"You must choose," one of the servants told him in a voice that grated like shards of glass, "Or the choice will be made for you."
"You wouldn't like us to make the choice for you," Another cackled, strange lumps moving beneath her skin, squiggling like worms before sinking deeper into her flesh. "Best you choose one of them to slay. Such celebrations call for sacrifice after all."
"Sacrifice." they all said, and nodded in unison.
In the kitchen where servants moved in and out of the swinging doors like wraiths, Wren hung trussed by wrists and ankles, bobbing over the cutting table. Beneath him, cooks without faces senselessly chopped the meat their hands found, neatly slicing and preparing it for the guests beyond. He could hear them, whispering and laughing beyond the swinging door, a reminder that he had simply dreamed one room too far.
"I'm not a killer."
Even saying the words, he knew it was a lie and the servants cackled to themselves, shaking their heads.
"Now, now, Plague bearer," one snickered with a wink, "We all know THAT'S not true. We've been fans of your work since we found out who it was that so devastated Zeltiva."
"Quite a few sick dreams came from that," One of the servants confirmed with a thoughtful nod, "Delicious fear and sorrow, really thrums the heartstrings, doesn't it?"
"Why me?"
"You? Why you, he asks!" The first chortled, and his teeth were razor sharp for a moment, slicing his own tongue in merriment. "Dear boy, you escaped us on the dream turtles long ago...can't tell you how dissappointing that was."
"Besides," another said, its eyes like hollow pits, "Do you know how long it's taken to set this up? We had to gather together, a rare event, for rarer opportunity. It wasn't easy rounding up your Chavi, but we had some time...really though, you must appreciate the pains we've taken to set this up."
"I applaud your accomplishments," Wren countered dryly, "I'm sure it's very difficult to fabricate in a dream." he remembered them now, or at least one of them...from a dream he'd had many seasons ago. Back then it had taken the form of his sister...a dead, beloved dog, and an unborn infant. Now they all wore neatly pressed suites and other servant attire.
The first one scowled, rolling its grey eyes, "You wouldn't know," It explained, throwing its hands back as if presenting the entirety of the dream, "Not all of this is actually that simple. Mixing and matching Chavi, drawing a suitable guest list, and making sure no one wakes prematurely...hardly a meal if they yank out of it too fast, now is it?"
"I wouldn't know," Wren countered, "I'm not a parasite."
The second among them, in the shape of a woman, placed a hand on her brow and mock swooned, "The murderer thinks ill of us, however will we cope?"
The other three chortled before the first held up his hand.
"We're not here to make enemies of you, sorcerer, just to ask you to kill one of the guests before the strike of midnight in the dream. Be quiet about it, unless you prefer dramatics. Fear, rage, sorrow, we consume them all. Get things going for us and we'll let them all go when we've had our fill."
"Like you let me go?"
The fourth one snarled, waving scything claws uselessly, as if in tantrum, "The Turtles took you. We don't really aim to KILL anyone, not really. Just a little bit of fun, good fun."
"Nightmarish fun." the woman agreed.
"A simple thing, then pop back to your waking world and your waking...activities."
"Just one?" Wrenmae asked, struggling at the bonds he knew he wouldn't be able to break.
"Just one." They all echoed in unison.
Wren sighed, struggling again, before falling limp. "Very well," he relinquished, more-so eager to remove himself from such a vulnerable position, "And in return?"
"We'll...tell you something interesting?" The first offered with a shrug.
"Navigating the Chavi affords us some rather interesting secrets." The female nodded, "Help us and we help you."
"Not the worst offer I've received," he said to them with a sigh, "You could work on your presentation."
"Yeah, well, approaching people about dream murdering is surprisingly hard to do casually," the third one complained, coughing billowing clouds of flies that died moments after exiting his mouth, "But we'll take that into account the next time we plan one of these."
"Every bit of critique helps!" The female said with a slimy smile.
"What exactly are you?" Wren asked them, frowning, "I don't think I had the chance before."
"Wish I could help you there, buddy," The fourth said with a shrug, "We're really just getting by, day by day, you know."
"Tough not to have a lineage," the third lamented, "Awfully hard to coordinate family get-togethers."
"Trust me," the first said, drawing itself up to its full height and snapping Wren down from his bondage, "It won't come up. Let's just call this a contract among friends."
"Best of friends," the fourth chirped
"Employers." Wren corrected and the female rolled her eyes.
"Whatever you say. Now get out there and socialize...sacrifices don't choose themselves."
"If only." the third muttered, crossing its leathery arms.
Wren said nothing, only tucked a provided dagger into the folds of his clothes and stepped out into the party.
Immediately the sorcerer was awash in the color and extravagance of the scenery. Servants glided gracefully between the guests, offering treats and lavishly prepared meals on silver platters. The guests were dressed in a mixture of culture clothing...reds, blues, whites, and a myriad of other colors made the ballroom a marble field with flitting butterflies, each more wondrous than the last, dipping and weaving with each other in coordinated beauty.
Wren wore clothes associated with Alvadas, the long and multi-hued shimmer of his wide-sleeved robe, the delicate curvature of his peacock blue mask set against his forehead, nose, and eyes. He stepped into the party with the air of someone who recognized their own importance, easily slipping around guests as he navigated the hall. For now, he simply watched them...their identities obscured by masks, it was still fairly simple to spy out the Symenestra, and the flashing eyes of Vantha beyond the masks they wore. He could spy no Zith among them, narrowing him down to actually having to choose an individual. Had there been a Zith in attendance, he'd have considered his choice to be made.
There was no clock...but he felt he would know when the right time came.
For the time being, he cut through the swath of color and fabrics like a ghost, nearly drifting with long strides and the low dragging edges of his attire.
"It feels like a home." A man said suddenly, and Wren turned to confront him. He sized the man up, paused, stopped himself and smiled.
"Yes, but...whose and why? We all came here with masks, suggesting our identity is to remain private for the duration of the event. I wonder what the true master of the house has planned for such an unexpected celebration."
He held out a hand, "Murdock," he lied easily...after all, his mask was his identity now, "And you are?"