Child of Darkness

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius leaned back in his chair, heavy boots up on the heavily scarred table puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette. The tiefling glanced around at the rest of the patrons of this seedy little brothel-- no, seedy didn't adequately describe just how scummy this little shit-hole was. The women looked clean, but were crawling with diseases, only slightly less foul than the men who paid to catch them. And yet, this cramped, dank little place was packed to the brim with cutters, all looking to spend their money on strong booze, cheap women and generally have a good time.

The half-demon was the same as any of them.. with the slight exception he had better taste in women.

One of the other berks seated there, a swarthy Aleraran elf, banged his fist on the table, grunting and swearing. The warlock turnd his attention back to him, and the other three men- not to mention the game they had going of three-card brag. So far, he had claimed the vast majority of their money- cheating, of course- and the dark elves were eager to try and win it back.

But the young anarchist's attention was caught by the pair who entered the bar, making their way through the crowd, obviously trying to stay unnoticed. A short man, trying to shield a shorter girl from the gaze of the predators in this crowd. The pair looked filthy, and Aurelius' heightened senses managed to detect the smell of sewage on them. Though why ahyone would choose to go swimming in the sewers was beyond him; especially with all the rumours of the barmy shit down there these days.

The smirking tiefling flicked his serpentine eyes over the three of them as he showed his cards- three threes; a winning hand.

The Dark Elves growled and muttered to each other, not aware that Aurelius could understand every word out of their mouths. They were planning on knifing him, apparently, and taking their money back by force. Let the sods try, he smirked to himself, running his forked tongue over his teeth. Laying down his cards and grabbing the rest of his winnings, Drak'shal stood up, ignoring the nudges and glances between the three addle-coved berks who were planning on bobbing him.

Something better had caught his attention. Two men had detached themselves from the crowd, and were following the pair of sewer rats up the rickety staircase to the first floor. His quill-like hair prickled at the back of his neck.

"Somethin' ain't right..." he muttered to himself, sensing something bad going down.

The two men- An Aleraran and a Salvaran- were talking to each other, quietly, impossible to eavesdrop over the massive crowd in the building. Aurelius knew who they worked for, of course. As a member of the Revolutionary League, the tiefling made a point of knowing who the political and criminal players on the scene were. These two cutters worked for one of the latter; a big fish in this scummy little pond. Some blood by the name "Queen of The Pit". And why would a blood like her be sending her goons after the filthy swamped pair who were now entering one of the rooms upstairs?

There was only one way to find out.

Smirking to the three Dark Elves, he spoke in fluent gutter-Aleraran- "Oh, by the by boys, I'd keep the pig-stickers where they are if I were you," he kept the arrogant grin on his face, watching their surprise when he invoked two balls of swirling black flame in the palms of his hands. "I'm too busy to put you in the dead-book tonight." The three elves sprinted for the door, upending the table, leaving Aurelius to chuckle quietly, as he slipped through the crowd of bubbers. The patrons seemed a bit more eager to get out of his way after seeing the display of pyromancy.

By the time the warlock reached the top of the cracked and sagging stairs, both the two berks and the sewer rats had walked into a room along the corridor. He could hear the pair of hired blades muttering to each other in there, but he didn't hear any reply. Maybe they turned the sewer rats into deaders, he reasoned. Again, he reasoned, there was only one way to find out. He was just about to charge into the room, when he heard one of the men- the Salvaran, he thought- say something. It sounded like.. Swaysong? The tiefling wracked his brain-box, trying to find any reference to such an item in his head.

He was drawing a blank.

".. Aye, the boss-lady is in a big tizzy 'bout this cock-up. Apparently heads are gonna roll."

"Yeah," sneered the nasal little Dark Elf, "they say it's nasty stuff, but powerful. She don't like the idea of someone having that much power without payin' her for it. Sets a bad.. what's the word?.. precedent!"

So, this stuff is powerful, and if I can't put it to good use, might be worth a bit o' jink from this knight of the cross-trade bitch..

The warlock grinned viciously to himself, sauntering into the room as if he owned the place. Instantly, he noticed the layers of soot all over the place, and where it had been disturbed by the sewer rats going out the window. Apparently, they had grabbed something stashed here, and ran. Canny sods, he admitted. Did they know they were being tailed?

But he turned his attention to the two men in front of him, both already drawing weapons, though neither was making any move yet. He looked the room over again, noting the only other exit besides the window, was the door he was currently in front of.

"What do you want, boy?" the Salvaran said, crossing his brawny arms over his barrel chest, a wooden club held casually in one fist. The Dark Elf had drawn a nice little stiletto blade. Drak'shal kept his hands at his sides, making sure he made no threatening or sudden moves. Aurelius gave the men the once over, his serpentine eyes taking in every detail- from the way the Salvaran kept most of his weight off his left leg, to the fact the Dark Elf kept raising his head repetitively, resembling nothing more than a clucking chicken. They were hired goons, but certainly not the sharpest tools in the Dusties' kit. Perfect, he chuckled in his brain-box.

"Boss wants to know what you've found," he sneered, blowing a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, staring down the men like a wolf among dogs.

"And just who do you think you are, comin' in here an' orderin' us about?" the Aleraran chimed in, obviously feeling a lot tougher with the brawny sod on his side.

Aurelius sighed, visibly irritated, and assumed an air of authority. Glowering down at the pair before him, he slammed the door shut behind him, rounding on them with a snarl, his many piercings rattling and jangling as he did.

"I'm the one who got called in to make sure you berks could manage your jobs. I'm the one who got dragged to this little rathole, because the boss-lady doesn't trust either of you idiots. And," he growled, yellow eyes glinting in the dim light of the fire-blackened room, "I'm the one trying to find out what you know, so I can go tell the boss something other than you two were very soddin' uncooperative. Choice is yours' lads, but make it bloody quick."

A tense second passed, no-one making a move, before finally, the thugs put their weapons away, relaxing visibly. Aurelius smirked to himself. They were making it too easy.

"The pair of 'em made it away with something from under the floorboards, 'fore we got up here. They were quick. From what we saw, sewers might be a good place to start looking for 'em. Boss lady says we've to cover the usual ways in and out. We're just headin' off now to go cover the drainage pipe outside of the industrial sprawls. Swanra'ann has men covering the rest, as far's we know."

The tiefling nodded slowly to himself. He had a name for their boss, more than the pseudonyms he'd heard whispered across Ettermire; he had a name for a rare substance that was apparently extremely powerful and worth a bob or two; he had a lead to follow up on the two sewer rats, who were somehow connected to this 'Swaysong'; and he had two berks just begging for him to nick them. It was shaping up to be an entertaining night.

Without warning, the warlock lashed out- he hammered his fingertips into the neck of the Dark Elf when he clucked his head higher, crushing his windpipe in one vicious hit; even as the dark-skinned knife ears was registering the fact he could no longer breath, Aurelius spun low, hammering his fist into the Salvaran's left knee, dropping the man to the floor, screaming. Attention was the last thing Drak'shal wanted, so he jumped on the man, clamping a hand over his mouth. The big sod squirmed beneath him, and Aurelius knew it was only a matter of seconds before the big bloke had the better of him. Grinning maliciously, the warlock summoned Shahab's Lash, forcing the black Hellfire down the bearded thug's throat. His body bucked under the tiefling, wracked with hideous spasms as he felt his internal organs being immolated in his chest.

Without hesitation, Aurelius got back to his knees, drawing one of his green-steel knives and plunging it through the Dark Elf's right eye-socket. Both men dead, the half-breed wiped his knife clean, inhaling the smell of char-grilled human deeply. He opened the door a crack to make sure no-one had heard the commotion. Sure his murders had gone unnoticed, the tiefling closed the door again, before dropping out the window.

It didn't take him long to find the tracks of the dirt-soaked pair.

---

The next day, as the girl and her minder cautiously entered the sewer drainage culvert, they were not alone. Keeping out of sight further back, utilising every sneaking skill he had picked up over the years, Aurelianus stalked after them, waiting for them to lead him to the Swaysong.

[Luned]

"I read about Ettermire's sewer system once, a while back," Luned said as they embarked on their miserable journey. She spoke softly, almost in a whisper, as she didn't like the way her voice came back to them down the tunnels in sharp echoes. "I don't remember much of use, but I do recall that it was built to mirror the city above. If I'm projecting correctly, I believe that large intersection from yesterday may have been one of the crossings in the industrial district that we passed through while bringing Helethra home. It would make sense, as that was somewhat between Gravebeard's and where we came out…" She trailed off, knowing she was rambling, but anxiety urged her to fill the silence with something, anything at all.

Flint didn't have much to contribute to the conversation. He was busy listening to the silence, the very thing Luned was avoiding so stubbornly, and every distant noise sent his heart racing.

