Wet. Everything is wet.
When he wakes up, he is covered in a cold sweat. Why? Was he ill? He had so been hoping he would avoid a winter cold this year too. DRAT.
That sound though, that noise. The loud thumping coming from the roof, the scuffle on the wood floor downstairs. Cackling, crazed cackling leaking up the staircase.
roof. wood floor. staircase?
Weir opens his eyes in surprise, when had he acquired a roof? He stares up at the ceiling wondering how this had come to pass. He was certainly in a house, a human house. How odd.
Wasn’t he just in the Dale? Everything is jumbled in his mind, like one half is pushing against another, trying to claim they are the right reality. My, my, this is an odd dream.
Another sound joins the commotion coming from below. A tapping, something rapping against glass. He rises in his bed, pulling from himself sheets and blankets that he has burrowed under. Underneath he finds things he expects will be there, but he has only ever seen them depicted in books.
Pajamas. Red, flannel pajamas- and bare feet.
He rises to a sitting position, throwing the blankets aside to the floor. He wiggles his newly discovered feet, stretching the oddly shaped phalanges. They wiggle, scrunch, flex and bend in all sorts of manners. Too far one way and..oh! Best be careful Weir.
The tapping continues, almost in distress, and he remembers what had caught his attention just moments before. He squints his eyes, then rubs his fists into his closed lids. Across the room is a simple tank, and against the glass a small turtle can be seen. “Darwin?” He croaks, throat dry from the moisture-sucking winter air. He’s sure it’s Darwin, though it’s a bit off. Much smaller, and Darwin was a tortoise- not a turtle. He scratches his head in confusion, regaling at the delight it brings his scalp.
“You big idiot! Get up, get up!” Darwin cries from his tank, entirely too upset for such an early hour. Weir chortles, lets go a hurumph, and then he stands - albeit clumsily. “My, my Darwin. You are in rare form this morning! Say, where are we ol’ chap?” He looks around, steadying himself with the bedpost. The room is, in a sense, tidy chaos.
The floor is clear, but the shelves, chairs, and dressers have items both on and in them. Books, lots of books, line the shelves and sit in stacks along the dresser. Brass bells, a croquet mallet, a set of chisels in a velvet lined box- all have a place. Clocks, several of them, tick against the walls, or make their home among the books. Rolls of parchment, quills, stacks of modern paper, cups full of pens are shoved anywhere there is room. In one corner there is a slate table on the verge of overflowing with bottles, beakers, and vials filled with all manner of things. Another crash from downstairs solicits a jump from Weir, he stumbles forward latching onto the nearest armchair.
“Where are we? I do not very well know! Look at me Weir, I’m a turtle for Tiphon’s sake!” A thud against the glass to somehow prove his point. “Look at you? Look at me! I’m a human Darwin.” Weir smiles brightly, thrusting his arms forward. “I have fingers Darwin. Fingers!” He flexes his hands, staring at each bend, studying the movement.
“Just come get me out! Change me back too! I do not like being a turtle.” Darwin calls sadly from his tank, his little turtle eyes staring pleadingly.
“Change you back? Can’t you change yourself back Darwin? I know you can. You’ve also been awfully testy this morning, I don’t think I should.” He folds his arms across each other in front of his chest, and giving Darwin a sassy stare.
“I’ve been trying to change myself back you buffoon. I can’t.” A webbed foot slaps against the glass, sliding back down with a whine.
“Can’t, you say? Why, that is a dilemma indeed.” Weir frowns, bringing a hand to his chin to rub it in thought. “I’ve always wanted to do that you know. Look Darwin, do I look museful?” Darwin returns a flat stare, his beady eyes looking absolutely unamused.
“Yes, fine I will change you back.” The red-headed man crosses the room, lifting Darwin from his terrarium. He waits a spell, then he purses his lips and hums. A determined look takes his amber colored eyes, he looks at Darwin intently before releasing his breath in a sigh. “I-I..I’m afraid there’s no magic here Darwin.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’S NO MAGIC?!” Darwin is obviously upset by this news, yelling in a tiny turtle voice. Flailing his limbs while Weir holds him firmly in his grasp.
“Not to worry! I shall figure this out Darwin, now don’t squirm.” Weir chides, looking apologetic and then curious. “Darwin, if there’s no magic here, then how did you get here?”
