not a story.

laiye treaded softly towards that gilded door, the one that marks it as the Master's. it was late, the white silvery moon casting a delicate veil of spidery light throughout the estate, outlining it in a patina of magic. though it was warm and humid, as this pixie-forsaken place is wont to be, all year round, she rubbed bare arms to ward of the chill that the cool morning was capable of inflicting. she had never gotten used to the weather here.

by the look of the undisturbed line of moon-cast luminance under the sturdy door, the Master seems asleep.

"as his bed-companion should be, most probably," she thought, with a bit more acid than a servant girl should have.

she lingered just a little away from the door, keen to be near her Master, yet holding back, for she knew where the wards would be. she would be shielded from the effects, but the Master would know if anyone's there and she certainly couldn't well make it to any hiding place in time should he choose to awaken and come to the door.

he would punish her, as he did others who attempted to spy on him: serrated hooks were inserted into hips and jaws and strung, like spiders on a fisherman's thread, just outside of the estate. and he would, before he hangs them up like so much linen, take their glowing life essences to put into a jar, so they wouldn't die.

if he were kind, he would allow a day for the hapless offenders to get used to the idea of eternal suspension. if he weren't, he would start the critters on them. it depended on his mood, mostly. it was worse when he chose to host festivals in the forests near them. the merry-making, the scent of roast and pies and ale -


oh, he wasn't all bad, for that was how things worked. you come into the estate you swear fealty to him. and if you were to be a spy - oho! that's what happens to you: suspension. you always knew what you were headed for with the Master; he was not just the maker of the law, he WAS the law.