Part of their trek was a slightly uphill climb and their high-quality boots held footing considerably better than their muddy, flailing bodies had the day before when they rolled out onto the cobblestones. It was trivial, but perhaps out of desperation for something to dwell on other than giant roaches, Luned found herself very distracted by the feeling of wearing pants. Fortunately the inn staff had found something equally functional to Flint's ensemble and slightly more fashionable due to her more common size, but even so, the shirt ran a bit long and lacked a quick hem like she'd noticed on her sleeves and pant legs from their rushed request. It was splendidly awkward, but really she was happy to focus on that feeling and the gratefulness not to be wearing layered skirts this time around, than whatever other emotions were creeping up on her instead.

They reached the top of the incline and took a moment for Luned's homing pigeon instincts to orient them before taking another passage. Soon enough they were back at a recognizable location, both to their relief and increasingly wracked nerves: the large chamber where several pipelines interconnected, alarmingly close to the origin of the gargantuan bugs they'd barely had success in fleeing. At least their fancy boots were keeping out a miraculous amount of water.

"I'm certain the thief came this way, but which direction?" Luned whispered, at a loss without obvious clues.

Her companion had a touch more experience in tracking people and set about searching for signs of the thief's route, as well as toeing through the muck for anything they might have dropped. "We'll have to check the tunnels and see if there is more to work with further down," Flint eventually conceded, then strolled toward one at random.

"Nooo, no no," Luned halted him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him toward another. "Let's try this one." She felt it might be taboo to speak aloud of the monstrous bugs, so she left it to his imagination to fill in the blanks. She remembered quite well that it was the turn she took when she found the creature-who-shall-not-be-named, and if the thief had gone that way, chances are it wasn't worth finding what was left of them anyhow.

With a shrug, Flint marked the entrance of the new tunnel and they explored that one until they met a split in pipelines and decided to go back. There was no clue of the thief, to their dismay, and Luned realized just how foolish it was to think they could possibly accomplish what they set out to do. This "investigation" was a joke, simply a foolhardy attempt for them each to retrieve some long lost modicum of pride.

The duo traced their way back to choose the other unexplored tunnel, and for a tiring length of time met with similarly disappointing results. Luned was about to start in with a lament when something on the floor became visible within the circumference of their lights, glinting gray and low in the stagnant water. They both immediately hesitated and waited a painfully long moment, as if anticipating something horrendous to happen, but the object remained still, and Flint gathered enough courage to put the chalk in a pocket and raise his pipe in preparation. He tiptoed forward, nudged it with his foot, and then waved over Luned.

It was a body, wrapped in what they both knew to be a much thicker cobweb than a normal spider's. Flint nudged it again and pushed it on its back, his boot getting stuck on the sticky threads, and in a moment of true heebie-jeebies he detached himself with a frantic kick. By the time he finished scraping leftover spider gunk off his sole, Luned had the opportunity to get a well-lit look at the corpse and was immediately and thoroughly spooked. She looked away in revulsion, latching onto Flint's sleeve again as if for moral support.

Now, dead bodies weren't really something that gave Flint the creeps at this point in his illustrious life so his first instinct was to brush the woman's reaction off as silly considering the circumstances, but when he took a look for himself, he understood. The dark elf's skin was puckered like a raisin, wrinkled and clinging to his stringy musculature like a ghoul. His eyes were wide open in permanent horror preserved by rigor mortis, irises glowing a unique golden hue under their lights.

Luned trembled. "It's the guard from Gravebeard's," she managed to choke out. "I thought I heard him follow me here yesterday, but I didn't see him. Later I figured I'd just heard you, but…"

[Warpath]

“He doesn’t stink,” Flint said dumbly, tearing his eyes away from the corpse to look at Luned.

“What does that mean?” she asked, incapable of doing more than glancing away from it for the briefest second.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

She was beginning to breathe heavier, transfixed by that gruesome puzzle, and Flint made a muttering sound, glancing from her to the corpse and back again. At first he wondered if she’d known the man better than she had implied previously, but no, it was the place, he knew. This was solid evidence that their shared nightmare had been real, and that there were true and deadly consequences for coming back here.

“He was surprised. Ambushed. He didn’t know what was down here,” Flint said. It was a lame attempt at comforting her. Indeed, she did not acknowledge that he’d spoken. Or maybe, he realized with some frustration, he’d made it worse.

He glanced down at the corpse, and then up at her again and said, “Stop that. Look at me.”

When she didn’t – couldn’t – he reached up, hesitated for a notable fraction of a second, and then very, very gently lifted her chin up until she had to tear her eyes away from the corpse. He withdrew his hand quickly, not for fear of hurting her, but to preempt her inevitable attempt to push it away first. He had killer’s hands, and anybody with sense didn’t want them close to their head.

“We control the fear,” he said to her, firmly. When she tried to look away again, he leaned so that their eyes stayed locked. “Stop. Focus. Whatever did this surprised him, it controlled the fear. But you and I know better. These things are in our world now, and they are new to it. They are smelling alien scents, seeing alien sights, eating alien…nevermind. You see my point.”

Luned nodded thoughtfully, and her breathing began to steady as she considered it. “They’re just animals.”

“Yes,” Flint said. “Animals out of their natural habitat, and therefore they must be afraid. You can use that.”

Luned narrowed her eyes at her strange companion, studying him, fully realizing for the first time that he was not the cruel dullard he presented to the world. In the face of horror and violence, he’d just shown that he could empathize. With monsters, sure, but it still counted.

She wanted to call him on it, but then she detected just the vaguest movement in the shadows behind him, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks all over again.

“It’s behind me, isn’t it?”

Flint saw the panic pass over her face, and he saw her immediately contain it, all in a fraction of a second. Everything in her denied body language implied that she wanted to raise her finger to her lips and firmly hush him, so he shut up and tensed. He was transported to his childhood, when a giant cicada had lighted upon his shoulder one afternoon, and his mother had been terrified of it and ordered him to stand very, very still until it flew off again.

Only this time there were things emerging from the dark behind him, long and extremely thin, like skeletal fingers stretching slowly, so slowly outward, stroking the edges of the tunnel. The more they moved, the longer they got, and Luned began to fear that they would soon enclose the pair of them.

Flint watched as her eyes hardened, and then began darting about, searching for something. She saw it, glinting in their shared, eerie light: a thin, metallic strand of webbing running from Flint’s boot into the dark behind him, taut and shivering, and every time the fingers stretched the line quivered.

“There’s a string,” she whispered, “on your…oh no, don’t move, please don’t move. Okay, there’s a string on your boot, and there’s something behind you, and I think it knows we’re here because we disturbed the body, and you got a little on your boot when you touched it, and it’s…I think it’s going to pounce on us, and it’s big.”

Flint tightened his grip on his pipe and took a slow, steadying breath, staring unblinkingly at Luned. “Whatever happens,” he whispered, “don’t run. We control the fear.”

And then he yanked his foot forward.

---

It happened so incredibly fast, and the brutality was such that the mind could not register the events individually until long after it was over.

Flint had yanked his foot forward, and in the midst of the first motion he’d twisted, raised his pipe, and attacked before he saw or knew what it was he was attacking. Luned would never know that if Flint had seen what he was attacking, he probably would have tried to run instead.

When the string went taut and then snapped, the darkness fell away abruptly, and the owner of those gargantuan fingers emerged. They were not fingers, but were in fact legs, attached to a spider the size of a horse. Its legs stabbed outward in every direction as if to pierce the tunnel from eight ways outward, and then it surged forward to meet its intended prey, fangs quivering in anticipation.

Flint had been wrong, Luned thought at first. They did not control the fear – how could they?

But then the pipe came down, came up, and then down again. The spider tried to withdraw, bending one of its front legs. Flint brought his pipe down like a smith at his forge, and the leg cracked like a lobster’s, complete with a glimpse of moist, white meat within. The monster didn’t make a noise as it was butchered. It tried to back away in vain until it collapsed onto its side, and its functioning legs curled inward reflexively and it shuttered its last, fangs twitching slower and slower as it bled out.

Instead of blood it was full of something brown and viscous, which did not flow or gush as much as ooze. A bubble formed in the ichor, and then it popped. Flint’s breathing was the only sound, every other exhale coming with a bestial growl. He began to pace, looking the spider over from one direction, and then the other, until he was positive it was done.

“You ruined your pipe,” Luned told him.

He looked at her, wild-eyed and panting, and then he looked at his pipe. She was right. It was bent out of shape in four places. He stared at it for entirely too long.

“It’s dead,” she said. It almost sounded like a question.

“Yes,” he said. “Now we can permit fear.”

----

They spent a long time staring at the thing, despite the overwhelming, instinctive sense of revulsion and fear it instilled in them, even in death. Now that it was still, they could see how it worked: it had formed a thick shield or plug of densely packed webbing which it wore on its abdomen. It must have placed the plug over an opening in the tunnels, and waited for unsuspecting prey to pass. Indeed, it was possible that the creature had been asleep, fully sated on its first meal when they’d disturbed its rest. Flint privately shuttered to think what might have happened if Luned’s guard hadn’t preceded them.

He threw his pipe at it viciously. It didn’t move.

