Though forged in the fires of mountains fell
and born of a Dark Lord's luminal research
Mom is calling customer service;
she must be desperate.
The spike pits are filled to the brim with
bones from bold interlopers and
cleaning crews alike while the drowning
room scuppers are clogged with the slime of
countless decaying corpses. The fire-
faced chamber is filled full of ashes and
no one has seen the sweepers for weeks, meanwhile
the trap tiles have crossed all their wires: the
Bastard tripped ten before tumbling down dead.
(He had it coming, and though Mom may
miss him, I certainly won't; I certainly
don't. He was too nice an older
half-brother; he must have been
plotting against me and Mom.) And then there's the Chamber of
Sleepless Blades; it's ground to a momentous
halt.
And we cannot forget the drawbridge that broke
for the umpteenth-zillionth time today, falling
down into the Grave Abyss and
taking the repairman with it. (I think he was the
last. We shall have to train more.) Now
Mom is dialing extensions like mad;
I can see the rage ignite her eyes.
Oh dear.
They wouldn't dare.
They've put Mom on hold.
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