The Tower: Book One of the Legend of the Artificer

Chapter 2

He woke like passing waves lapping on a deserted beach. There was something ticking in the background, a steady beat he could match his heart to, and he felt well rested for the first time in a long, long time. That, incidentally, was the first sign that something was wrong. A memory of an owl in a library spiraled up, and he hummed, rolled over, pushed his face into a plush pillow that didn't feel all that right.

Silk, he registered after a pause. Silk, and it smelled of woodsmoke and iron. Which didn't make that much sense, considering he had chronic anosmia, hadn't smelled a thing in years, and didn't even really remember what woodsmoke smelled like, much less iron. But it was sharp, and rich, with layers under layers, and he knew it. Since when did he have silk pillowcases? He'd never even bought fine linen. It was pointless to waste money on it, since you only really got silk pillowcases to protect your hair, which he buzzed on a monthly basis, and yet hair was tickling his skin, laying heavy on his back and across his shoulders in sheaths of fine, thick strands.

He blinked slowly, once, twice, and rolled over so he could focus on the ceiling made of exposed wooden beams and smooth plaster. Not popcorn, he thought dimly, and blinked again, slow and thoughtful as he considered this. Why was his ceiling not popcorn? Why were the beams exposed? That didn't seem right, not at all.

Slowly, he lifted his hand and spread each finger.

Red.

His skin was red. Not irritated red, but deep, cherry red, and he stared at it for a long, long moment, memorizing the veins he had certainly never had and nails filed to a point. That was a red hand. A cherry red hand, and he was moving the fingers, twisting the wrist this way and that to reveal a peach palm with red lines that stood out starkly against the flesh. His silver leaf ring was not where it was supposed to be, and the skin at the top of his head felt oddly tight, with hardness pressing into either side of his skull.

"What the fuck," he said out loud, and startled at the smooth, tenor voice that filled the room. "What the fuck."

He sat straight up, eyes blown wide, and took in the state of the room he was in. It was dimly lit, but he felt like he could see better than he had ever seen in the dark. Everything was perfectly clear, but there were no traces of dry-eye or the heaviness that came with falling asleep with contacts in. The covers around him were crumpled, a thick quilt laid over silk sheets that were smooth against hairless, very red skin, and there were a million pillows all over the place. There was a hearth directly across from him, with a thick fur of some fluffy, brown animal he certainly didn't know thrown in front of it, and a chair by it. The embers were dying, illuminating the circular room in a dim glow, and there were sconces with old fashioned lightbulbs surrounded with wire cages set into the stone walls. A thick curtain traveled across a quarter of the expanse of the wall, and there was a mirror mounted on one side of the room, and an opening set into the center of the bedroom with a twisted banister rising up, hinting at a spiral staircase. Curved bookshelves were set into the walls, and there was a table set into the wall itself littered in all manners of tools he didn't recognize and a book at the center of it, as if in a place of honor.

He stumbled out of bed on wobbling legs, dimly aware that black hair was spilling down past his waist, almost to his hips, entirely nude, and made his way to the mirror with an uncertain shuffle to take in the sight of him.

Smooth, unblemished skin, he registered. All deeply red and vibrant, with thick black hair with the slightest hint of a curl tumbling down his back. No breasts, which was new, same equipment, which was not new, with defined muscle he had not asked for, and a slim frame that seemed almost wrong but also right. Ten fingers, ten toes, and two thick, curling, beige ram horns set against his head. Pointed ears and teeth that were perhaps a little too sharp.

"... I'm a tiefling," he said dumbly and reached up to pull at his lips. Why the hell were his eyes purple? And why did he have freckles? And why was it cute?

Definitely sharp teeth. He could take out a throat with these things.

"Why am I a tiefling?" And since when did he have such a large nose? Not that he was complaining, he had always liked sharper faces, but these cheekbones had to be illegal in at least four countries, and those were definitely some eyebrows going on there.

"Why am I a tiefling?" he asked again and spun around. "Where are the clothes?"

There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, and he took several lurching steps towards it, landed solidly against the doors, but he managed it well enough to be able to pull them open and blindly reach for the first item of clothing he could find. Which was a shirt that was far too long, but he could work with it. The shirt was pulled on, and his frankly heavy hair was flipped out as he rifled through all of the clothes inside in search of pants.

"I thought it was just a dream, what the fuck," he hissed as he tried to wrestle on the pants, which only ended in him falling flat on his face on the ground. "Ow! Fuck!"

What the hell had he done?