Satisfied, he opened up one of the pockets on his jacket and produced the first of his illicit goods: a set of brass knuckles, which he wiggled his fingers into. He did not enjoy the thought of getting as close to these things as he would need to in order to make good use of them, but they were better than nothing.

“There’s a light down there,” Luned said.

She was right. As the light from their vials steadily darkened, it became increasingly apparent that there was an eerie glow coming from the spider’s tunnel not unlike the cool blue from a full moon.

“Someone could live down here,” Flint said. “If they knew how to navigate the wildlife, it would be the safest place for stolen goods. How many guard dogs are spiders?”

“Hopefully not more than one.”

They shook their vials again until the circle created by their combined luminescence stretched as far out as possible, and then they edged around the spider’s corpse and descended into its glowing lair.

---

The architecture changed as they crept deeper. Thin metal pipes ultimately emptied into crumbling earthen caverns, which were held in place by stout pillars placed at seeming random. The caverns gave way to stonework hallways, which were undeniably Aleraran but older than anything else either of them had ever seen in Ettermire.

“These must be the original sewers,” Luned surmised. “They must have built over them as the city became more industrialized.”

She pointed out distinct arches to Flint, and explained how certain etchings used archaic words and phrases. He grunted in response to remain polite. He was relieved that these tunnels were simpler than the tubes and pipes above: they were organized in squares independent from the city streets on the surface, forming their own logical roads and alleys. It was difficult to become lost now, or turned around, or to go in circles.

It was also easy to see where the spider had come and gone – the places where it had created nests out of that steely webbing, each still full of strange bones. Flint was inclined to avoid these nests and go anywhere but where the spider had been, but Luned suggested just the opposite.

“I read once that spiders are fiercely territorial and independent,” she explained. “They only tolerate the presence of other spiders to mate, and even then the female usually eats the male afterward.”

“Lovely. What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That.”

“Oh,” Luned said. “Um, well, I also read that after spiders mate, the female lays her eggs in large sacs of web, which the young spiders…you know, burst out of. When they hatch.”

Flint stared at the offending bundle of web, which was set firmly into the upper right hand corner of the hallway they were currently traversing. It was undoubtedly moving. He looked at his knuckleduster, and then he looked at Luned.

“How many eggs do they lay?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Five, perhaps? Ten? No more than ten.”

The bundle of eggs moaned, and Flint tensed before his capacity for reason returned to him.

“That’s an elf,” Luned said.

“Thank the striking Sway.”

----

It was, in fact, an elf. Flint was inclined to leave her, and said so, but Luned would not have it. He claimed not to have a knife, which was a lie, but Luned still insisted that they find a way to save her. Muttering, the brute produced the knife he wasn’t supposed to have and attempted to saw through the strands holding the bundle of web to the walls. That did no good. Ultimately he resorted to yanking the strands off of the wall, which was difficult but far more effective, and the elf dropped heavily to the ground.

She was so well-encased in the webbing that it was difficult to discern any details about her person. She seemed to be strangely dressed, but it was difficult to tell what might be clothing and what might be metallic detritus stuck to her.

“She’s not waking up,” Flint said.

“The spider must have poisoned her.”

“Then it would be best not to disturb her further. She is effectively dead. Let’s not burden ourselves with dead bodies.”

“No,” Luned said. “She’s just paralyzed, it should wear off. Spiders store their food. It must have discovered her recently, after it finished with the guard, and it was too full for…well, you know. A second course.”

No matter how much he muttered and grumbled, she made him carry the sleeping elf.
---

Farther on, they encountered more oddities. The first was discovered by Flint, who touched Luned’s shoulder to get her attention, and then pointed near her feet. There she discovered a single tall mushroom, which was emitting a pale blue glow.

“That’s where the light is coming from.”

“Damn it,” she sighed. No manmade light source meant a secret hideout became more unlikely.

The deeper they went, the more of the mushrooms they found, gathered in tight clusters along the sides of the hallways, on the walls, and in the corners, growing wherever water flowed or gathered. Soon they did not need to renew their vials, as the mushrooms were numerous and bright enough to light their way alone.

The next discovery was less wondrous, and swung firmly back into the realm of horrifying. There was a crack in the wall some fifteen feet ahead, no more than three feet across and, as they approached, long feelers emerged from it, swaying fervently in the air. They immediately stopped and watched as a centipede as long and thick as a man’s forearm fully emerged from that crack, its illimitable legs all working in a sickening rhythm. That was bad enough. It became worse when the centipede demonstrated the ability to jump, leaping instantly from the wall up to the ceiling of the tunnel, where the front third of its legs tried to catch the bricks there. It failed, and fell, making a loud cracking noise as it fell to the floor. Both Flint and Luned groaned and recoiled without reservation.

The third discovery came immediately and blessedly thereafter. It darted out from a side tunnel and caught the centipede, and it had eaten half the horrible thing before they realized what it was. Beady black eyes regarded them over a perpetually twitching nose, and even though it was the size of a dog, the mouse never fully stopped moving. Its cheeks stretched, full of its unholy meal, which was doing all it could to crawl back out again even while the mouse greedily crunched away at it.

The rodent did not stop staring at them as it ate, crunching and swallowing until the centipede was well and truly and blessedly gone, and then it went on staring at them, and they at it. It was Luned that summoned up the courage to act.

“Hello,” she said.

The mouse cocked its head to one side, and then the other, and then it made a high-pitched sound that distinctly mimicked the greeting.

“Did it just…”

“Yes.”

The talking mouse tweaked one of its ears, spun around, and darted off.

----

The tunnel opened up into a sort of central chamber, a hub from which all the paths branched outward. The ceiling was high there, the floor was marble, and faded paint decorated the walls. There were arrows and words, but Luned could not read or decipher them either because of their age or the age of the paint. Each of the four walls had two exits: one that led upward, and one that led down, and there were stone pipes to either side of each of those openings, accepting a constant flow of rushing water, which ran inside depressions all along the outside walls.

Luned sighed and her shoulders slumped. Flint let the web-wrapped elf drop from his shoulder and hit the ground, where she moaned and stirred just a bit. That annoyed him even more, as it did not appear that she would die after all, and he would have to continue carrying her.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Luned said. “We haven’t seen any sign of a thief or anything since we got down here.”

“Maybe she was the thief,” Flint said, pointing at the elf.

“I don’t think so,” Luned said. “The thief was taller, I’m almost positive. And the spider would have caught the thief first, not the guard.”

“Perhaps it did catch her first, and the guard had more meat on him.”

“We’re not leaving her behind.”

Flint hushed, and if Luned didn’t know better, she might accuse him of sulking. She took advantage of the reprieve and looked the chamber over one more time, hoping some revelation might occur to her – some unseen thing that might convince her to press on despite the fruitlessness of their effort thus far.

In answer to her search, a clicking noise began to echo through the chamber, quietly at first and then steadily louder, closer. Flint flexed his fingers and stepped out in front, leaving his elven burden behind but shielding both her and Luned, to his credit. The clicking paused, and then resumed, and then paused again, only to return closer than ever – heavier, harder, faster. They wanted to deny that it was legs – far too many legs – but the sound was already too familiar to them.

----

The roach emerged without fanfare or hesitation, its head twitching this way and that just as it had the night before, and it was no less nightmarish – their minds had exaggerated nothing. It had suffered some defeat since parting with them: one of its rear legs was missing, and there were gaping black holes in its carapace, but its injuries did not seem to diminish it. Flint was reminded of tales of the walking dead in the Corpse War: men who were dead and disassembled, but came on still, single-minded and unfeeling except for hate and hunger.

He could not control the fear here, because nothing akin to fear resided in this creature’s alien mind. At best, Flint hoped that pain served as a momentary deterrence. Some things had no fear, that was true, but all living things knew and hated pain.

Or so he hoped.

He roared and charged, braced in case the roach hissed. It didn’t, but it did rear up and twitch its relatively small head away from him. It remembered him, and it apparently did not care for being punched. In fact, it did not care for anything about Flint Skovik, as evidenced by the way it lunged forward and attempted to skewer him on one of the barbs on its front legs.

He dodged, just barely, and managed to land a solid punch on one of the beast’s joints. The roach did not react, and there were no marks on its armor-skin. Flint backed away, growling. He did not know where to strike this thing. The roach twisted its head to the side to regard him with one eye, and then it swung around to examine him with the other. It liked what it saw.

The monster surged forward, rearing back and parting its mandibles, intent upon dropping directly down upon his head. Flint stared death in the face, caught between the urge to punch and the urge to run, and that might have been the end of him if a small glass object didn’t strike the roach on the shell just behind and to the left of its head, and leave a hissing patch of bubbling chemical burn.

Flint danced under one of the roach’s front legs and leapt out to the side as the horror backed itself up just slightly, confounded by this turn of events. The fact that it could feel was encouraging, but its reaction to pain was muted at best. It seemed more curious than hurt, and the curiosity faded quickly.

