Holy Crap, My Dreams Are A Mess

Two part dream, or maybe three: 

Part One featured a very particular co-worker of mine having shown up at my house because I'd taken a mental health/vacation day and apparently we were supposed to be upgrading something and so we both needed to be in the office. Only it wasn't our current house, it was the home where I grew up, so of course my dad was there. The house also badly needed roof repairs and was leaking improbably amounts of water from several unlikely spots. (This had better not prove to be prescient...) Anyway, in addition to the water I was rushing around trying to locate my work shirts, socks, etc. because my Mom had moved things around, and we were already running late.

So the basic scenario for the second half was that we were on a large family trip, and due to head back out in the next day or two, so I was trying to get everything together for that. 

Only there were so many half-constructed Lego sets that I was trying to preserve, and the whole place was hugely crowded, and finally manage to hunt down one of the food cleanup guys. (They have those? Apparently they have those.) He gives me some seal-able gallon bags to put things in, so now it's just a matter of making sure all the little pieces make it into storage, along with the doll house, the little metal cars, the action figures... all of it, presumably, for the younger generation. 

(It didn't feel like mine, if that makes any sense, and I didn't feel like a kid in this dream. Though on the other hand, Beautiful Wife wasn't present neither were our kids; my parents, however, were. So I hypothetically would have been somewhere between eighteen and my early twenties, I guess.)

So having finally gotten all this sealed into bags, sorted into bins,  and piled onto a cart, and stacked on top of a couple of trays that we'd made the big family dinner on, even though we were in some sort of resort hotel, I guess? 

Anyway, after pushing the cart through probably half the hotel, I finally located my Dad. We'd just determined that we had everything here pretty much in order and he asked if I thought I was ready. 

That was when the dream moved into full-on, high-grade nightmare fuel, in the form of body horror. 

'Cause, see, I couldn't leave yet: I suddenly noticed that I had these wide, unwelcome flaps of skin growing out of my upper right arm. They were maybe an inch wide and three inches long, with little white wiggly things coming out of the ends. Which, yes, some kind of carnivorous, parasitic worm. So my Dad figures out how to squeeze them out the end of the tube -- "Thank God I remembered which way to go." -- and onto the stone walkway of the hotel's garden. I have apparently picked them up during the trip somehow. 

And, of course, now that we know what they are (sort of) I can see where they've moved down to my elbow and trying to form another tube there, only they're just under the skin so we have to squeeze them out a lot more carefully. And then there's a line of them down my arm towards my hand, so we have to pull those out, and the opens a gods-awful long slice all the way down my arm, right through the skin, so I'm sitting there looking at it and thinking, I'm going to need to get to a hospital or all this is going to get badly infected.

Fucking subcutaneous worms, man. You can probably even guess which particular book series likely inspired that bit of the dream, at least if you've been reading it too. It happens right at the beginning of book two.  

RoH: The Deal

"I do most of my work in my laboratory in the basement, or else out there in the gazebo," Dirimant Acklin, the former Viscount Durzen said quietly, "and of course we aren't looking to provide housing for our descendants if Lariza plans on moving to Foringelt. I could cede the entire north wing to you, if it would let me hold the manor."

Remant nodded. "I doubt I need more than a single floor," he said. "A bedroom, perhaps a study and a library. I travel a lot, but it would be nice to have a base of operations to come back to."

"Ah," said the dead man. "You fought in the war."

Remant nodded, and patted the sword at his side. "Now that you're dead, you can no longer be the viscount... but it's possible that I could, and simply direct that income to you to dispense as you see fit. Steward isn't as prestigious as Viscount, but as a practical matter it would probably amount to the same thing. And being dead doesn't disallow you from stewardship, so long as the property has a living owner."

Dirimant swallowed. "Why are you doing this?"

Remant shrugged. "I'd like a place to settle, or at least some place I know I could come back to. And I like it here. Your servants seem happy to serve you even now that you're dead, which suggests that you've treated them well, and..." He sighed. "I've already done enough killing to last me a lifetime and more. Probably more."

"Very well. You have yourself a deal. Purchase the house, leave us be, and take the north wing of the house; the servants will acknowledge you as their master, but me as the steward in day-to-day matters. I will see them paid and maintained. I take it you aren't looking to profit from this?"

