Delve

“It doesn’t quite fill the space, does it?” Phawkes sighed as he stepped back to consider the lamp.

“Nonsense!” Prancy disagreed, “I think the decapitation parlor is the perfect place for it!”

“It’s a trophy room, Prancy,” Phawkes corrected him, “and my old lamp was much larger than this.”

“Well, whatever you call it,” Prancy said, shivering a little as he felt the weight of a hundred glassy-eyed stares from the heads of the formerly savage beasts mounted upon the walls, “I’d say your new lamp fits right in! You wouldn’t want the poor thing to feel lonely, would you?”

“We could always make room for it on our bedside table,” Phawkes said with a wicked purr.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Prancy yelped. His shocked expression melted into a gentle smirk as he added, “I will not permit any rivals for your attention!”

“You’ve no fear of that,” Phawkes chuckled, taking Prancy’s hands in his own, “No treasure in this world could compete with the sight of you.”

Prancy bit his lip as his gaze lifted to the black patch covering the ruin of Phawkes’s right eye. “And it seems that now you must make do with half as much of that!” Prancy scolded him.

Phawkes rolled his remaining eye. “It’s only a scratch, Prancy!” he scoffed, “Do you remember when I returned from my Swivehorn hunt?”

“How can I forget?” Prancy fumed, glancing up at the enormous head of the beast that had nearly ended Phawkes’s life, seven summers back. The monster’s iron-hard horn still bore the stains of the huntsman’s blood. “You know how much I hate it when you get hurt,” he whispered.

Phawkes pulled him close, breathing the scent of home on Prancy’s fur. “Well, I for one am relieved that you weren’t hurt when those thieves broke in!” Phawkes said.

“Yes, well…” Prancy said, pulling away to scratch at his collar, his eyes downcast, “I had some shopping to do… they probably planned to strike while I was away… My schedule is quite predictable, after all.”

“Predictable? Hardly!” Phawkes sniffed, “Still, I’m relieved that you weren’t at home when it happened. Art thieves can prove quite desperate when caught in the act… Though I wonder why they took only the lamp, given the countless other valuables on display here.” Phawkes turned to admire his trophies of a hundred bold hunts, arrayed across the parlor walls.

“Odd, that, yes!” Prancy chuckled nervously, “Just the one lamp… perhaps they were hired specifically to acquire that one… it was quite the masterpiece!”

“Was?” Phawkes noted, turning his eye upon the fluffy Persian again.

“I’m sure it still is, I mean,” Prancy hastened to add, “wherever it is now.”

“I have a few suspicions,” Phawkes said, his face taking on that deathly glower that presaged the start of another great hunt.

“Y-you do?” Prancy stammered, still fidgeting with his collar.

“Yes,” Phawkes said, narrowing his gaze, “Lord Fingletuff, for one… He always coveted that lamp.”

“F-Fingletuff?” Prancy squeaked, “Oh, no, I can’t imagine him consorting with thieves!”

“Perhaps not,” Phawkes fumed, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully, “whom then?”

“No, no…” Prancy continued, “I think it’s best that we forget all about that old lamp! I mean, compared to this one, the old lamp was practically rubbish!”

“Rubbish?” Phawkes snarled.

“I mean, look at it!” Prancy said, gesturing toward the horned rat skull on the table before them, “This is the crown jewel of your collection! Who needs that old lamp, really?”

“Yes, it is quite splendid, isn’t it?” Phawkes sighed, quenching his anger in the appreciation of his newest prize.

“In any case, I haven’t finished catching you up on the latest Delve developments,” Prancy hastened to change the subject.

“Ah, your Bande dessinée,” Phawkes said with a frown, “I thought they’d finished it up ages ago… something about alternate realities and someone driving an auto voiture through a rather sizeable hole in the plot?”

“You’re trying to distract me by speaking French again,” Prancy cooed.

“A calculated gambit,” Phawkes said with a vicious grin, “Any chance that it will spare me the grim epistle you’ve no doubt prepared on this, my least favorite of all subject matters?”

“Epistle?” Prancy snorted, seizing Phawkes by the lapel and shepherding him back out into the sitting room. “Grab a pew, sinner,” Prancy commanded, steering Phawkes toward a divan, “You’ve just earned yourself an entire sermon!”

“May I at least be permitted a blindfold and a last cigarette?” Phawkes sighed as he collapsed onto the velvet-cushioned seat.

“You’ve got half a blindfold already, and you don’t smoke!” Prancy sniffed, “Now stop interrupting, or we’ll never get through this!”

“Preach on then, vicar,” Phawkes groaned in resignation, “And I shall play the part of your penitent congregation.”

“Where was I?” Prancy wondered aloud as he began to pace the width of the parlor floor pulpit.

“The auto voiture?” Phawkes offered.

“Yes, a Ford Thunderbird, late 70s model,” Prancy said, “quite out of place in a fantasy world, wouldn’t you say?”

“Naturally,” Phawkes agreed, “how very clever of the writer to subvert one’s expectations!”

