prisoners of fate

Ha, supernatural fun. HeLp.

"Did you see that?"

Toril nods over the phone, feels dumb, then replies, "Yes I did," instead.

"We need to get that information."

"An opportunity is incoming," Toril whispers over his speaker, jostling his way through the overpopulated marketplace. He was finally done with signing papers for the Necromancer— he gave up knowing what he was signing after seeing a thirty-seven page breathing contract and hundred-and-fourteen page long hygiene contract— and immediately rushed out of the Mortis Mansion to meet his poor Nettie.

Evening had befallen them and his heart was striking cords to be with its other half again.

"What is it?"

"Czar Castello's Aningmoon Castle is being invaded today," Toril smugly announces. The market place embraces him with the odours of poverty. He stops by a stall and starts picking some fresh vegetables for dinner. The lady at the stall smiles kindly at him.

"By whom? When?" the voice over the phone sounded scandalized.

"The Necromancer. Tonight," Toril replies proudly, bagging a few greens and cherry tomatoes. He pays and moves ahead.

The line went dead. Toril scoffs.

He shoves his phone inside his pocket, uncaring of the consequences of making deals with dangerous people, and skips into a meat shop to get some beef.

"My Nettie will feast like a Queen tonight," Toril happily mumbles to himself after picking some good pieces for himself. The giant butcher eyes Toril with no hint of hospitality present or passing.

"How much?" Toril asks for the price. Mr. Buff Butcher coldly stares at Toril's lanky form, lips twitching upwards on the left.

"Yer nod from 'ere, aye?" The butcher questions back. His meaty neck is bent under the small roof of his shop.

"No sir," Toril replies courteously, shoving a hand in his pocket whilst holding the ingredients in another.

"Good. Me knows da mead around 'ere," The butcher coughs out landing his knife on the board with such force that Toril's whole being physically jumps at the impact.

Mr. Butcher laughs a husky, dragged, dry laugh and Toril accompanies him with a strangled laugh.

"You sure are dedicated," Toril compliments him, stepping straight in front of his line of sight. Though a counter's distance parted them, Mr. Butcher shadowed all of Toril's body frame.

"Sp—"

Toril sucks in a breath, grabs a vial from his pocket and throws it at Mr. butcher's face.

Mr. Butcher grunts and easily deflects it, thick eyebrows mushing together with extreme dislike.

"Bad." He grunts grumpily.

"Oops," Toril presses his lips in a line. The vial hits the stone wall and shatters onto the floor.

Mr. Butcher picks up his knife, with whatever moon-forsaken plan in mind, and stands up with glinting malice in his eyes and body now almost doubling in size.

"Ahem, excuse me sir, you know we can talk about—"

"Vampire..." Mr. Butcher sucks in a vengeful breath.

"Not really, wrong person," Toril smiles, unapologetically, and aims a cherry tomato straight into Mr. Butcher's mouth.

With his throat clogged, the vial's fumes seep through Mr. Butcher's button nose and embrace his brain like long lost lovers. Under the deception, Mr. Butcher falls to his knees in the clustered confines of his meat stall and bends over his knife.