Dave cleared his throat and flicked his tongue again barley tasting the heat radiating from the increasingly impatient Mr. Wrenmeadow’s body. “I understand that you most probably have some kind of connection to this pen, and I’m willing to talk with you, but first can I correct a mistake I’ve made earlier. It’s really bothering me!” Dave tried his hardest to convey vexation through his lizard eyes and lips boarded by dry, green scales. Schlomo slapped his thigh and grimaced, cursing under his breath. Restoring composure, he forced a gentle smile, “Sure. Whatever you need, but be quick about it will ya?” Dave nodded and began writing on his pad again:
“I have insight into why Schlomo Wrenmeadow is here, who he claims I the true owner of this pen, and where he comes from. I have enough knowledge to make an informed choice about how to handle this situation.”
As soon as he finished writing, his slit pupils spread horizontally and his vision glazed over.
“Schlomo!” a terse Hungarian voice reverberated against the stone walls. Schlomo dropped the figure of a fallen angel he had been dusting and winced as the wings, appropriately broke off its back on impact. “Schlomo, come here at once!” the voice barked again, which was all Schlomo needed to get his ass in gear and hustle down the hall towards its owner. Schlomo entered a cavernous room decorated with meticulous stained glass windows across the walls and ceiling depicting various historical and mythological scenes. The cluttered room was filled row upon row on all side with antiques and relics of myriads description, though they all seemed to have a common mystical element to their design. On the far end of a room, standing in front of a decorative oak pulpit, stood a tall figure in a neatly maintained Italian business suit. “Schlomo, I will not ask you again! Come to the reliquary at on-oh… there are,” the figure’s roar converting to an even voice upon seeing his subordinate standing in the passageway. Thick, clacking steps filled the chamber as polished buckled shoes walked heel-toe across the cobblestones closer and closer to where Schlomo stood. “My good man, come closer,” he beckoned with a curling index finger. Schlomo gulped and walked as straight a line as he could to the taller, leaner man and stood at attention, “Yes, master. I came as soon you called, but I’m afraid you startled me while I was dusting a showpiece and…” “Nevermind! Clay and rock!” the man interrupted. Schlomo was near enough this man that Dave could begin to parse some of his more notable features. Besides being quite tall and broad-shouldered, this man possessed eyes with highly unusual orange irises. His skin was of a pallid complexion his face framed by straight, brown hair hanging in a shroud down to his shoulders. The figure adjusted his tie and extended an arm back towards the pulpit and pointed, with a flick of the finger, to a bare satin pillow lying on top. Dave could see in the candlelight that the figure’s finger was tipped by a strange, pointed nail almost resembling one of his own new talons. “Schlo-mooo…” he began in a mocking sing-song, “Where is my pen?”
Schlomo puffed his cheeks and walked over to the stand as if the missing object might somehow materialize in its proper place the closer he got. He stared blankly at the empty pillow before slowly, fearfully turning around. His “master” and he were only inches apart at the chest. “Agh! Master! I have no idea how dis happened! I, I , I, I was watching the reliquary all night just like you said to do!” The Master laid his pale hand on Schlomo’s shoulder and sighed. A grin crept up his face distorting the goatee wreathing his mouth, “Oh yes, Schlomo. You’re usually so very dutiful and attentive. But can you remember why I needed you to guard the reliquary recently? Hmm?” Schlomo squirmed at his master’s touch, “Uh…egh…eh…” knowledge struck him wide-eyed, “Yes! Dere was a social event you told me. Other nobles and the like, but you were afraid of treasure seekers and magicians sneaking in and…” “And that’s just what seem to have happened,” Schlomo’s master cut him off. He then brushed past his manservant and patted the purple pillow where his pen originally laid. “This is where my truth-altering writing utensil used to be. It was protected by some rather severe curse work, so I’m positive that only a magician of a certain caliber could abscond with it. It’s pretty impressive, you see. Virtually anything you write down can come true. Fiction becomes fact. Fantasy becomes reality. It plays havoc with the orientation of time, space, matter, and energy to follow the script it’s forced to draft.” He spun around and pinched Schlomo’s chin with his index finger and thumb, long, curved nails just slightly touching the servant’s face. “My dear, loyal, and faithful friend, do I even have to explain why it’s so terrible that this pen is missing?” Schlomo vigorously shook his head left and right, “Heavens no, master. Somethin’ dat powerful belongs exclusively to the nobility. Normal individuals can’t be trusted to do anythin’ except act out their deranged fantasies and depravities!” His master smiled again and nodded indulgently, “Very wise, good man, and can you remember what happened the last few times the pen was not in the care of a proper guardian?” Schlomo swallowed and glanced at his shoes, “Yeah, one time fairies went extinct. And den somebody invented autism!”
The taller, stronger man’s arm wrapped around Schlomo’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Exactly! Your memory is eidetic!” he laughed while walking Schlomo back to the reliquary’s entrance. “Now then, as much as I would love to set things right again, I’m going to need to figure out who among my guests was a scurrilous wastrel and prevent my potent arcana from being pilfered again. Because of this, I’m going to need to send you on a trip. You may use the manor’s expense account, but bear in mind I’ll read the receipts when you come back,” the master explained, stopping Schlomo and resting both of his hands on his servant’s shoulders. “Oh, you mean, uh, yes! Absolutely master! It’s my fault that it’s gone and I’ll be the one to bring it all back post-haste! Don’t worry about a thing, master! I’ll go pack right now!” Schlomo adjusted his glasses and began jogging into the corridor when a thundering shout froze him still. “Schlomo! Come back!” his master commanded. Schlomo obeyed and shuffled back to the reliquary, “Sorry, lord, what did I forget.” The tall man rolled his fiery eyes and shrugged, “Where were you going to go, you idiot? Did you just think you’d run out into the world and turn over every blade of grass until you found the pen? Is that it?” Schlomo scratched the back of his head, “Uhhh, not exactly…” His master held out his closed grip, unfurling his fingers to reveal an off-jade pendant shaped like the head of a bat and fastened to a golden chain. “Wear this, like always. I’ve ensorcelled it to feed you scried instruction as soon as you step outside of the manor. It will protect you from the pen’s magic and negate its influence over your mind, but its nature is strictly defensive. I will expect you back in less than a month. Do not make any more mistakes.” Schlomo let the pendant be dropped into his hands. He fastened it to his neck and bowed at the stomach to his lord, “Yeah, or I’m dead walking.” A pale hand slapped Schlomo square on the trapezius, “Schlomo! You’re being so silly! Your family has served me and mine for generations! I’m financing your son’s education! I would never be responsible for your death.” As Schlomo chuckled and looked off to the side, his master leaned forward whispered into his ear, “I’ll just make you yearn to discover death.” Schlomo leapt back with a cough and saluted, “Yes sir, straight away! Just gonna pack and be out before the sun rises! Timing myself starting ten seconds ago!” He sprinted out of the reliquary, and Dave’s vision came to an end.
Blinking as he came back to the real world, Dave’s eyes focused in on an annoyed, stout, middle-aged man flexing his fingers eagerly and drawing his lips sideways into an ever more exaggerated frown. The pen wouldn’t lie to him, would it? It was obeying his desire to know the full story and validate Schlomo Wrenmeadow’s motives. The pen was a stolen item, and it belonged to Schlomo’s “master.” But then again, what kind of man is Schlomo’s master? Nobility? Magician? Having a very low opinion of common people like, apparently, Dave. What would happen if Dave returned the pen?