The Bloom Room

“Sobek, get off the counter!” Silas laughed, shooing away his puff of black fur for a cat companion. “You always do love a freshly baked cupcake to ruin with your damn beans.”

Sobek scampered out of the kitchen as Silas flapped him away with a tea towel. It was another day in the Bloom Room, and another batch of cupcakes had been baked for customers who wanted to treat themselves when they came in to purchase some flowers. It wasn’t much, but Silas loved to make sure his customers left with that happy feel-good feeling you can only get with a warm cup of tea and cake. Balancing the cupcakes that hadn’t been stomped on by Sobek on a plate, Silas went through to his flower shop. The floral scent of the dozens upon dozens of flowers was always so mindful to the owner and only employee of the shop, and he couldn’t help but give each and everyone of them a loving pat or smile, as if they were his own children.

The Bloom Room was Silas’ sanctuary. He had run the place for over 10 years now, ever since he had received a stipend from his mysterious Grandfather who lived as a pasha in Calimshan when he was alive. His parents would have been pleased to know their daydreamer of a son had built up a life for himself that he truly loved. When his parents were alive, they often tried to get Silas involved in a variety of activities to encourage him to take a break from flowers, but eventually they accepted that he had a green heart.

Once everything was set up, and the sign had been turned to open, Silas took his place behind the counter, and scooped up his long wavy black hair into a ponytail. For a Waterdhavian, Silas was on the more exotic-looking side, given he was half-calishite, with his dark olive skin tone and wavy black hair. Nevertheless, he’d never actually been to Calimshan. In fact, he’d never gone outside the walls of Waterdeep for more than five minutes in his 30 years.

Smoothing his cerulean blazer down, he got to work, arranging bouquets, watering the fussy orchids, and putting aside flowers for customers he knew would be coming today, all the while humming a soft tune that seemed to make some of the flower’s sway.

It was a typical day. The few customers that came stayed for tea and cake, wanting to warm themselves after braving the cold winter that had blanketed Waterdeep in a delicate white sheen. Even Selene had come by on her lunch break, a sweet half-elven woman that worked at the grocers across the road from the Bloom Room. Silas had spent far too much time blushing over the few compliments she’d given him and his flowers. He was quite fond of her.

Midday came, and so did the sun. The few rays of brilliant radiance that managed to poke over the tall Waterdeep buildings gently rested on a few flower beds in the Bloom Room. Silas smiled softly as he watched the flowers stretch slightly, as if they were waking up from a nap. He was just glad that they were still thriving despite the winter, although that may have been because he doted on them so. A tall shadow broke Silas from his daydream, as he realised a customer had just arrived. A tall bald man dressed in tight black robes came in, followed closely by four unnerving looking men that creaked as they walked. He gave Silas a thin smile, his shadow elongating unnaturally as he approached. He poked a bouquet as he passed by the stand, frowning at it like it had insulted him.

“Silas Azalea. It was quite easy to find you,” the man said, his tone full of fake sweetness. The four men that followed shuffled about, wandering aimlessly. They had a disturbing stench about them, as if they had been hanging too long in a closet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet ye, sirs,” Silas said in his Calishite drawl. “How can I help ya’ll?”

The robed man chuckled, the sound growling unnaturally in his throat. “Such a cute little accent. You from around these parts?” he asked.

“Well, I-“

“I don’t actually care,” the man interrupted, making a brushing gesture as if he was silencing Silas’ lips with his gnarled fingers. Silas noticed that the tips of the man’s fingers were stained black. “Do you know someone named Oelavarra Draethfurl?”

Silas paused, shifting uncomfortably behind the counter. Of course, he knew Oelavarra – he’d known the woman since the first week he’d opened his shop. She was a regular, stopping by once a tenday for tea and cake, served in some special tea ware Silas had got her as a gift. They were old friends, even older than Silas’ relationship with his best friend, Jalester. Despite all that, Silas knew very little about the beautiful tomboyish songstress he called friend. Oelavarra was an enigma to Silas, yet there was something undeniably trustworthy about her, so trustworthy that he’d never pried into her private affairs. He was also determined to keep her safe from whoever these men were.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But ya’ll are more than welcome to ask the Watch for directions, should ye wish to find her?” Silas said, clamping his mouth tight at the end of his sentence, chastising himself for using Oelavarra’s correct pronoun.

“Tut tut, dear Silas. Lying to a customer? Not very good practice,” the man said, his tone so painfully impassive that it sent chills up Silas’ spine. “I think you do know her. In fact, I think you know her very well. You see, she’s disrupted my Master’s plans, and he’s not happy. So, he wishes to send her a little message.”

Silas took a small step back, his hands shaking. Slowly, he grasped the hilt of the katana he had under the counter, kept there in the rare case that he’d ever have to shoo off an unsavoury visitor. He eyed the four other men that had remained silent during the exchange. It was then he noticed that they were most certainly dead. Two were missing their eyes, as if they’d given up on trying to see in their undeath. The other two had such swollen limbs that Silas was surprised they were even able to stand. In one fluid yet shaky movement, Silas drew his katana, and help it up in a defensive pose before him.

