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Ishan Orlov lay awake in his bed. He was numb and hollow. He had cried himself empty until his eyes were puffy and raw.
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“You got a glitch?” Marjorta grabbed Fane by the shoulders to steady him.
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“Is this what you do in the evenings when I leave you here?” Fane leaned against Prince Orlov’s doorframe to watch the man hacking and slashing at the air in his Nurvo Gear.
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“You want me to believe this djinn newb has never played in a gear before? At that level?” A built half-orc woman looked the party up and down.
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Fane stood inside a massive wood-panelled hall with a high elf, an orc, and a mouse person. Tables crowded with a variety of beast people, elves, and other species sprawled across the big room. A few waved and called out to Ishan and the team.
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Fane and Ajay stood in the hallway with Zahar, Chaitan and the other bodyguards for the royal family. The King, having answered to Chaitan’s knock and noting the congregation of men waiting on their charges, closed the door in their faces, telling them that it was private business amongst the family.
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“Miss Griyashi!” Fane called to the prince’s amanuensis upon approaching her desk the next morning. A meeting with the other bodyguards was slotted on his personal calendar and he needed to coordinate Orlov’s schedule.
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Fane shifted, his skin prickling at the heavy embroidery rubbing along his scars. He still wasn’t keen on the new clothes, though he was getting used to them. He studied himself in the mirror hung on the inside of his wardrobe. Black kurta, black churidar, black leather jutti. He had to admit, it all moved…
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Having returned to Ishan’s offices, Fane was at a loss regarding what he was supposed to do. He was no bodyguard. He was neither certified nor trained as one. He was an ammo tech and dive instructor. He monitored the armoury. He cleaned and accounted for everything. He taught people how to not drown when…
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Slime. Sludge. A black inky depth loomed beneath him. Grey tentacles reached out from the infinite oblivion, grasping for him. A hideous odour of rotting fish and fermented fruit permeated his senses. Screeching, like that of thousands of people dying in fire, grated at his ears. An air raid siren pierced through the terror. It…
Chapel Orahamm 