“Well, essentially I am your soul Weir. Where you go, I go too. Lucky turtle I am huh?”
”Oh stop that, you’ll be fine. Turtles aren’t so bad, could be worse.” He comments thinking of all the animals Darwin could have ended up being. “I think you have a point though,” He relents, looking at Darwin, the room, the terrarium.
Another crash breaks their conversation, the rise of insane laughter sets Weir at unease. “What in the blazes is going on out there? I think I’ll have a look. Darwin, you wait here.” Weir announces, placing Darwin on the floor because he refuses to return to his ‘cage’.
He makes his way out of the room, finding himself in a hall that is open along the entire far side, lined with gleaming wooden railing. On the far end, the railing opens to a staircase that curves its way down to the first floor. The noises that emit from below are gurgles, and gibberish. An expulsion of menacing, doom-laden laughter follows this foreign speech. Curiosity finds the better of him and Weir creeps towards the staircase. Coming to a frozen stop on the first landing, he is horror struck by the scene that unfolds before his eyes.
Everything, ruined.
Christmas, he had worked so hard to put up those decorations. The garland lies strewn across the wood floors, wrapped around hideous, antlered demons that run amok- ripping and smashing anything in their wake. Ornaments are merely shattered pieces of ceramic and colored glass. He’d spent hours hand-painting acrylic names across their surfaces. Whittaker, Camrynn, Elysteria, Ramiel, Warshyshippy, Phaedrus, Fynnegan, one for each of his friends and kin. The star sits precariously atop the tree, blinking on and off from a short in the stretched wire. The stockings that he had hung by the chimney with such care, were now unraveled bits of yarn and string. Lights slap against the wood floor with a crack, trailing in knots from the little green gremlins.
Weir stands with his mouth open, bringing his palms up to his stubbled cheeks and running them down his face. How could this be? Then he realizes, he sees, that the presents have not been destroyed yet. There is still hope, a small shred of it, that he can save Christmas. Save the gifts that are jammed under the bent tree. He would need to be quick though, his presence had already caught a pair of gleaming eyes, surely they would be after him soon.
Away to his room, he flew like a flash, taking the flight of stairs 2 or 3 steps at a time. He slammed the door shut and turned the lock with a click, before pushing a book filled stand in front of the door.
“What in the Dale is going on Weir?”
The red haired man stands huffing from his hurry, hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “Demons, Gremlins, creatures of the dark surely. Darwin they are destroying everything downstairs. We can still save the gifts, I won’t stand for them to ruin Christmas!” He barks, amber eyes alight with conviction.
“You’re joking.” Darwin protests, thinking little of Weir’s decision, but when he see’s the man is serious he gives in. “Fine, fine, but your on your own you know. I can’t help you here, but don’t think you’ll leave me in this room alone.”
Weir is already flitting about the room, snatching up items he deems useful. “We’ll fight them off! I’ll send them back to the realm from whence they came!” His voice is charged, his hands are quick, his eyes find their targets but it is clear his brain is running furiously with thought. The bedroom door rattles while dark things squeal, and rake their claws against the wood. A coat with several pockets finds itself on Weir’s back, and he wastes no time to fill the pockets with an array of objects. He grabs a canvas messenger bag, throwing it over his shoulder, and adjusting the strap. The bag he fills as well, though not as full as he would like, there is still one more very important item it must hold. The boots take the longest time, Weir fumbles as he has never actually tied laces before. He manages to knot them enough to stay and then he retrieves Darwin- tucking him into his bag last.
“You better make sure I am not smashed.”
“Absolutely, absolutely ol’ friend. Wouldn’t dream of them smashing you.” Weir assures Darwin, grabbing the croquet mallet before he stands facing the blocked door. The wood rattles, barely holding to the frame, Weir’s eyes harden and he shoves the stand away. “For the Dale! For Christmas!” He shouts before he surges into the fray.
It is a blizzard of green, of claws and gnashing teeth. Weir strikes at the demons with his mallet. Blasting them with thwacks against their bones, their faces, anywhere he can manage. He bashes them, just as much as they lash out with their sharp teeth and claws. With the mallet handle he jabs their ghoulish eyes, a weak spot for many a foe. One he picks up by it’s fake antlers, tossing it out the bedroom door where it smacks against the wooden rail. An ominous thud strikes the roof, the beams creak against the movement of something above them. Something is coming, something much bigger than what he battles now.
WEIR