“I-I reckon ya’ll should leave, or I’ll get the Watch,” Silas stuttered. The flower boy knew how to wield a katana, that much was true. But he’d never had to use it, nor had been in any situation more stressful than a school exam.

“Aw, how cute. The Azalea has a bite,” the foul robed man laughed.

It was quick, Silas’ death. The man had whipped out his hand from beneath his black robes so fast that Silas had no time to react. A stream of thick black shadow erupted from the man’s palm, and the moment he pressed it to Silas’ chest, all the world went black. And Silas’ heart beat its last.

…

Silas felt himself shivering. He was cold, so terribly cold. The sound of water dripping and the sensation he was being watched made him open his eyes. But he couldn’t move. He was stuck, face pressed down uncomfortably on a damp black floor. His heart was beating, but so painfully slow that his chest ached as if it were grieving.

Then, a voice sounded out, in a tone so dark, so full of hatred, that it could pierce through anyone’s soul and leave them empty.

“Silas.”

“Silas!”

“SILAS!”

Suddenly, Silas was dragged off the floor, his whole body locked in position. It was as if strings had been attached to his limbs, like he was a marionette only able to move if his handler allowed him to. His head was snapped upwards, and his eyes locked onto the definition of fear. The one that had shouted his name was before him. It was a dragon, sheathed in black scales. However, something was terribly wrong with it. Its scales slopped off it as if it were rotting, leaving patches of muscle and skin, both of which were grey and oozing a thick green puss. Its draconic maw had no gums holding in its many-rowed teeth, and a stream of sizzling acid, fitting for a black dragon, dripped from the corner of its mouth. And its eyes, by the gods, its eyes. Set into a draconic skull finished with towering black horns were two black holes filled with green fire. Where eyeballs should have been there were two narrowed slits full of malice.

“Silas. I am the Ebondeath, and I am your Master.”

The Ebondeath swooped towards Silas on skeletal wings, its limbs clicking into and out of place. Silas briefly took in the fact that he was still in the Bloom Room, except he wasn’t. This Bloom Room looked as if it had its front ripped off and was perpetually floating in a sea of darkness.

“The moment your frail body drew breath once more, I came to save you. You live because of me. You are mine, and you will do as I say,” the Ebondeath snarled.

Silas couldn’t move, not without permission. He just stared, unblinking, sweat running down his face.

“You will wake in that pathetic city of yours. You will act like nothing happened. And when that Oelavarra comes to play, you will say nothing. Your lips are forever sealed. Speak not of what has happened. I will give you no second chances. You will receive your next orders soon. Know that I will always be watching you.”

After getting so close to Silas that the man could smell the scent of rot and acid coming from its draconic maw, the Ebondeath’s hulking form suddenly cast out a great shadow that completely obscured Silas’ vision. There would never be another sunrise, Silas thought, as he tried to squint past the darkness.

And then, Silas drew breath. It was still dark, but he was in… Waterdeep? He wasn’t sure. His whole body racked with pain as he sat up. He peered around, blinking a few times as he realised, despite the night sky, he could see well. For human eyes, it was like he could see in the dark, and he could tell very quickly that he had been lying on a random rooftop somewhere in Waterdeep.

Silas made himself jump when he brought a hand up to touch his face. His skin was as pale as a piece of parchment, and his nails were long and black, claw-like almost. Examining himself, Silas realised something wasn’t right. Then the thirst hit him. It was as if thousands of needles pierced his throat as he swallowed. Gods, he was so thirsty. But first, he had to get home… as soon as got off the roof.

Navigating Waterdeep as night wasn’t something he’d done often, but his form seemed to melt into the shadows. He moved differently, more like as assassin hunting their prey than a man who drifted without a care in the world in amongst his flowers. Slinking around a corner, Silas came face to face with someone.

“Oh, s-sorry sonny,” slurred the kind-faced old man stumbling towards Silas. All Silas could do was stare. The man smelt… heavenly. The scent of alcohol was almost completely muted, for the warm aroma of blood overpowered everything. Silas licked his lips, his throat tightening as if to remind him of his thirst.

“I don’t suppose y- *hick*, you know the way to the Yawning Portal?” asked the drunk man.

Silas looked at the man like a lion would look at its recent catch and pounced. Sinking in fangs that he didn’t know he had into the man’s neck was as easy as carving butter. The blood gushed into Silas’ eager mouth, and his mind went blank. There was no semblance of Silas left as he fed. A creeping sensation bloomed in the back of his head, as if someone was watching, and then a deep laugh ripped through his skull.

“Pathetic,” laughed the disembodied voice of the Ebondeath.

Silas drew his fangs from the neck of the now unconscious drunk man, his eyes becoming clear. He realised what he had done, holding up the near-to-death man as blood still dripped from the corners of his lips.

“Help!” Silas desperately shouted, pressing one of his hands to the man’s neck. “Somebody, please!”

The skies above Waterdeep were the only witness to Silas’ feast. They responded by crying raindrops.