Now the roach had decided that Luned was a bigger threat than Flint’s fists, and it turned itself around to find her. She was caught red-handed, poised to throw another glowing vial, now frozen wide-eyed and mid-throw. The roach was good and ready to charge her when Flint finished crawling up onto its back. Its shell was very slippery, but thankfully covered in grooves and segments he could hold onto. He hammered his reinforced fist into the patch of discolored carapace, praying that the chemicals were at least weakening it.

His prayers were answered as the roach twisted and reared up, reacting in what was most certainly pain, and then those prayers were immediately dashed when the monster bucked him off. He hit the ground rolling, slid a short distance, and then slipped into one of the rushing streams of water that ran along the outside of the room and disappeared.

The roach stared at the water, twitching that way and this, and when it was sure he was gone it turned itself back around and looked at Luned.

What she needed, more than anything else in the world, was fire.

----

Flint crawled out of the outwash, coughing and sputtering and shivering in relief. He had thought himself dead for sure, caught in the pitch black, churning rush of water. He now knew beyond a doubt that he did not want to die by drowning, and certainly not by drowning while blind.

He searched his pockets desperately for a vial of Luned’s mixture, but every one of them was broken. He stripped his jacket off, fearful of getting the chemicals on his skin, and then he continued searching the pockets desperately, cursing the dark.

He didn’t know where he was. Water was rushing and trickling all around him and the air was cold. The ground felt like stone and dirt, uneven and malformed: natural earth, nothing shaped or flattened. Some sixth sense told him that he was surrounded by a vast, empty space, a cold void, and a fresh terror gripped him. He could be at the edge of a bottomless pit and never know it, except somehow he knew it was worse than that.

Somehow he knew he wasn’t alone down here.

Finally his fingers closed around an unbroken vial, and he hugged it to the wet, naked skin of his chest and let himself breathe for a moment. Something moved, and it wasn’t him. He crawled to his feet reluctantly, shivering in the infinite nothing, and then he shook the vial. The glow was born small, a spark at the bottom of the ocean, but it brightened until it was a lone star in an empty sky at the end of the universe.

He held the vial high above his head, and its light reached into the void and revealed nothing but the featureless grey stone he was standing on, and the waterfall-fed pool he’d emerged from. And then, one by one, other stars began to ignite in the distance far above Flint’s head, and surrounding him, some closer than others.

He knew immediately what they were, and groaned.

They were reflections of his own light, glinting off dozens of malevolent eyes, all looking down on him from on high.

The light from his vial surged with a sudden blazing heat, and then the glass popped and the light went immediately out, and darkness rushed in around him again.

“Gods damn it, Luned,” he said.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The man and woman in front of him were completely unaware of his presence. He watched as they prepared themselves for the ride ahead- chatting among themselves, readying equipment, even finding whatever weapons they could in this desolate little urban industrial wasteland. Aurelius quirked an eyebrow as the brawny man hauled a lead pipe out of the dirt, giving it a few hefty practice swings. The tiefling had, as always, his little arsenal about himself- two Baatorian green-steel knives, Herzaa's dagger, his shurikens and strapped to his right calf, the brutal cleaver; it's broad steel blade was as long as the warlock's forearm, and while slightly notched from the use it had seen over the years, still held a razor edge. He had no doubts, if he had to murder the pair he was trailing (and by the Hells, he did plan to do just that), he was far better equipped for the job. Preparations finished, the unlikely companions set off down the dark motuh of the entrance.

Aurelius followed the pair silently into the underground labyrinth, keeping his serpentine eyes locked on them. The chant was you could easily get lost down here, and seeing as the tiefling had no intention of spending the rest of his life wandering around a sewer, he followed the chit and her vertically-challenged companion- maybe 'e's a tall dwarf, he mused. He noted how they marked their way with the coloured chalk, marking them as canny at the very least; at least he could look out for the markings if the adventurers met a grisly demise down here. And if they lead me to my Swaysong, I'll make bloody well sure they do, he thought, smiling.

They wandered for a while, taking tunnels seemingly at random, or doubling back ways they had already came. Aurelius had to be careful, because every time they turned back, he had to practically run to keep out of sight, while still trying to keep track of them. A few times, the warlock almost got himself lost, but somehow, he managed to stay on the sewer rats.

For a while, at any rate.

The half-breed had the feeling, from the moment he had turned down the first tunnel branching from the entrance, that they weren't alone- he could practically feel eyes on the back of his neck, even as his bored holes in the back of the two berks in front of him. His senses were higher than those of your average human (a fringe-benefit of his tainted blood), and the further they got into this dank little vision of Hell, the more pronounced the feelings became. More than once, he caught movement out the corner of his eye, or heard... things scuttling and scampering about. The tiefling knew the sounds he was hearing weren't anything even remotely human; after all, the chant he'd been hearing lately had clued him in as much, but no-one could actually give him a real answer as to what was down here.

Still, as long as he kept an eye on the sods--

Drak'shal stopped dead, crouching at the corner of a tunnel intersection, cursing viciously. I bloody lost 'em!! he snarled, banging his fist against the damp stone wall. He'd been too busy looking over his shoulder at every noise. They must have taken one of the other paths, or doubled back the way they'd came, or he'd taken a wrong turn... 'Unamused' did not even begin to cover it.

Gnashing his fangs in rage, the tiefling stood up, straining every sense for any sign of the sewer rats- a scent of their fear, a glimpse of their odd little lights. Nothing! Absolutely sodding bugger all! He turned on the spot, not sure of what to do now. He may very well have ballsed up his chance at finding this Swaysong everyone was so interested in. And to top it all off, he had no clue where to even begin looking for an exit. The gloom down here was thicker than the smog that covered Ettermire, and even with his eyes, he was having a hard time making out any detail. Anyone else in his situation might have started to panic by now, but the plane-traipsing tiefling had been to places far worse than anything he'd seen in Alerar. Spitting one last curse in the deep, guttural Infernal tongue, he picked a tunnel at random and started walking, pulling his coat around himself a little more.

***

He wasn't sure when he had realised it, but Aurelius knew he was being followed.

Every now and again, he would stop dead and just catch the sounds of his stalker at the very edge of his hearing. But, judging by the harsh scrapes and clicks behind him, whatever it was had lost patience, and was moving in, fast!

Whirling round, he spread his palms, a ball of black flame hovering in each hand. But, even as he turned, his mind stalled for a moment at what he saw: there were two of them, each clinging to a wall of the curving drainage pipe, scuttling toward him at an alarming rate on eight bladed limbs. Spiders, easily the size of dogs. He barely had time to reply with a "what the fu--" before they pounced at him. Instinct was all that saved his life in that moment, as the former street-ganger dropped into a roll, ignoring the muck and filth that slid over his coat. The first spider sailed overhead hissing malevolently, but the other was luckier, catching Aurelianus with one of it's bladed forelimbs; the sharp chitin sliced neatly across his ribs, splitting the thick leather of his coat and armour like paper, and leaving a clean incision in his pale skin.

Before his black blood had even started to flow from the wound, both of the beasts were coming at him again. This time he was ready for them. Swearing in every language he knew, the warlock hurled a gout of black flame over each of the over-sized arachnids, blistering their chitin exoskeletons in seconds. The creatures recoiled, rising on their hind legs and shrieking a hideous chorus as they burned. Pressing the advantage, and trying to ignore the pain from his lacerated flesh, he hosed them with fire, walking toward them with pure rage burning in his yellow eyes.

"Come on then, you miserable little bastards!!" he roared, "is that all you got!?" He didn't relent, even when they finally collapsed onto their backs, legs curling toward their centres just like any other spider. Only when he saw rents open up in the spiders' armour, the vulnerable meat underneath crackling and hissing as they cooked, did he finally release the power of Shahab's Lash. His gloves were smoking at the edges, the skin underneath feeling raw and pink. Maybe went a little overkill there, he thought, sneering at the vile little beasts. He gave each a kick, sending their smouldering bodies into the foul water flowing through the centre of the tunnel. The current took them, and in moments, they were out of sight.

His sense of victory was short lived, however, as he saw shadows dancing over the walls behind him, hearing more sharp limbs skittering against the cobblestoned surface. The sharp pain from his ribs told him all he needed to know. He wasn't going to last going toe to toe with more of the sewer's denizens. For now, at least, he decided to run.

***

He wasn't sure how long he had sprinted through the narrow, cramped sewer system, but the fire in his lungs was telling him he had to stop. Now! He skidded to a halt next to a narrower tunnel branching off from this one, a tiny trickle of oily fluid dribbling out in front of his boots.

Aurelius, doubled up, coughing and panting. Each breath of the foetid air was like a gust of acid down his throat, but the feeling abated after several long minutes. He was a fighter, not a runner- he could last as long as he had to in a straight-forward scrap, but all this running away from danger didn't agree with him. Still, he wasn't an addle-cove. He knew how to pick and choose his fights, and if he could pick one he would win, then so much the better...

Then he heard the clicking from the tunnel entrance next to him.

