one of the biggest whos around.
“C’mon, man,” Em said. “It’s about his fucking wife. Of course he’ll agree.”
“That’s no—”
“He’s sentimental.” When Sigmund looked up, Wayne was twirling one long pink dread around her finger. “Well. He is, right? He has that painting of Sigyn in his office.”
“Yeah. So?”
“ ‘So’? Dooder, the painting’s not for him. He’s blind. It’s for everyone else, for their reactions.”
Sigmund opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. It would explain why the painting was so god-awfully ugly, all soft-focus oils set inside a carved gilt frame. Totally unsuited to the rest of the decor in the room, but that would make sense. If being conspicuous was precisely the point. And Lain—Travis, whoever—couldn’t see per se, but the Wyrdsight gave him a different sort of vision, one of emotion and of narrative.
“He wants people to think about her,” Wayne was saying. “Even if they don’t ask and he never tells, he doesn’t want her forgotten. And, if we do this”—Wayne gestured to her sketchbook—“she won’t be. At least for a little while.”
Sigmund looked at the sketchbook and he looked at Wayne. Then he closed his eyes, reaching down beneath his heart to find the ice.
(“you…your life is your own. you are not beholden to my shadow”)
When Sigmund’s eyes opened again, he locked gazes with Em.
“I’ll do some Googling,” he said.
“See.” Em was grinning, triumphant. “I told you you’d love it.”
—
They left the back room about ten minutes later, Wayne showing Sigmund more of her sketches, Em talking excitedly about themes and foreshadowing and quest structure. Sigmund nodded and said “uh-huh” and tried not to think too hard about the giant wall of effort looming ahead of him, taunting him with all the things he didn’t know about game programming. Art was art and story was story, meaning Em and Wayne’s gear shift wasn’t really much of one at all, as far as Sigmund could see. But his, on the other hand…
Still. His friends believed in him. It was hard not to believe in them in turn. Meaning he was just as excited when he pushed open the staff door, head turned to Wayne and saying something about thematic color schemes when his foot stepped out and landed not on utilitarian tiles, but rather in a three-inch-deep pile of ash and rot.
For one terrible, awful second, Sigmund felt the gyre turn.
(no no no not again…)
Two months ago, during the end of the world, the land of the dead had invaded Pandemonium. Sigmund had been caught up in it, crawling through a crumbling nightmare of
draugar,
of fears and neuroses made into bruised and glistening flesh.
The Helbleed had swallowed the city, but Lain healed the Wound and had supposedly set things right.
Except not. Not when the lights in the comic store flickered and rivulets of black ink seeped from the covers of the trades. Sigmund’s heart shuddered and his hands clenched and he couldn’t. Not again. Not ever again, with the stink of meat in his nostrils and the grit of ash against his eyes and—
—and there was someone in the store. Some
thing.
A tall, dark shape, standing by the counter.
“Uh…” said Em. “Guys?”
“It’s real,” Wayne said. “Sig, what—?”
The dark figure turned at the sound of their voices. Sigmund saw twisted horns and black feathers. A rich brocade robe with sleeves that trailed to the ground yet left shriveled black corpse-flesh exposed on the creature’s belly and thighs and scaly, raven-clawed legs. A black silk veil—embroidered with a symbol that could’ve been an eye but might have been a barrow—covered the upper part of the creature’s face, obscuring eyes and nose and revealing only the broad, skeleton grin of jag-edged teeth beneath.
Frozen beneath the regard of those hidden eyes, Sigmund startled when he felt Em’s hand wrap around his elbow. “Dude!” she hissed, leaning close into his ear.
“C’mon, man,” Em said. “It’s about his fucking wife. Of course he’ll agree.”
“That’s no—”
“He’s sentimental.” When Sigmund looked up, Wayne was twirling one long pink dread around her finger. “Well. He is, right? He has that painting of Sigyn in his office.”
“Yeah. So?”
“ ‘So’? Dooder, the painting’s not for him. He’s blind. It’s for everyone else, for their reactions.”
Sigmund opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. It would explain why the painting was so god-awfully ugly, all soft-focus oils set inside a carved gilt frame. Totally unsuited to the rest of the decor in the room, but that would make sense. If being conspicuous was precisely the point. And Lain—Travis, whoever—couldn’t see per se, but the Wyrdsight gave him a different sort of vision, one of emotion and of narrative.
“He wants people to think about her,” Wayne was saying. “Even if they don’t ask and he never tells, he doesn’t want her forgotten. And, if we do this”—Wayne gestured to her sketchbook—“she won’t be. At least for a little while.”
Sigmund looked at the sketchbook and he looked at Wayne. Then he closed his eyes, reaching down beneath his heart to find the ice.
(“you…your life is your own. you are not beholden to my shadow”)
When Sigmund’s eyes opened again, he locked gazes with Em.
“I’ll do some Googling,” he said.
“See.” Em was grinning, triumphant. “I told you you’d love it.”
—
They left the back room about ten minutes later, Wayne showing Sigmund more of her sketches, Em talking excitedly about themes and foreshadowing and quest structure. Sigmund nodded and said “uh-huh” and tried not to think too hard about the giant wall of effort looming ahead of him, taunting him with all the things he didn’t know about game programming. Art was art and story was story, meaning Em and Wayne’s gear shift wasn’t really much of one at all, as far as Sigmund could see. But his, on the other hand…
Still. His friends believed in him. It was hard not to believe in them in turn. Meaning he was just as excited when he pushed open the staff door, head turned to Wayne and saying something about thematic color schemes when his foot stepped out and landed not on utilitarian tiles, but rather in a three-inch-deep pile of ash and rot.
For one terrible, awful second, Sigmund felt the gyre turn.
(no no no not again…)
Two months ago, during the end of the world, the land of the dead had invaded Pandemonium. Sigmund had been caught up in it, crawling through a crumbling nightmare of
draugar,
of fears and neuroses made into bruised and glistening flesh.
The Helbleed had swallowed the city, but Lain healed the Wound and had supposedly set things right.
Except not. Not when the lights in the comic store flickered and rivulets of black ink seeped from the covers of the trades. Sigmund’s heart shuddered and his hands clenched and he couldn’t. Not again. Not ever again, with the stink of meat in his nostrils and the grit of ash against his eyes and—
—and there was someone in the store. Some
thing.
A tall, dark shape, standing by the counter.
“Uh…” said Em. “Guys?”
“It’s real,” Wayne said. “Sig, what—?”
The dark figure turned at the sound of their voices. Sigmund saw twisted horns and black feathers. A rich brocade robe with sleeves that trailed to the ground yet left shriveled black corpse-flesh exposed on the creature’s belly and thighs and scaly, raven-clawed legs. A black silk veil—embroidered with a symbol that could’ve been an eye but might have been a barrow—covered the upper part of the creature’s face, obscuring eyes and nose and revealing only the broad, skeleton grin of jag-edged teeth beneath.
Frozen beneath the regard of those hidden eyes, Sigmund startled when he felt Em’s hand wrap around his elbow. “Dude!” she hissed, leaning close into his ear.
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