“A convergence of worlds,” Prancy said, ignoring the jab, “brought about by the power of the artifact dagger’s trapped soul, in her attempt to escape the hell dimension where those consumed by the Devourer find themselves.”

“What dagger is this?” Phawkes interrupted.

“Oh, the dagger that once belonged to Kelathuzak the Mindripper,” Prancy explained.

“And we should know this charming ripper from… where?” Phawkes pressed.

“We don’t,” Prancy said, “We’ve yet to meet him. We know only that he imprisoned his own soul in the jeweled pommel of a powerful artifact weapon and then subsequently lost that dagger in a card game with the Dracomage who rules the Delve.”

“His soul?” Phawkes said, “You referred to the soul a moment ago as her.”

“Quite so!” Prancy said, pleased that Phawkes was paying attention, “She is known as Kel, and seems to have a good heart, probably why the Mindripper found her so inconvenient.”

“I’d imagine that a good heart would prove something of a liability in the field of Mindripping,” Phawkes sighed, determined to play along.

“Exactly!” Prancy said, snapping his fingers and grinning, “and now she’s found herself bound to her sister souls, Moonblade, the spirit of the moon elf sword which Bree found in the spider pits, and Lassa, the naga girl whom Moonblade rescued from the torture chamber of the Dracomage’s painmice!”

Phawkes squinted his good eye and then shook his head. “I shall endeavor to pretend that any of that made sense at all!” he grumbled.

“It’s not really important,” Prancy said, waggling his fingers, “If we were to go into all the ‘ships that developed over the run of the series, we should be at this all evening!”

“Dear Emperor, no!” Phawkes moaned.

“And so, Bree is back,” Prancy said, “Only now she is infused with the spirit and personality of Jennifer Balfour, a young woman from a more technologically-advanced, yet chromatically-challenged dimension known only as the Grayside!”

“And how, exactly, was this accomplished?” Phawkes asked.

“Well, we aren’t certain exactly,” Prancy admitted, “yet there are some theories.”

“Such as?” Phawkes said.

“Well, we know that she was driving her vehicle in a rather distraught state of mind, following her dramatic parting from her ex-boyfriend, Brian,” Prancy said, “and the subsequent crash of that vehicle in the fantasy world of the Delve, and her surprise at finding herself in the body of Bree whom she’d believed was only a fantasy of her own concoction… well, what if Jen actually lost control of her car and crashed? Bree’s subsequent gory facial injuries, sustained in the episodes following this hint at lingering memories of severe trauma, like that which one might suffer from a high-speed collision.”

Phawkes’s face twisted in a sickened expression. “And this is a children’s story?” he demanded in horror.

“Children’s story? Good heavens no!” Prancy guffawed, “There’s tits and naughty bits displayed on nearly every page of the thing!”

“There should be a law!” Phawkes scoffed.

“Oh, shut up!” Prancy growled, “You’re making me lose my train of thought!”

“Apologies,” Phawkes said, “please continue.”

“And there are other clues as well,” Prancy said, “When she meets an orc chieftain named Sark… bit of an 80s film reference there, perhaps… whose father, he claims, was named Korg, also a manufacturer of electric pianofortes, come to popularity in the same decade… and this orc seems to be just as powerful as Bree and as familiar with other elements of Jen’s Grayside world as well.”

“Another lost soul, awakened into his own private fantasy?” Phawkes mused.

“Quite!” Prancy said with a smile, “Though, in his case, his fantasy had more to do with dodging responsibility and bedding captured elf girls.”

“Against their wills, no doubt,” Phawkes concluded grimly.

“It’s left to the imagination,” Prancy replied delicately, “but, suffice to say, his story is a study in how one might behave, given the removal of all societal mores.”

“As an insufferable cad, I suppose,” Phawkes huffed.

“Well, yes,” Prancy admitted, “that is, until he realizes that this fantasy world is more than just his own private dream. Once he understands his position in a reality shared by others of his same nature, he puts aside his hedonistic urges and begins to take responsibility for his new life, one that he initially feared was to prove a fiery damnation in retribution for the sins of his past life. We part ways with him as he accepts his duty to the people of his new world, and takes a stronger role of leadership within his tribe.”

“And Bree comes to realize her own duty as well?” Phawkes asked.

“Ah, not as such,” Prancy sighed, “It seems that Princess Sephni is doing her best to keep the Jen half of Bree’s personality subdued beneath the girl’s dreamlike sense of wonder.”

“Why, and how?” Phawkes demanded.

“It would seem that Princess Sephni is also sharing a personality with a spirit from the Grayside world,” Prancy said, “but something much more sinister than simply a heart-broken grayscale gamer. She seems quite determined to prevent Jen’s consciousness from awakening completely within Bree’s psyche.”

“Are we then to assume that Sephni is another crash victim, lost in her own fantasies?” Phawkes snorted, “Perhaps these Graysiders should consider taking the trolly!”

“We don’t know what Sephni is yet,” Prancy said with a frown, “only that her fusion was a tortuous one that drove her mad in the process… Poor Tuul, the drakon cultist, is suffering even now under her twisted tutelage.  He’s even had to endure the torments of the magical resurrection collar that Sephni wears, which is capable of healing any wound, even the total destruction of one’s body, but does nothing to ease the pain of the process.”