You wankers have a nasty sense of humour, y'know that? he sighed, glancing skyward.

Before he could think to run, or do anything remotely useful, something immense started to haul it's bulk out of the cramped culvert. Despite his vast experience with the weird, bizarre and downright disturbing, even Aurelius had to admit- this was a new one. He would have wondered what had happened to the wildlife in Ettermire's sewers, but the sight of a cockroach bigger than a sodding war-horse stole any form of cohesion from the warlock's thoughts.

He wasn't sure what exactly a roach ate- demons were his specialty, not bugs- but after seeing glimpses of the rest of this little madhouse, he wasn't eager to find out. His green-steel knives wouldn't do much against the thick shell of the creature- truth be told, not many of his weapons would as far as he could tell- but he drew the cleaver from it's leg-sheath, backing up a few steps. The roach turned it's beady eye on the tiefling, obviously curious as to what it had happened upon. But, as it lashed out with a bladed fore-leg, Aurelius got the feeling it didn't like what it had found- he also would have got the feeling of being bisected, if he hadn't thrown out an Eldritch Blast to absorb the force of the blow. The bug was stronger than he thought, however, and the impact still sent him rebounding off the hard brick wall, grunting colourful curses as his ribs cracked.

He dragged himself to his feet as the roach advanced, antenna waving almost hypnotically. It's black eyes betrayed no human emotion, and Aurelius could well believe it would slaughter him and feel absolutely no different. That thought sent an absurd anger through the warlock. It's goin' to try and kill me and it ain't even gonna enjoy it!? You can sod right off mate!!

The overgrown insect scuttled forward, legs clacking against the damp stone floor, mandibles going like the clappers. Aurelius stood his ground, cleaver held tightly in his fist. Without hesitation, the tiefling sprinted at the roach, roaring out profanities in fluent Infernal, thin coils of smoke drifting from his mouth at the sheer wrongness of the things he shouted. There were no words in Tradespeak, Aleraran or any other mortal language to translate what he shouted at that insect- the insults were simply too vulgar. Whether it understood him or not, the bug retreated a few steps away from the charging half-breed, waving it's front limbs defensively.

It didn't help.

Drak'shal dropped into a skid, the slick mud (he hoped to Hell it was mud) letting him pass under the waving blades, straight under the roach and out behind it. The creature's glossy carapace caught his head as he passed under, opening a shallow gash across the tiefling's brow, but he shook it off, already going on the offensive.

Springing up, now behind the giant cockroach, he hacked at it's legs viciously, his cleaver sparking off the thick armoured chitin covering the monster. It tried to turn and face him, but the enclosed space of the tunnel made it impossible for the roach to turn it's bulk. On the sixth swing, his cleaver found a weak spot at the base of one of the thick, shiny limbs- biting deep, milky, thick ichor pouring out around the tarnished steel, the cleaver sank half-way through the leg. Frantically yanking the weapon, Aurelius managed to saw through the rest of the softer meat, laughing manically as the leg thumped to the ground, spurting more of the milky blood into the dirt. His bloods up, Aurelius kept attacking, even as the roach took off, fleeing from the attacker behind it. Hurling more obscenities, Aurelianus gave chase, hammering the brown-black of it's shell with black fire balls. The Hellfire charred smouldering holes through the thick armour, and every unholy missile elicited a screech from the mutant-beast. But, Aurelius was on it's home-ground, and after a few twisting intersections, and confusing junctions, he lost sight of his quarry.

"It's not over, you miserable big bastard!" he roared down the pipes and tunnels.

But, he had found something just as good. There, not three feet ahead, was a dead spider- not one of the ones he'd torched, that was for sure. If he didn't know any better, the tiefling might have guessed it had been trampled by the passing of Gargantu-roach. But Aurelius had spotted the lead pipe lying next to the brutalised arachnid; the self-same pipe that the basher he'd been following had picked up outside.

So the smarmy bastards are still alive, he smirked, his luck finally taking a turn for the better. His ribs still hurt like a cast-iron bitch, but he had found the trail again- he knew the chit and basher could only have went down the slightly glowing tunnel behind the spider corpse, so cleaver in hand, he did the same.

***

It only took a few moments for him to notice the change in architecture, as well as the myriad of other spider nests along these tunnel paths. The itch that crawled up his spine every time he saw one was enough to make him throw a roaring cone of flame into each, instantly incinerating the web, and whatever else happened to be in there. The fire he summoned had an odd effect on light, the black flames both lightening the tunnels, and deepening the darkness simultaneously; the odd, paradoxical nature of the flames didn't bother Aurelius o'ermuch though- his power was born of the Hells. It didn't have to make sense.

He was torn from his idle pondering by sounds from up ahead: Sounds of what was quite obviously a fight. And, if his deductive reasoning (and sheer bad luck) was anything to go by, it would be the pair he was following, being eaten by some gribbly big beastie. Grinding his fangs in irritation, he hurried his pace, angrily wiping blood from his eyes as his head kept bleeding shallowly.

Emerging from the same entrance as the chit and her basher companion had a few minutes previously, Aurelius was just in time to see the man thrown across the room, only to disappear into a fast-moving stream. That only left the chit.. and an elf? He shook his head, not concerned by the new arrival. For now, he had to make sure the chit lived. The anarchist never liked announcing his presence too early in the game, but if she died, so did his chance of finding Swaysong. Not a great set of options, he tutted mentally. And then he saw what it was they were fighting.

A feral grin spread over his pale countenance, as he saw Gargantu-roach advancing on the chit, beady eyes glinting with Powers-knew what sort of alien thoughts.

"Oi!!" he roared, stalking into the room, Shahab's Lash already coiled in his fist. "I told you it wasn't over, didn't I?" he snarled, putting himself firmly between the girl, the elf, and the roach. It definitely recognised him, it's front limbs thrashing in what was possibly anger. And to be fair, after having one of it's legs hacked off, and being set on fire, it had every right to be pissed off.

He hurled the black fire out in a wide cone, making the roach skitter back rapidly, clicking and hissing. Another quick burst of fire, and he dropped his cleaver at his feet, freeing up his hands long enough for him to remove his coat- the heavy leather, along with its armour plates and numerous straps and buckles, was covered in grime and dirt, and even spots of his black blood from his wounds. The roach had started charging as soon as the cleaver hit the marble floor, but Aurelius didn't turn to meet it. Instead, he turned to the chit, throwing his coat at her. He didn't have time to explain his plan (wasn't even sure he had one), but he couldn't risk setting his only lead on fire. Still, he didn't have many options at this point in time.

"Duck and cover!" he yelled to her, pointing at his coat before whipping round on the spot.

The roach was almost on top of him, bladed legs in the air, mandibles clacking loud above him. Now or never. With a wordless roar of fury, he unleashed a swirling orb of magickal heat, bursting forth from within the warlock's body before sweeping out in a widening ball. The heatwave hit the roach, Freki's Shield burning into what approximated a face- it's eyes bubbled, glazing over as the skin melted through. The rest of it didn't fair much better, it's carapace scorched crispy and black in the few seconds Aurelius could hold the invocation up. But this power always had to be used carefully, because it didn't only hurt Aurelius' enemies- the exposed skin of his right arm, and the side of his face were blistered and raw, smoke curling from the edges of his armour, and charred flesh. The warlock dropped to his knee, grabbing his cleaver on instinct.

The Shield had slowed the roach down, but it had by no means stopped it. And now, blind, but relatively unharmed, it ran at him like a chariot without a driver. It sent up an unholy clamour as it charged, inhuman clicking harmonics rebounding off the cold stone walls, but Aurelius couldn't hear it- his ears were still ringing from the magickal inferno.

He didn't even have time to see if the chit was alright before Garagantu-roach was on him. It was just about to thunder down on his head, when something smashed against it's shell. The smell of chemicals assaulted Aurelius' senses, and before his eyes, the chitin started to discolour and bubble, visibly softening.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him all he needed to know. The chit was alive, and she was fighting.

He saw her line up another throw, the roach bucking and spinning on the spot, unable to see where the attacks were coming from. Just as the glass vial left her hands, Aurelius threw himself back toward her, rolling as he landed near her feet. Throwing out a hand, the tiefling sent a burst of black fire into the vial, setting it alight mid air. It hit the cockroach, smashing against the hardened shell- but the chemicals inside poured out, spreading like necrosis, as the black flames helped them eat into the roach's armour. It was like watching it rot in fast forward, whatever concoction the chit had reacting violently with the Hellfire and melting gory holes into the beast.

A predatory light gleamed in Drak'shal's inhuman eyes as he dragged himself painfully to his feet. He looked to the chit, seeing she had several more vials ready.

"Light 'em up," he smirked, a ball of fire already in his hands.

