by Kell Inkston
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX AND A HALF: THE COMMONER’S WAY OF ENTERING
A beseeded Order still in her nightgown and an Oa that leans into the halls to fit inside rush down to the grand royal tearoom, the very-same place in which the legendary High Tea is to take place.
Now in the light Order can, for the very first time, gaze upon the monstrosity that is running by her side. It is wearing a skull many times larger than herself and a large, grey coat that conceals most of its body from the neck down; it could fit anything in there. She also notes that it has not a single pair of tunnel-sized sleeves, but four pairs.
Reaching the grand doors to the tearoom, Oa raises a leg made from the trunks of great trees, the hearts of mountains, and the sinews of heroes to kick it through as if the doors are made of plywood. Splinters soar as the two great doors protecting the room are blasted from their hinges, revealing the one room in the palace with a glass roof; as the first realmer’s instructed, they prefer having little obstruction when they make their decent.
Pitch and Tylvania, guarded by the great Faery, turn with wide, horrified expressions.
“By the giant’s bones. Dear Ranalie, what is the meaning of this? Why is the moving graveyard to your side!?” Pitch asks, arm twitching to hold him back from signaling the Faery to attack.
“BE SILENT AND PEACEFUL, WINGED ONE. WE HAVE A COMMON ENEMY IN OUR MIDST,” Oa says as its hand, a tangled thicket of flora and fauna, raises to command a halting of things.
“Oa’s right. We heard Overlord Chaos outside in the square,” Order says.
Pitch looks to Tylvania and shoos her off somewhere; they’ve grossly underestimated their need of force.
“Of what location does he now hold?” Pitch asks while Tylvania disappears past the two others.
“He said he was going to be here- probably listening in on us.”
“And we are to simply wait with this, the butcher of so many, to take arms together and battle the Black Overlord?”
“I don’t trust it either, but for now this is the best we’ve got,” Order says, sparing glances between Pitch and Oa to keep tabs on them. Pitch exhales forcefully and fearfully, allowing this only at the thought of Chaos’ nearness.
Without mention or motion, Oa feels a telepathic prick in its side; it seems as though the fairies outside are attacking the necromancers. Oa does not consider itself one to be caught-off guard, so it gives the mental order to its subjects to engage and hunt down anyone traveling to and from Liefholn keep; this should prevent word from reaching this room for the time being.