camp nano 2018 drabbles 1

From the shadow of a gargoyle, Angor watched.

He chipped away at his newest carving, yellow eyes glowing into the torchlit dimness of the hall under his perch in the eaves. Shadows flickered across the walls down below; up here, though, it was dark. It was how he liked it. Hidden, easier on his corpse-eyes. Easier to listen, and to watch, and to avoid.

He stared down at the gray cobblestones as a figure strolled across them, perfectly comfortable and secure in his home. He recognized Otto's shape and gait instantly; the man carried himself pompously at every step, swishing his cape around himself every now and then as if for an audience. He giggled as Angor watched, clearly carried away with some private joke of his own. Perhaps that odd scientist who he seemed so enamored with, and who seemed so enamored with him. They were affectionate with each other, a little too much for his taste; hugs and kisses, slipping past each other a little too close, Otto playing with the doctor's hair when they were idle and Bhaltair was sitting low enough for him to reach easy.

He's never understood the appeal. She had done exactly that before--played with his hair, sat too close to him, murmured in his ear, brushed hands over the small of his back in passing--and it had only ever made him uncomfortable. Made his gut turn slow and uneasy; too quiet at first for him to pay it much mind, loud and fearful when it was much too late.

With a grimace and a shake of his head, he put the memory away and continued his carving. No, he didn't like watching them. He didn't like Otto one bit, although it was entertaining to frighten him, and he didn't know how to feel about Bhaltair beyond wariness. The only resident of the castle he felt anything like goodwill toward was Heimdrel, who had been nothing but welcoming and interested. He barely spoke, and was awkward and clumsy--he knocked things over, often, and pieces of him were always coming off by accident instead of by design, as Angor had learned to do--but he showed concern and eagerness to learn, and a quiet, dry mischief Angor recognized as his own.

Yes, Heimdrel had proven to be all right. He might even say he liked him, if he cared to like anyone these days.

Otto disappeared down the hallway, cape swishing. Angor caught one last glint of light off his glasses before the shadows of the arch at the end of the hall swallowed him up. No doubt off to visit that doctor of his.

Angor sat in silence save for the crackle of torches below, knife still. Suddenly the shadows felt a little too empty; suddenly solitude felt less appealing.

After long thought, he put away his knife and his carving, stood, and dusted himself off. Perhaps he would find Heimdrel; there were more than enough signs from the lesson the day before to practice with him, even if his memory was better than those fools seemed to think.

He slipped away into the darkness, climbed across the eaves, and was gone.