[Luned]

Things were happening too quickly for Luned to process them –– Flint was suddenly gone, a strange, fire-hurling, reptilian-featured gent had replaced him, and the glow sticks apparently functioned as startlingly effective impromptu molotov cocktails. The scribe fumbled with a few more in her hands as Aurelius called for more, grabbed one, and pitched it straight at the approaching roach's face. It was close enough to be a direct hit, melting an unexpectedly large portion of its head and effectively blinding it, though it was still far from harmless in its impaired state. It hissed and shrank back, temporarily stunned from the sudden onslaught.

"I-I can't spare more, we need them!" Luned stammered to the newcomer, guarding the last three of her vials. It wasn't worth surviving this ordeal if she ended up trapped this deep in the darkness, as even if there was glowing flora in some parts of the tunnels, light was the only thing she felt she had control over down there. She desperately needed to maintain that control simply for the sake of what dignity remained, or all semblance of composure would break down into nothing. Even she knew that weeping puddles of mutant bug feast accomplished even less than a scrawny, deranged scribe with a death wish.

The roach reeled in pain, but Luned knew it was just a temporary setback for the beast and the buffer of time was a precious gift that couldn't go to waste. Even without vision, its remaining senses were nothing to underestimate in a place where it lived in near utter blackness. She looked around in an effort to plan her next move and the comatose elf caught her eye, discarded with little care on the ground, even more helpless than herself. The scribe realized that, without Flint to carry her, the poor soul was as good as dead already.

And so was Luned, if she didn't find him. Not that this new guy couldn't hold his own against the violent inhabitants of Ettermire's underbelly, but she hadn't the faintest who he was or if she could trust him. After all, it sounded like Flint was in trouble, assumedly with the original owner of the Swaysong he'd lost, and perhaps they'd kept tabs on him. It made sense… she hadn't gathered much about Bleddyn's black market connections, charging into her mission rather blindly, but it did seem to go without saying that someone as infamous as Swanra'ann wasn't one to mess around. Luned couldn't blame her, either, considering just how precious –– and nearly priceless –– that cargo was.

The elf twitched in its crumpled heap and Luned gasped, running over and kneeling next to her. Her skin was clammy but still somewhat warm, and from the way she trembled, the scribe wondered if she was coming out of the venom-induced unconsciousness. Two large and deep puncture wounds in her chest, black with congealed blood, made Luned wince to see so clearly in the light of her vial, but she reached out to the straining woman anyhow. "Hey," she called in a hoarse whisper, "Can you hear me?"

The victim flinched at her touch, brow knotting before her entire body began to seize. Thick, black blood oozed from the corners of her mouth and nostrils and Luned let go of her shoulder, immediately understanding that it was far too late to do anything to help, but her eyes remained transfixed on the dying face, just as she'd been unable to look away from the ghoulish guard earlier.

What did Flint say? She tried to remember, feeling it was important, but the memory was slow to break through her terror-weakened mind. After too long and too vulnerable a moment, she heard his voice in her head as he spoke his mantra before they returned to the sewers: I am fear.

Alas, these words of empowerment were lost on the frightened woman. Luned wasn't capable of being fear, not yet, and the only thing that brought her out of her spell was the feeling of something on her shoulder. She reached up reflexively to brush at it, only to feel her hand meet with something distinctly spidery. Luned stood with a shriek and the sensation of several more scurried over her shoulders, arms, and hair. She panicked as she tried to get them off and realized, horror-stricken, where they'd originated.

The abdomen of the deceased elf before her had burst open with her pink flesh, still warm, yielding to the escape of at least a dozen infant spiders, translucent white and spindly like many skeletal hands clawing their way out. As Luned struggled to rid herself of the few that clung to her clothing she began to hyperventilate, breath caught shallow in her chest and spots in her vision.

Run.

At this point she had two viable options: remain in this chamber and continue to participate in this horror show, or go after Flint and see what lied ahead. Somehow, anywhere but here was a more attractive choice, and she booked it.

Luned dashed into the water, finding it much deeper than expected, but she caught herself before slipping underneath by grabbing hold on the brick siding. The center of the open pipeline was almost waist deep and, though not frigid, the sudden chill shocked her, goosebumps prickling her skin. With a grimace she started wading, cradling the last delicate vials protectively in a chest pocket as she held the lit one up to see. The pipe was deep and pitch black ahead, only the sound of rushing water within. Not wishing to wait for the mayhem behind her to catch up, she stooped and walked in without looking back.

Having underestimated the psychological impact of a water-filled tube too short to stand in, it didn't take long for Luned's breathing to become shallow and nerves to overreact, classic symptoms of claustrophobia. The current was tenacious and only seemed to get stronger against her trembling legs the further she got, taunting her footing, threatening to take it away. One hand grasped at gaps in the bricks for hold, the other poised steadily ahead with the light. Everything was dark, so very dark, and she couldn't help but wonder with each step if Flint's corpse would float to the surface before her.

Luckily, it didn't. Unluckily, there was something else beneath the water, and all it had to do was brush against her leg to steal her footing and send her thrashing into the current. This made quick work of the journey into the next chamber where her companion awaited in the gloom, the feeling of many pairs of eyes sending shivers up his spine as he wracked his mind to come up with a plan.

Sputtering shrieks and gasps heralded the arrive of a glow from the pipe Flint washed out of, accompanied by the very person he'd just cursed. The current slowed inside this chamber and Flint reached out, grabbed Luned by the collar of her jacket, and plucked her out of the water, dragging her up onto the rough ground next to him. Shivering and distraught, she looked at him with the expression of a person who thought for sure she was the one who was on a rescue mission, but wound up rescued instead.

"Are you alright?" she managed to choke after coughing the dank water out of her lungs.

"Better than you," he replied, taking the light from her. "Do you have any extras left?"

The girl nodded, shaking fingers prying the buttons of her pocket open to fish another out. Miraculously, none had broken. She shook the new vial, and as she did so, registered that Flint's jacket was missing. "Where's your––"

"Luned," he interrupted, holding a hand out as if to quell her fears while the other instinctively went for a knife at his belt. "Now, don't panic, but there's something on your leg."

She froze, staring wide-eyed at him, and then, of course, looked. A slimy black creature as long as her forearm and twice as fat was curled around her ankle and up her pant leg, where she realized it had attached itself when she felt something in the water moments ago. How much could a leech that size consume? Just the thought made her feel faint with loss of blood and she looked away before the urge to lose her breakfast became too overwhelming, though the especially horrendous stench of this section of the sewer wasn't helping. "Oh no, ohhh…" she wailed weakly, as expected, but once her eyes focused on the shadows behind them, finally registering all the other eyes that watched back, it sank in just how awful this place was. "What the hell…?"

Flint had seen, too, and they both sat stunned as they gazed at the room around them. The underlying structure was indistinguishable behind a massive wall of ginormous rats, stacked like haphazard bricks, heads and tangled tails and grasping, clawed feet overpopulous and jutting out every which way. Their fur was clumped with feces and grime, cementing them together, and though their mass was great, their faces and limbs were boney and malnourished. Some had died and laid half-eaten and rotting, still part of the colony and cannibalized to sustain the others. They watched the two delicious humans hungrily with dozens of beady little eyes, just waiting for them to dare come within reach.

Something conjured Luned's memory of the medical museum basement, where the strange little girl lived, and something clicked. Helethra's mutilated dolls were cuddly, pocket-sized replicas of the creatures of the sewers. Just yesterday, the little girl asked Flint if he wanted to meet the porcelain and lace version of the rat king, and he'd declined. Now that decision had come back to haunt them both.

[Warpath]

What lay before them was almost too grotesque to contemplate, and everywhere Flint turned his eye he found a new and ghastly detail. He reeled, overwhelmed by a noxious soup of unpleasant emotions and sensations: fear, awe, pity, revulsion, despair, and personal insignificance chief among them. He focused on the revulsion. Revulsion was the easiest to respond to and satisfy with some form of action. He groaned.

He flexed his hands, tightening them around the knuckledusters that yet hung on the major joints of his fingers. He tried to form a plan of attack, some action that would put him between this thing and Luned for long enough to ensure her survival, but the task seemed insurmountable. It took a long moment – too long – for the strangeness of that response to occur to him. Why put himself between her and it? It was her fault he was here. If not for her, he would be on a train. He should have fed her to it out of spite.

He looked down at the little scribe. She was still taking in the horror of their surroundings with wide eyes. The rat king was breathing, not one set of lungs but dozens, all labored, wet, and pained. The water flowed behind that nightmare cacophony, crashing, struggling to drown out the sounds that thing must be making – what if I had tried to move in the dark? What if I had stayed blind down here, and wandered toward it?

These hapless creatures were frail, broken, but also mad and desperate. He could only imagine how fast their thin, greedy claws could be, imagine the level of celerity madness and wild, uncontrollable hunger could confer upon them. Death would come fast, maybe even faster than she could scream, and the blood – they’d all be so distracted just by the smell, wouldn’t they?

Flint grimaced, and bent down to Luned, and pushed her to the ground unkindly. He traded the brass knuckles for his knife, and examined the blade.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without looking her in the eye. This time though, she could tell he meant it.

