"Where am I?" asked Jayson to the voice. He could not see anything, but he could hear the voice. The voice had been talking to him since everything went black. Jayson's most-recent memories were in the Dungeon Wrong, where he had finally, for the first time in his life, felt real pain. He thought of the pain he had inflicted over the years and decided that to cause it was much better than to feel it.
"Does it matter?" said the voice.
"Where are my friends? Where are the mysterious knights? Where is my toy? My friends gave it to me." Jayson's voice had always been very child-like, and never moreso than now. Jayson's mother had told him that, about his voice, many years ago, had meant it affectionately. Jayson, he recalled, had responded by showing his mother his machete. She had not survived the showing.
"Your toy is dead."
"She cannot die."
"She is dead, my child, I assure you."
Jayson knew he was not a child. He frowned, or he tried to frown, but it seemed he had no mouth. Then how was he talking? Jayson knew not. "What about my friends? What about my minions? My friends gave me them too, like the toy!"
"The minions were but pale imitations of you, my child. Puppy dog kickers to whom you seemed powerful. And the Knights were not your friends. You have no friends. They wanted to use you, use your talents. They were as gladdened as saddened by your demise. I am not like them. I am your friend. If you do as I say, you may come back from the dead soon enough, and find more toys to play with."
"I like toys."
"I know. Here, take this." Something pressed a mask into Jayson's hand.
"What do I do with it?"
"Put it on your face, Jayson." He did as he was told. The mask fit him well.
[[Out-of-character: As some speculated last night, you have not heard the last of Jayson, the Mutilator. Though there's some time yet....]]
"Does it matter?" said the voice.
"Where are my friends? Where are the mysterious knights? Where is my toy? My friends gave it to me." Jayson's voice had always been very child-like, and never moreso than now. Jayson's mother had told him that, about his voice, many years ago, had meant it affectionately. Jayson, he recalled, had responded by showing his mother his machete. She had not survived the showing.
"Your toy is dead."
"She cannot die."
"She is dead, my child, I assure you."
Jayson knew he was not a child. He frowned, or he tried to frown, but it seemed he had no mouth. Then how was he talking? Jayson knew not. "What about my friends? What about my minions? My friends gave me them too, like the toy!"
"The minions were but pale imitations of you, my child. Puppy dog kickers to whom you seemed powerful. And the Knights were not your friends. You have no friends. They wanted to use you, use your talents. They were as gladdened as saddened by your demise. I am not like them. I am your friend. If you do as I say, you may come back from the dead soon enough, and find more toys to play with."
"I like toys."
"I know. Here, take this." Something pressed a mask into Jayson's hand.
"What do I do with it?"
"Put it on your face, Jayson." He did as he was told. The mask fit him well.
[[Out-of-character: As some speculated last night, you have not heard the last of Jayson, the Mutilator. Though there's some time yet....]]