“Tuul was the dim-witted minion who led Bree straight to the ceremony in which Princess Sephni was to be sacrificed to the Devourer,” Phawkes noted.

“You were paying attention!” Prancy beamed.

“I always pay attention to you, Prancy!” Phawkes insisted, “I simply wish that you would take up a real hobby, such as gardening, or reloading.”

“Would you ever dare to fire any cartridge that I had reloaded for you?” Prancy scoffed.

“Of course, I would!” Phawkes protested, “…I’d flinch a bit, perhaps, when I pulled the trigger, but it would be a very loving flinch, I assure you!”

Prancy rolled his eyes and let it pass. “Fortunately for Tuul, there is a young priestess named Miko traveling with them who is doing her best to broaden the young drakon’s horizons and teach him the value of life and love!” Prancy said happily.

“Miko?” Phawkes said with a scowl.

“Yes.”

“As in Shrine Maiden?” Phawkes chortled, “A bit on the nose, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps,” Prancy admitted, “but who’s to say that’s her real name… It could be more of a title. Perhaps her given name is unpronounceable for people not from her country.”

“Which country?” Phawkes chuckled, “Asianica?”

“Well, I never claimed it was the bloody Iliad!” Prancy groused.

“Fair enough,” Phawkes relented, “Do go on.”

“But now we are following the side story of Bree’s sister Paige, also a young priestess who is seeking out Bree to give her the crown of the wood elven royalty, following the death of their father,” Prancy said, “Something which the original Devourer and his minions are keen to prevent.”

“The original Devourer?” Phawkes asked, “You mean Princess Sephni?”

“No, the foul-mouthed demon that Bree confronted at the end of the first story arc,” Prancy said.

“Yes, I recall putting a few rounds into him myself,” Phawkes mused, “but I thought he was killed in the end.”

“Defeated, yes, but not killed,” Prancy said, “Which is why Teal was forced to pursue him into the nether realms.”

“I was under the impression that we were already in the nether realms at the time,” Phawkes said grimly.

“Netherer realms then, if you please,” Prancy said.

Phawkes covered his face with his palm.

“And so, Teal is somewhere,” Prancy continued, “searching for the ultimate source of the Devourer’s evil, while Bree’s sister Paige is trying to find Bree and force her to accept her own responsibilities to her people, just as Sark’s sister did for him.”

“And the Devourer is trying to stop her?” Phawkes said, dropping his hand to reveal a rather forced smile as he continued to feign interest in the plot.

“Yes, but fortunately Paige has crossed paths with the surviving Valryn,” Prancy said, “The very demonic warriors created to defeat the Devourer in ages past, when he went by the name Draxxorel.”

“Rather convenient for her,” Phawkes said.

“Indeed,” Prancy said coolly, “and they immediately do battle with a minion of the supposedly dead god and capture it.”

“Cheers to them!” Phawkes quipped.

“And yet, when they question the beast, it reveals the truth of its extra-dimensional nature to Lyca, the leader of the remaining Valryn,” Prancy said, “and it succeeds in convincing her that her reality is the fantasy, shaking the demon woman to her core and causing her to lose faith in her purpose.”

“She suspected no falsehood on its part?” Phawkes asked.

“It seemed rather convincing,” Prancy said, “especially since she does something unprecedented in Valryn society and orders a retreat! We are perhaps to expect some extra-planar meddling in this surprising turn of events as it is revealed that, at this time, the Dracomage, who has been banished to the Grayside, has convinced his own spiritual counterpart, Jen’s ex-boyfriend Brian, to begin rolling the dice of Fate once again.”

Prancy paused then, noticing the way in which Phawkes was staring at him with an utterly blank expression on his face.

“What?” Prancy asked.

“Prancy, my dearest,” Phawkes said, “I know that you believe these words you have just spoken actually make some kind of sense, but…”

“It’s quite simple!” Prancy protested, starting to grow flustered, “Well, not simple exactly, but, if you’ll just…”

“Prancy! Prancy!” Phawkes interrupted, “Does reading this story bring you joy?”

“Well, yes,” Prancy mumbled, “of a sort.”

“Of a sort?”

“Yes… not joy exactly,” Prancy mused, his eyes growing distant, “It’s a bit sad really, even a little horrific at times, but then so is life, I suppose, and the best we can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all.”

“And you enjoy this story?” Phawkes asked.

“Yes,” Prancy said, crestfallen.

“Then that is all I need to know,” Phawkes said with a smile as he stood up again and reached out for Prancy’s hand.

Prancy took it, chewing his lip thoughtfully as Phawkes pulled him close.

“But I haven’t told you about the Found, yet!” Prancy protested, “It’s a trans-dimensional tavern, where one can find lost things from every time and place! Paige goes there, looking for her sister, but…”

Phawkes silenced him with a kiss as the cool shadows of evening fell across the parlor curtains.

Neither one of them noticed the flickering violet radiance that spilled out through the half-opened door of the trophy room.