----

In the chamber above, Aurelius was witnessing his own special horror show. The elf’s corpse steadily deflated, spilling translucent spiderlings onto the floor. Somehow they sensed the roach’s weakness, and set upon it in a swarm, desperately seeking out some soft place to sink their needle-fangs. The roach in turn hissed deafeningly, lashing at the air blindly and furiously. It turned out that the monster was capable of fear, somewhere deep within its alien consciousness. It saw its eminent death, and wanted ardently to postpone it, and if it could not, it was determined not to go into oblivion alone.

---

The knife glinted in the light of Luned’s alchemical vial, and her eye tracked it as it descended on her. Flint hesitated, and looked at her.

“I told you not to watch.”

She closed her eyes, and Flint sighed before shifting his focus back. The knife came down, and Luned squeaked, and Flint growled at her.

“Maybe there’s another way?” she said.

One of her pant legs was torn off above the knee, leaving one white leg exposed. Well, white except for the mutant leech wrapped covetously around the lower part of her leg, with one end attached firmly to her calf. It was a shame to ruin her new Aleraran outfit, but Flint had insisted that he needed to get to the parasite. He could only imagine how much blood something that size could drink.

“Ugh.”

“What? What?”

“Calm down,” Flint said. “I just never realized these things have eyes.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Okay,” Flint said. “I’m going to try now.”

He looked at Luned, and she looked at him, braced herself, and then gave him the bravest nod she could. He hesitated before touching the leech, grabbing it as best he could just beneath the eyes. It tightened its grip around her ankle, and the attempt had been futile anyway – it wasn’t just wet, it was coated in a thick layer of snot-like slime that oozed between his fingers. His stomach turned, but he ignored it.

He pressed the flat of the knife against her calf, just to the side of the leech’s mouth, and she tensed at the feel of cold steel on her skin. Slowly, gently, he worked the blade toward the leech, taking the utmost care to cut neither the girl nor the monster attached to her. Instead, he worked the knife in between them until, without warning, the suction around the leech’s mouth broke with a loud wet pop.

The parasite writhed suddenly, snakelike and terrified, or perhaps incensed at the loss of its meal. Flint acted fast, though, pushing its upper half down to the stone floor, and he shoved the knife into it until the blade chipped on the rock on the other side. A gush of blood and bile rushed out of the thing’s mouth, splashing on the stone. Blood oozed around the knife, and the leech lashed about violently. It released Luned’s ankle in the process, which she swiftly dragged away from it.

“No,” Flint said, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back toward it. When she glared at him, he pointed out at the rat king surrounding them. “We can’t be sure how far they can reach. All we know right now is that they can’t reach us here.”

As the leech’s lashing slowed down, Flint turned the remains of Luned’s butchered pant leg into a bandage, or a tourniquet. As she watched him, she wasn’t sure what he was going for. When he tried to wrap it around the wound, she shook her head. “Above the wound. All those cuts and you’ve never tied a tourniquet?”

“I was taught to make them,” he said, “not to fix them.”

“I don’t know if this one can be fixed, anyway. Look around us, Flint. If the water down here is doing…this…”

Flint pointedly did not look, tying the tourniquet tight instead. His mind wandered, considering the blood, the effort, and the practical things he had measured and been unable to do. Instead, he felt shame at what he’d become – why? He tried again to summon up the anger at her, the blame, but it just wasn’t there to find. He thought back to when they first entered the sewers, when he found the pipe. Why hadn’t he clocked her over the head with it, instead of following her into this hell? He could have taken her to Swanra’ann and…

“The cats,” he muttered.

“What?”

“It can’t be the water causing all this,” he said. “The water is leaking out of pipes above the surface, and there must be hundreds of other outlets, but there are no monsters up there. There were cats drinking that water, and they were normal, or at least seemed that way.”

Luned nodded slowly, and as she considered it her strength seemed to return, if only just so. He didn’t have the heart to remind her that there were still any other number of diseases and parasites of a more worldly nature that were liable to be found in the sewer water they’d been stomping around in all day.

“It’s a shame, actually” he said. “I could stand to grow a few inches.”

----

“Down here!” Luned shouted up at the pipe through which they’d entered. “We’re down here!”

“She’s dead by now,” Flint said, slowly edging toward the rat king and then stepping away again. He suspected they knew how far he would need to be before they could grab him, and they wouldn’t be able to resist trying. He wanted to know how much space he had to work with.

“I’m not talking to the elf,” Luned said. “She is dead. She was full of…nevermind. There was a man, he was fighting the roach. Maybe he has a rope.”

“Hrm,” Flint said.

“What does that mean? ‘Hrm.’ Use your words!”

“He is most likely dead as well. Give me one of your vials,” Flint said, holding his hand out to her. He wiggled his fingers at her impatiently while she searched for one, and then she handed it over. He shook it until it was burning bright, and then he promptly threw it right at the rat king.

“No!” Luned hissed. “We need those!”

“Give me another.”

“No!”

“Look,” he said.

She moved over to where he was standing, keeping a careful eye on the monstrosity surrounding them. It was strange to walk on her leg, because she could feel the moist heat of her own blood leaking onto her skin, but there was no pain or sensation in the muscle. The leech must have numbed it. She tried not to think about it, following Flint’s gaze instead. The vial he’d thrown was lodged in the matted fur of a giant rat long dead, one of its ribs standing out from the rotting hulk of its emaciated torso. Beyond it was a deeper darkness, an arched shape barely discernable.

“A way out,” she breathed. “There’s a way out!”

“They must have gathered here, perhaps for food, and they grew too rapidly to leave again by that tunnel. Not enough space to move around, so…well.”

Luned nodded, staring longingly at that distant shadow.

“Can you run?” he said, moving back toward the pool.

“I…what?”

“You’re favoring that leg.”

“I think the leech numbed this one,” she said. “I can run though. There are a lot of them, Flint, and most of them…”

“Trust me,” he said, and that made him feel guilty. “We’re leaving.”

Luned hurried back over to the pool and cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted one last time: “We have a way out!”

When she turned around again, Flint was in the process of kicking the leech experimentally. When it didn’t move, he pulled his knife out of it. The blade was chipped off, and a long strand of slime ran from the leech to the handle and would not come free, so he threw it into the pool and sneered at the stuff smeared on his palm.

“Ready?” he said.

“I guess,” she said, warily.

Flint bent down, gathered the leech’s corpse up, and then got a running head start before throwing it as hard as he could toward the rat king. A ripple went through the mass, and then a pained groan, and then it erupted into chaos. Bones and dust tumbled from the gargantuan mats of fur, and there was an awful snapping sound as the rats struggled against their fused mass. Were the living breaking their own bones in their haste, or the bones of the dead ones, or…?

It was impossible to know, and terror was quickly surging up in both of them, removing their ability to watch the horrific scene objectively. The walls themselves were moving, tumbling over themselves. Skin tore and blood oozed, tumors the size of houses strained against albino flesh, and veins bulged and burst into bruises that spread like ink on a page. Rarely was there some piece that actually resembled an earthly creature: a skeletal claw stretched out, a gleaming red eye, a monumental mouth with a pronounced overbite and tremendous teeth fused together into a single yellow stalactite.

The rat king was battling itself for that tiny morsel, incensed at the smell of blood and death. Every time one of those horrid claws reached out for the leech, some other ancient appendage lashed out and prevented it. The cave trembled, and the vibrations of the rat king’s attempts at movement threatened to unsteady Flint and Luned. Some unholy fusion of fluids stretched gradually out from under the fleshy folds of it, reeking of ammonia and bile and the coppery scent of blood. A single ear-shredding shriek came from somewhere in the dark beyond.

“Now!” Flint roared, and he pushed Luned forward. Against every instinct, she ran.

It was only halfway to the creature that the thought occurred to her that Flint might not be following her, but by then one of the rats spotted her, and it struggled over one of the titanic corpses fused to it to reach her. Its head shot forward, toothless mouth gaping wide, but Flint’s shoulder collided with it and knocked it aside. It was big, but hunger made it frail.

Luned reached a wall of something indescribable – something that might have been alive once, and might encase something living, but wasn’t anymore, and it was impossible to say what composed it. The smell rolling off of it was like a physical force, and that there was nothing else like it in the world might be proof of at least one loving god.

“Flint!” she shouted.

“Climb!”

Everything in her being was repulsed at the thought of touching that surface, but she found herself taking great handfuls of what might have been fur once, and she began pulling herself up. The air left her lungs when she felt something pushing her upward, and then she realized it was Flint behind her, helping. She twisted to look down at him just in time to see one of the rats surge up from below him, open its mouth wide, and then chomp down on his shoulder. Before he could so much as scream, Luned shoved one of her boots down into the monster’s eye, which caused it to release her companion and tumble away squealing.

“Go,” he said, teeth clenched.

She ascended even as the wall trembled and flexed beneath her hands and feet, and there were deafening sounds coming from all around her – screams and rumbles, snapping bones and splashing blood, tearing flesh and cracking stone. She reached the top and spun around, took Flint by his good arm, and pulled as hard as she could, and with his help managed to drag his bulk up and over. They tumbled over the rat king, catching glimpses of its ongoing suicide by cannibalism – fuel for a lifetime of nightmares.

