Good gods, I can’t look at another page of revisions tonight.
The Lorrigan was unhappy.
She glowered at the hairless and prodigiously-tongued twilight thing that crouched before her. “You were given orders over three days ago, Chek, and I have yet to hear aught of the quest. Why?”
The squat thing’s bead-eyes shifted away from the Antler Throne. “Your pardon, mithtreth?”
“The boy.” The Lorrigan’s eyes sparked. (Literally, some had been unlucky enough to find out.) “Where. Is. The boy?”
“Well, your inthructionth… that ith, your directhions… they were not… it wath… hath been, difficult. Milady.”
The Lorrigan wiped spittle from her leggings, once again sparing Chek the penalty of death for the accident of his birth. “Hair color. Eye Color. Age. I gave you his name, for pity’s sake. Did you send the most incompetent hunters in our stables?”
Chek started to reply, thought better of it (eyeing his queen’s damp leggings) and shook his head.
“Fine.” The Lorrigan scowled. “You go help them then, if they have such trouble understanding my desires.” She gestured. “Find you some appropriate clothing from the cupboards of the children’s dungeon, go out to Make Believe, and find the Boy, Chek.”
She glowered down at her gaping, wide-eyed servant (whose tufted ears were pressed to his head in obvious dismay).
“Find him, Chek. It’s important.”