|Max Damage, the Combat Wombat!|
Sculpted by Snuurg.
The Problem with False (14)“You might tell us beforehand if you’re about to die,” Urn said as Pam recreated her hover. Her legs dragged away from the floor as she ascended until they dangled beneath her. Urn sat himself down. “If you are, you’ve really got to work fast to open the Door.”
“Good heavens, I most certainly am not dying!” Pam gasped, whipping her hair out of her face. She clasped her hands to her chest and wrung the rough fabric of her dress. “The very thought...”
“If you do that normally I would very much dislike being human,” False said with a shudder.
“Oh, no,” Pam dismissed, “they are using black magic on my shield...which is connected to me. Most of it doesn’t reach me, but occasionally...most of it doesn’t reach me, but—oh, wait. Well, I lost about ten feet, I’m afraid.”
“Ten feet of your shield?” Urn cried. “What are we to do? That puts you at less th
The Problem with False (13)It was a full-body effort to rise from the confines of the witch’s strange bed—quite literally, because False found that the dog had taken a peculiar fondness for his chest, on top of which it lay. The hairy thing really was as heavy as it looked, if not more. False had been awake some time and though he consistently yawned and thought to retire again at the dog’s command, he couldn’t shake the thought of ten thousand small, enemy Judiths walking House. It occurred to him more with every minute spent thinking how lost he felt. He may as well have been an outsider, like one of the filthy, warm-bound evils that had no access to House. At the same time, though he belonged to it, he felt helpless to defend it. And he was beginning to wonder...if any of it mattered anymore. They had a week to get back, and he wondered if, at the end of that time, he would have any desire to. There would be no sleep or calm in House, either.
He grunted in a way that must have upset th