Midnight guest

Sleeping in the King’s bed was like what you imagine sleeping in your mother’s womb must have felt like, and it was your absolute favorite part of being king. 

Servants at your beck and call, soldiers willing to die for you, long parties, endless alcohol, and the best foods were nowhere near as satisfying as sinking into your root ensconced, silk covered mattress at night; especially on nights where servants had served you the best foods and endlessly refilled your gem encrusted goblet during a night of frivolity and partying with your friends—if for no other reason than that you never woke up with a hangover.

Tonight had not been one of those nights of frivolity; although, it did seem like an endless parade of triviality as Gaspar laid paper after paper in front of you. Missives from Waterdeep and Cormyr for your perusal, ledgers of wages and figures and expenses for your approval, a request for reinforcements from Lord Fergus Highwall IV, a report of an incident at the Spire during the annual Culling, blah blah, blah blah, blah blah. 

If tedium were personified it would be Gaspar.

When it was finally over, and Gaspar had mercifully stopped the torture, all you had wanted to do was sink into oblivion in your bed. Luckily, your best friend Faerith had succeeding in cajoling you up to the top of the keep to see who could pee the farthest and the longest off the side. The two of you had bowled over with laughter for what seemed like hours after a stray gust of wind had blown your stream sideways into his face.

Later, after a very necessary wash and change of clothes, you both had sunk, gratefully, into the soft sheets of the King’s bed. Invisible hands pulled the covers up to your chin and tucked the corners down around you. You aren’t sure, but as your consciousness slipped away, you thought you may have felt that same hand smooth your hair and give a slight pat on your head.

Like a green leaf buoyed upon a summer breeze you slipped into a pleasant slumber. Like that leaf, you felt supple, loose, and you dreamt of nature. A warm glade in spring, surrounded by verdant trees and fragrant wild flowers; bees hummed as they drowsily floated about. 

All was peaceful.

A sharp prick on your wrist warped it all. Pain lanced up your arm. That green supple feeling in your limbs was replaced by wooden rigidity as the pain sped through you, racing to your heart and then spreading out through the rest of your body from there.

Your eyes shoot open and you are in your room, awake once more. What a disturbing dream, you think. You have never had anything but the most pleasant dreams while in this bed, but, then again, you haven’t actually slept in this bed all that long. You attempt to shake it off and fall back asleep.

But nothing happens.

You try to roll over. But your limbs don’t obey. They are locked in place—completely immobile. It is only then that you realize someone is holding your hand by the wrist.

Rolling your eyes sideways you attempt to see who it is. Your room is dark; the embers of fire have been banked. Cool moonlight beams through a gap in the window curtains illuminating the dark silhouette of a man sitting over you. This silvery chiaroscuro reveals a tall, skeletally thin figure; a curl of light around his cheek allows you to see a complex of pocked scars covering the side of his face.

The long fingers of his hand release your wrist as he sits back further into the shadows. You see light glint off a long needle in his hand before he slips it away.

“So, it appears you have found my little hide away,” his voice is surprisingly silky, smooth but deep. “I think it is past time that you and I had a little chat.”

(DM: You are completely paralyzed but can talk. What do you do?)