"Not particularly," answered Remant. "I just want a place to settle."

"Done," said Dirimant Acklin, and put out his hand. "See if you can become the Viscount Dirzen; that would help. But even if you cannot, I believe we can manage." 

RoH: Death Trap Ballet

He was halfway down the path, hands still up, when they rose from the ground around him: a trio of wraiths, misty and half-seen in the midday light. "Call them off!" he shouted, and drew his sword. 

They moved, and he danced through them. Wraiths were hard to kill; ordinarily, they could allow a blade to pass through them without making contact. Remant, on the other hand, had been very specific when he had commissioned his blade: it wasn't all that powerful, but it could damage anything. The first wraith was dispelled before it knew what had happened; the blade sliced through its ghostly presence as if it were ordinary flesh. 

The other two hesitated, and Remant used that pause to cut down a second wraith. The third one tried to come at him from behind, but he spun and thrust. Impaled, it wailed its death-cry and dissolved. 

He sheathed the sword and walked towards the gazebo. He was aware that the figure back there had tried -- and failed -- to attack him with a spell when the wraiths attacked. "Don't do it," he warned. The figure -- the Viscount Forzen -- backed away, but didn't flee. He's planning something else, Remant decided, and stopped at the foot of the steps. "Former Viscount Forzen," he called up. "Will you step forward and speak to me?"

There was a momentary hesitation, and then the Viscount presented himself. Remant counted that as a minor victory, but not yet a winning move. 

In the light of the sun, the former viscount wasn't obviously undead; it was no wonder the servants failed to fear him. The signs were there, to a trained eye: very slightly sagging skin over slowly-thinning flesh, bluish undertones to the skin, dark circles around the eyes. Nothing yet that couldn't be attributed to advanced age, if one were inclined to ignore the signs. 

"You mean to take my home," the former viscount said indignantly. "Explain to me why I shouldn't destroy you here and now."

Remant sighed. "I suppose I could have done this the other way around, but here's my proposition: I buy the house outright from your niece, and basically ignore the fact that you're still here and effectively running the place. The servants seem pretty loyal to you, and you seem to be taking care of them as well. Is that still possible now that you're no longer a viscount?"

The dead man hesitated, then said: "I forget that I am dead. The spell to convert me was triggered by my death, and so for me I felt my chest clench, saw the darkness draw in, and then was... just lying there on the floor, untouched." He sighed. "It seems an unfair way to take my home and position away from me."

Remant chuckled. "I suppose it would," he said, looking up at the older man. "My question remains: without your position, could you still support your staff?"

"I believe so," said the dead viscount. "I am rather an accomplished spellcrafter, and even selling potions and scrolls would bring in good money. It would be demeaning to resort to trade, but I believe I could manage it."

Remant considered that, then nodded. "Your niece, who inherited this place, wishes to sell it and move to Foringelt. As it happens, I have money enough to buy it from her, and I have no objection to leaving it in your keeping -- if I am given a place here, perhaps a wing of the house for my own."

The dead viscount Dirimant Acklin regarded him from the top of the steps for a long, long moment. Then he came down. "Don't set foot up there," he warned. 

"I wasn't planning to," Remant told him.  

RoH: The Rear Garden

The back doors gave way to a long brick walkway, flanked by regular pairs of columns and leading to a massive gazebo. Sculpted trees and flowers were discreetly arranged around gravel paths to either side, but clearly the path forward was the one intended: there was a human -- or humanish -- figure waiting in the shadows under the roof of the gazebo. 

Oh, this is so very definitely a trap, Remant thought. Aloud, he said: "That is the former Viscount?"

"Lord Forzen, Dirimant Acklin," the servant confirmed. 

"Then you've done his will and brought me here," Remant said. "You should go back inside and close the doors."

The man swallowed. "Do you mean to kill him?"

Remant shook his head. "Not if I can help it," he said quietly. "I'd rather work something out."

The manservant touched his sleeve -- cautiously. "Then take care as you approach. The first two the solicitor sent here came armed as you are, and tried to put him down. Our lord was... not kind to them."

Remant sighed. "Legally, he's not a lord anymore. The dead cannot hold office; neither can they lay claim to the properties they held in life."

"He's still our lord," the manservant said, with a stubbornness that Remant couldn't help but admire. "And he's an accomplished spellcrafter."

