into the darkest corner he can find and curls up, making himself as small as possible. Even so, he is larger than the massive bed.
Footsteps rush up the staircase toward him. He is trapped. Cornered. His lips draw back in a feral snarl and a growl reverberates in his massive chest. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.
What happened to him?
The footsteps slow out in the hall. Three men approach with caution whispering to each other. He can scent their apprehension and something else. Something... cold and metallic.
Weapons. Without conscious thought, his claws curl downward and snatch on the carpet, ripping into it. He stares down at his own paw. It used to be something else. Something smaller, more delicate. It used to hold things and not destroy them.
“Stop!” someone out there shouts. A fourth man, his voice calm and steady, familiar. “Put those away this instant.”
“You saw it! You saw what it did!”
What did it do? What is it ? Are they talking about him?
“Let me speak to him.”
“Are you mad?”
“You can stand guard by the door. If I need assistance I’ll call for it. Until then, stay out of sight!”
The man comes inside. His scent is in the anteroom, and then closer. His shadow fills the doorway and stops. “My Lord?” he says in a tempered tone. “My Lord.”
The creature in shadow works his tongue around in his mouth. He remembers how he used to use it. Now his mouth feels different. His tongue and throat are strange. “I...” he tries, frightened by his own rumbling voice. But it is a voice. Not a growl, howl, or wail. He can speak. “I am... no lord.”
The man in the doorway
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