It may look a pattern of wool
But inside’s a pattern of steel
If into your home you let it pull
Your soul will never heal

It looked an organic pattern a little lopsided but competent. Almost like a blanket from the Southwest made by a journeyman, still making their bones. You had to stare at it to see the squat man in armor emerge, sword in one hand and shield in the other, his armor a devouring black.

The nightmares had started the week after Jamie brought it home. Armored men rode wild through their heads every night, leaving every roommate bleary-eyed and irritable. At their head, the Rook. Built like a castle from a chess set come to life, he never spoke, but only glowered.

By the next month, he had begun to be seen in the waking world. Just out of sight, in the periphery, a shadow in the corner of one’s eye.

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