"I'm walking into an ambush, I think," he told the man. "Don't follow me. Go inside and close the door. You've done your duty. If I die, that's on my head, not yours." 

Remant started forward, holding his hands up as he approached the gazebo.  

RoH: Entry Achieved

It was perhaps twenty minutes later when the door opened again. Remant had spent the time in quiet meditation, reviewing spells and tactics in his mind. Most of the undead he'd fought previously had been relatively minor: skeletons, a few zombies, a chained ghost. During the war, he'd mostly fought living opponents. 

"M'lord?" asked the manservant. 

Remant turned, keeping his movements relaxed. "Yes?"

"His Lordship the Viscount will see you now." The man motioned him inside, and Remant moved forward. 

"He bade me take you to the gardens in the back, if that is acceptable." The foyer was beautifully appointed, and Remant glanced idly around as he followed the servant across it and through the doorway at the back. He hadn't grown up with such luxury, but he'd been introduced to it later in life and knew the basics of navigating in Society. A maid looked up from dusting a bookshelf in the library as they passed, then quickly looked away. 

He could smell something cooking already, and the scent grew stronger as they reached the rear of the manor. Light came from old-style enchanted crystals in sconces; they glowed coldly, and their light could be covered but not extinguished. It was an enchantment that had largely been lost in the war; this place was old and well-preserved. 

The war had only brushed against Verovia. The invasion of the Gray had approached the city, but been turned aside by a gathered army of Vanil, Aesil, and Mordil led by mage-commander Verna Wendilar.  With reinforcements from the city, she might have prevailed; instead, she damaged the invaders so much that they were unable to successfully assault the city. 

Remant turned his attention back to the present. The servants were still employed, still being fed and housed and paid, and if he had some way of approaching them elsewhere he might have been able to learn a lot more about what was going on here. Still, he supposed there was something to be said for the direct approach. 

RoH: The Price of Entry Is Patience

The man who opened the door wore a servant's coat over a respectable shirt and slacks. His hair was gray, but his face was young. He looked Remant over, then asked: "May I help you, Sir?"

"I'd like to speak with the late Viscount Forzen," he said. "My name is Remant."

The manservant's expression changed only for the barest flicker, but he asked politely, "Have you come from that dreadful solicitor?"

Remant held up a hand. "I have, but I've come to talk. If the master of the house would spare me a little of his time, I believe we can resolve this."

The manservant held his ground. "We were given very specific instructions to turn away anyone that woman sent."

Remant paused to consider, but the manservant moved to close the door in his face. With a sigh, he stuck his hand in the opening, then forced it back open. 

"She appears to have the force of law on her side," he said, as the other man gaped at him, "along with enough money to make a compelling argument. I don't wish to see you punished, but I do need to speak to the former Viscount. So..." He thought as quickly as I could. "I will wait out here. You will go and tell him that you turned me away, but that I remain waiting outside to speak to him. Would that be acceptable?"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" asked the manservant. "You could smash right through this door if you wanted. I couldn't stop you."

"Yes," answered Remant, "but that would be rude. And this is good mahogany, beautifully crafted. It would be a shame to damage it."

The other man swallowed. "Wait out here, please. I'll tell the Viscount."

RoH: The Mansion

Remant paused on the road up to the mansion, then dismounted and led his horse the rest of the way. There were ruins, artfully built and no older than the house itself, off to one side of the drive; there was a rambling garden off to the other. 

The stable was empty when he reached it, but it still held feed; he led Peregrine inside, found a stall, and set out food and water. Then he approached the main house. 

It stood three stories tall, with wide, two-story wings to either side and marble steps leading up to the dark mahogany doors. He saw no signs of movement through the windows, but then the servants should have been given their final wages and recommendations and dismissed after the death of the Master of the House. At least, that was how things had worked before the war, and Remant assumed that the aristocracy hadn't changed much since then. Having the Master return undead might have complicated the situation in any number of ways. 

He checked the sword at his side and the dagger in his boot, flexed his armored left hand beneath the soft leather glove, and sighed. He'd left the bow and his pack with the horse; he didn't expect this to be that sort of job. Mounting the steps, he lifted the knocker and let it fall, three times.

The sound echoed through the manor, and after a time he heard footsteps approaching.