Zac was lost. Not just "took a wrong turn" lost, but "existentially adrift in a gothic nightmare" lost.
He didn't know how long he had been wandering. The keep had no clocks, no windows to the outside world other than the occasional slit revealing the eternal red gloom of the Pit. Time felt elastic here, stretching and compressing in the silence. Had it been hours? A day? His internal rhythm was gone, swallowed by the endless succession of identical black stone corridors, soaring arches, and silent, judgmental suits of armor.
His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling like a piece of sandpaper stuck to the roof of his mouth. The spicy aftertaste of the jalapeño cheese MRE lingered like a bad memory. His legs ached, the heavy black robes dragging on the floor with every step.
He slumped against a cold stone wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice cracking. "This is fine. I live here now. I am the Ghost of Corridor 47-B."
He looked at a small, delicate side table across the hall, holding a vase of dead, black roses. He contemplated smashing it. Not out of anger, but utility. 'If I break a few of those,' he reasoned, 'I could make a small fire. Get some warmth. Sleep on the floor until Bune's cleaning crew sweeps me up with the dust bunnies.'
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone. The silence of the keep pressed in on his ears, a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Then, the sound tore through the quiet.
"AVATAR!"
It was a howl. A furious, resonant sound that vibrated through the stone floor, up Zac's spine, and rattled his teeth. It was pure, distilled authority. It was Marchosias.
Zac's eyes snapped open. His ears perked up, a phantom sensation, really, but he felt like a dog hearing its master's whistle. The sound had bypassed his fear center and gone straight to his 'Oh thank god' center (which was located suspiciously close to his libido).
"Wolf Daddy," he whispered, scrambling to his feet.
He looked left. He looked right. The echo of the howl bounced off the stone walls, making direction difficult to pinpoint. But a faint, lingering vibration seemed to hum from the corridor to his left.
"Eeny, meeny, miny… left," Zac decided. He pushed off the wall and started jogging, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, drawn like a moth to the angry, howling flame.
Zac turned the corner, fully expecting to see another endless expanse of empty hallway. Instead, he nearly collided with Bune.
The butler was standing in front of a pair of double doors, clearly agitated. The Left Head was shouting into the room beyond. "You'll eat when everyone is seated! Put that leg down!"
The Right Head spotted Zac and let out a sigh of relief that was mostly smoke. "There you are! Where did you run off to? We've been looking everywhere! Come, it is dinner time."
Zac didn't need to be told twice. He cast one last, shuddering glance back at the labyrinthine darkness of the House of Usher hallways and decided that exploring solo was officially off the itinerary. He hurried to Bune's side.
"Sorry," Zac said. "I got… turned around. The castle is big."
"It is designed to confuse intruders," the Left Head sniffed. "It works, evidently."
Bune ushered him through the doors and into the dining room.
The room was exactly as Zac remembered it from his earlier lunch quest… long table, gothic windows, dripping candles, but now it was occupied. And it was chaos.
At the far end of the table, Nock was weeping openly. The lion, now cleaned up but still looking disheveled, pointed a trembling, dramatic finger across the table at Andras. "You crushed my spirit!" he wailed. "And my soldiers! And my grooming vanity desk! How could you?!"
Andras sat opposite him, leaning back in his chair, casually picking his talons with a silver dinner fork. He looked bored. "Do you have any proof, poof?"
Further down, Halphas was making whoosh noises and moving his hand like an airplane, recounting a war story to a very disinterested Marchosias. "-so I banked left, dropped the payload right down the chimney, and boom! Bunker buster!"
Marchosias sat at the head of the table, staring into a goblet of wine as if wishing it were hemlock. He looked like he had heard this story a few times already.
Then, Skarg spotted Zac.
The wendigo, who had been sulking over an empty plate, perked up instantly. His ears swiveled, his nostrils flared, and a wide grin split his face.
"Avatar!" he bellowed.
Skarg rushed over, covering the distance in three massive strides. He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He simply scooped Zac up in his arms like someone would do to a puppy that did not have a collar on and was very cute.
Zac smiled, going instantly limp and boneless in the caribou's embrace. He rested his head against Skarg's broad, furry chest, inhaling the scent of musk and cold air. "Take me away," he whispered dreamily. "To the dungeon. Or the bedroom. Dealer's choice."
"Put him down, Furfur!" Bune shrieked from the doorway. "That is not proper etiquette!"
Skarg ignored the dragon completely. He carried Zac over to the table and unceremoniously plopped him down in the empty chair next to his own. He then sat down heavily, pulling his chair unnecessarily close so their legs were pressed together under the table.
Zac looked over at Skarg, fluttering his eyelashes. "You could have kidnapped me, you know. Human trafficking smut is super hot right now. Very trendy."
Skarg paused, a frown creasing his brow. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are… are humans okay?"