Young Grimwold turns around slowly. He wants, more than he has for a long time, to rip someone's head off. But he doesn't know whose. In fact, he does; he knows exactly whose; and for the brazen contempt she's shown him, maybe she deserves it.

He remembers the secret awe he felt whenever his father was in a rage, and the sardonic glee he experienced as he listened to his mother's vain protests - she married him, the stupid crone, and anyone who decides to get close to an ogre deserves what they get. What was she complaining about? That's all she's ever been - a putrid little manipulator, twisting the innocent people around her and clawing a smug sense of whinnying triumph under those filthy rags for herself. Is it not enough to be kicked around by Fate, or whatever bastard force controls the world, without being messed about by one of the people closest to you? YG feels as if any control over his life has suddenly been pulled away, likethe final sharp suck of bathwater being drained down a plughole. No control. Need control. YG stares at his mother for a moment, strolls over to her cauldron - what a pathetic affectation of witchery - and swings at it with his club.

A brackish concoction of reptile innards and other ingredients splashes onto the floor. As the last of it drips out, YG smashes the cauldron again, creating a clang that he hopes his mother might mistake for her death knell. At the same time as detesting her, YG is furious with himself for letting his ogre side out so petulantly - one thing he can't blame this particular parent for, and that makes him all the more frustrated. He can hear himself grunting, and listens with enthralled disgust. He doesn't look at her, not wanting to take the risk of seeing her appearing unfazed, as she probably was. After all, his father's tempers were always better than his, and she'd endured years of those. He was inferior. And yet he deserved to know. "Why..."

"Why didn't I tell you?"

She said it for him. Interrupting, controlling yet again. Blast her.

"I forgot, dearie. I meant to tell you, when you were old enough; but I've 'ad so much on my plate, what with Festus running off, and the move out 'ere, and your dad's midlife crisis. My memory ain't what it used to be. Tell you what: I'll tell you what I can remember, and we'll find someone from the old days to fill in the gaps. How about that wizard, whatsisname..."

"Merlin?"

"No, the one you mentioned. The Confuser chap. We'll find 'im."

"Why not now?"

"I don't know 'is new summoning name, I'm afraid. I'll ask around. Better make some more soup. And..."

YG doesn't need to wait, and he won't. He wants answers; and not only is this batty old hag woefully ill-equipped to provide them, but some kind of discipline is needed, a mediator between farce and force. YG takes a deep breath.

"Splendour..." Splendour? How ironic. Degraded and disrespected. Why does he even bother, if it always ends with him being dragged back into the pit of his own ogreish rage?

"...SPLENDOUR..." Yet again, he is looking for answers in a world of taunts and questions. The fool. But... a brother. Another ogre. Someone who'd know; someone to share it with. From the fetid dephs of angst, a hope, a chance at something more. And the knowledge of it is only one more calling word away. Within his grasp, and for this moment at least, in his control. Three, two, one...

"...SPLENDOUR!"