Guess who didn’t get his request completed last night. If you said the Fucker of Sons, then you are correct. (Why did Rummer John give him that epithet? It took a while to figure it out. But once you consider that this is 184.999% a political move, and that the requestor had several chances to prevent his son from meeting the fate he did but did nothing because it would not have been politically expedient at the time, and that the requestor probably has more than enough sons to play political chess with and so this particular son was likely considered the family fuck-up and thus, disposable, at least until it was discovered what item the family fuck-up took with him to his doom, the epithet makes bloody good sense.)
Something came up that took higher priority than even Rummer John’s shenanigans, and after that was completed, he (or rather, his henchmen) were waiting to escort me to the swamp to resume said shenanigans.
In a fit of insanity, I, the chess-piece, asked the chess-player, what was going on.
“To be simple, Girl, you’re not ready. You’re still naive as hell and approaching this from the wrong mindset. You already have all the information you need to know, and you’re going to throw it all away if I let you go right now. He can wait. He can wait lifetimes if he has to. Get your head out of your ass and see what you are being asked to do. And to jump on your second, unspoken, question, no, he can’t do an end run around you. That item is connected to you because of [that bullshit], and only you can bring it out from [that place]. Of course, that’s assuming if [the Lords of that place] allow it.”
The topic of conversation was decidedly changed to face markings, canes, and another task that I had put on the back burner because I thought this game of Play Fetch would have been over by now.