The Two Faces

Wake up.

He did, though only partially. Groggy from too much sleep and too little food, he reached a hand to the table next to the armchair he had fallen asleep in.

It wasn't there.

That was the only thing that he needed to wake up properly, as an alarm triggered itself inside his occasionally paranoid and cautious mind. A quick look around told him that his worst fears hadn't been realised.

He wouldn't have been prepared to wake up in a lavish room adorned with green, gold and silver, after all; his last memory was that of falling asleep in his loft, right next to the fireplace that had once been a forge. In all honesty, perhaps it was still sensible to call it a forge, even though it had another use. Presently, he was staring into a real fireplace.

Fingers tapping a complex beat against the armchair's (which at least seemed to be the same worn, patched burgundy one that he knew) side, he made a few considerations. By the time he had reached the second variation of the beat, he stood up and outwardly examined the cupboards, the tables and the armoires. Naturally, he gravitated toward one of the tables, on which lay a platter of fruit -- and a very curious, rolled up book he recalled having seen before. Regardless, he knew immediately that it wasn't a book.

Sighing, he took some grapes from the platter, then the letter, and retreated to the window where he was certain he would find even more eldritch details meant to perhaps toy with him. He wasn't disappointed, but decided in a split second that he would rather not look outside. He had expected something like this, yes, but again, his mortal mind couldn't possibly make heads or tails from everything that he saw, even with his way of thinking and perceiving.

So, he sat down in the armchair and opened the letter, resigning to his fate.

It is time to teach you techniques of a sort you have used before but have thus far neglected. You will find that the door will take you where you must go, but you shall need your vestments -- he idly wondered if, knowing the writer's nature, he would be wearing habits -- before you go. Your task is to make small prophecies that will make all the difference.

Firstly...

The reader remained silent as he read the rest of his briefing. Then: "I can't for the life of me understand why this always happens to me," he muttered and turned a page.

It read: Because you've been a good boy.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He continued to read, not bothering to look around to see if anyone was there. No, this made sense. Infuriatingly, yes, but it did. At the very least, his appetite was gone.

I trust you understand the nature of this letter. Do not try to rip open the next few pages; they will open themselves when it is time.

End of letter, on the 16th of...

He knew what day it was already, but he supposed it was just his benefactor's way of saying that he was to stop fighting against exorable fate.

And of course, Kai knew quite well that he was just a puppet for something far, far more frightening than some omniscient being certain people believed in. This one guessed -- correctly! -- what he was going to say or do. It was maddening!

Muttering, he fetched his vestments, which were not quite as dreary as he had imagined, and picked up the staff from the corner of the room. He could have sworn there had been a coatrack there instead, earlier.

Thus armed, he inspected himself from a mirror. Not bad, but he missed his hat. Hoods were inconvenient.

He grabbed a few fruits, put them in his newfangled satchel and stepped toward the door. On the way there, Kai wondered if the opulence of his silver-lined white-and-gold attire would get him into trouble.

Knowing his luck, yes, damn it.