And then they were in a dimly lit tunnel. Luned wrapped one of her arms around Flint’s shoulders to steady herself, and he half supported her and half carried her as they ran, tripping over one another but never falling, and the sounds of death faded behind them until there was nothing but the sounds of their own pain and exhaustion echoing in their ears.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The situation was not getting any better.

The roach was backing off, hissing and screeching in pain as the baby spiders swarmed it- although "baby" wasn't really an appropriate term. Each of the arachnids was easily as big as Aurelius' hands, sinking their translucent fangs into the weakened spots of the cockroach's armoured form. The patches of Hellfire still burned all over it's body, but it seemed barely to notice anymore, with the sheer amount of pain flooding it's body.

More of the pale little buggers were crawling out of their elven womb every moment, and risking turning his back on the nightmare in front of him, the tiefling doused the corpse-mother with black flame, hearing the violent hisses and pops as more of the spiders cooked off inside the dead elf chit. As he did so, he growled in pain, cracked ribs flaring. Wiping another trickle of black blood from under his horns, the half-breed watched in part disbelief, part irritation as the girl he was trying to rescue fled the fight, heading through the same water duct as her male companion a few minutes before. Still, he couldn't follow just yet.

His raw skin chafing against the interlocking leather plates of his armour, the warlock turned back to the bug-battle. The spiders were winning, crawling over the much bigger insect and injecting their venom into it's flesh.

But they knew the roach was as good as dead, and turned back to the other flesh-morsel in the chamber.

"C'mon then, you little bastards," he snarled, twirling his wrist, loosening his muscles as three of the eight-legged creatures leapt from their kill, scuttling at him with speed.

The first spider jumped at him, legs out to grab his face. Aurelius knew that spiders masticated their victims when they bit, then sucked their fluids out, leaving an emaciated, dessicated corpse. He also knew that wasn't how he planned to spend his day. Lashing out with the machete-like cleaver, Aurelianus sliced it clean in two, watery, milky blood spattering the front of his bladed armour. The second skittered close enough for Aurelius to stomp on it, his heavy boot pulverising it's tender form.

The third didn't even last that long, impaled on a bladed leg as the roach stampeded around the chamber, dying slowly and in a great deal of pain. Now, while Aurelius was content to let the beast suffer, it was still a threat to him; the only option was clear enough- it had to die. Throwing another wave of Hellfire over it's spider-riddled frame, casting lunatic shadows dancing along the faded and cracked walls, the warlock closed in. The remaining spiders exploded in the heat, sending splashes of burning blood out like miniature fireworks.

The roach was staggering drunkenly at this point, but it wasn't dying quick enough for his liking; a running start had him leaping onto the now charred and pitted carapace, his boots cracking the compromised shell on impact. Reversing his grip on the blade, Aurelius let loose, stabbing it down deep into the roach. He fell into a lunatic frenzy, staggering up the bucking surface of the giant insect and stabbing in a storm of steel. Finally, as the roach dropped onto the knees of it's two remaining left legs, Aurelius reached it's head. The creature was hissing pitiably now, mandibles working almost as if it was pleading for death.

With one last swing of the ichor-soaked cleaver, Aurelianus gladly granted it's request.

***

Now, in the aftermath of the fight, Aurelius took stock of his wounds; his burned skin was starting to itch like a bastard; his head wound was still bleeding in a very slow trickle; his cracked ribs sent a dull throb through him every time he took a breath; the gash across his ribs left a little ache every time he twisted the wrong way; and after trying to catch hand-holds on the roach's carapace, he had nicks and cuts on his left hand.

All in all, he'd had it worse.

Still, he didn't have time to muck about- if he didn't catch up to the pair he was following, they were going to give him the laugh (to escape him), and he couldn't have that. Wiping his blade relatively clean against the edge of his boot before re-sheathing it, he edged closer to the water duct both had traveled through, looking for any track he could follow. But the amount of water made it unlikely.

**"...down here!”**

The tiefling blinked his snake-like eyes, not believing his luck. Was she really shouting for him? The chit he was tracking, possibly to murder, possibly to hand over to Swanra'ann, was shouting for him to join them? The irony was almost too much to bear, and he chuckled to himself darkly.

His predator's grin returned.

**“We’re down here!”**

It was definitely the chit's voice, echoing up from the depths of the tunnel in front of him. Quickly grabbing his coat, donning the slightly dirty, slightly burned leather, the street-ganger jumped into the waist-deep water. He started to wade in, the darkness closing in now that the chit had disappeared with her little bottles of light. As the shadows deepened, Aurelius could hear some truly disturbing sounds; the denizens of the sewers were emerging, drawn to the fresh food. There were things down here who were hungry... and by the sounds of it, bloody big! Sod this for a game of soldiers! he thought, hurrying through the murky water toward the sound of the chit and her minder.

**“We have a way out!”**

Her voice was closer, louder. He was closing the gap. As the warlock got deeper into the duct, he could hear the pair of them shouting, and.. something else. This day was just getting more and more of a pain in the arse.

**“Flint!”**

**“Climb!”**

Flint, eh? he thought, seeing a soft glow getting closer- that must be the short basher. There were things in the water with him, brushing against the heavy leather of his clothes and armour before disappearing into the murk. The noise of the feeding frenzy behind him diminished, much to Drak'shal's relief. He finally made it out of the tunnel, dragging himself up onto a rocky ledge, idly wondering what sorts of diseases he might pick up from the sewer water in his wounds. But those thoughts were instantly forgotten as he took in the room before him.

"What the unholy mother of fuck..." he muttered, serpentine eyes wide in surprise.

Now, for someone who had been to many different versions of Hell, it was uncommon for the warlock to be shocked; but really, how often did one see an entire army of rats fused into a singular, gestalt entity, filling an entire chamber in a sewer already full of mutants and monstrosities? And as he watched, Aurelius realised something- the.. well, he didn't know exactly how to refer to the beast, but it was tearing itself apart. More to the point, as his blood started to trickle from his wounds again, the creature took notice of him.

"Well..." he started, searching for an appropriate word to describe his current myriad emotions. "Shit."

A flicker of light in the upper reaches of the chamber caught his eye, and to his sheer exasperation he saw the pair of Sewer Rats climbing up the fused mass of giant rats, clambering onto a ledge up above. Are you pikin' kiddin' me? he fumed internally. His wounds were hurting, making the always short-fused half-demon even more irate than usual.

Spitting a string of profanities, he realised he had no other options open to him. If he didn't shift his arse, he was going to get torn apart down here, with no means of escape. The cacophony in the room, already nearing unbearable volume, increased in intensity as the Rat Thing smelled his blood. The conjoined rats were ripping themselves apart, each trying to kill the other to keep the food for itself, not realising they were all one. A rare shiver of apprehension running down his spine, Aurelianus took a deep breath.. and dived into the throng. He lashed out with balls and cones of Hellfire, scorching rats, both alive and dead, to crispy cadavers. The heaving nightmare tried to recoil, a grotesque shiver rippling through the mass as Aurelius sprinted full-pelt for the wall Flint and the chit had climbed.

As he watched, chunks of rock came away from the walls, stuck to the Rat Thing by tendrils of flesh, and patches of mutated muscle. If he didn't get out now, he was going to die here. While the pair above disappeared from view, the glow started to fade as well, leaving Aurelius in a half-gloom, getting darker by the second. He didn't know what thought worried him more- getting to see himself being torn apart by this abomination, or suffering the same fate, but in utter darkness.

Spurred on by that thought, he sprinted over the mass of muscle, flesh, fur and bone, only barely managing to keep his footing. Reaching the wall, he marked the way it's flesh was starting to come loose from the crumbling brick surface: yanking his twin knives from their sheaths, he thought on his feet. He stabbed the beast nice and deep, using the blade as a handhold to pull himself higher. The going was slow, and Aurelius knew he would never again have such an exhilarating time in a sewer... but stab by stab, he was managing to gain height, darkness closing in on the freak-show below. The sounds that followed him up from the unlit depths would stay burned into Aurelius' brain-box for the rest of his life, but for now he was trying to shut them out, focusing on reaching the top.

It seemed like an eternity before the tiefling went to bury his knife into the Rat Thing, and hit only open air.

With a last herculean effort, he threw himself over the top of the ledge, just as the tendons and sinews holding the amalgamated monster to the wall finally snapped with a hideous wet snap. He took a few deep breaths, ignoring the agony his climb had caused him, aggravating every one of his injuries, before he dragged himself to his feet. The noises below reached a fevered pitch, and instead of sticking around to risk his arse anymore, he took off into the darkness to find the Sewer Rats.

They hadn't got far. Staggering into the same narrow tunnel as them, he re-sheathed his chivs and put two fingers in his mouth as he let out a shrill, sharp whistle. He instantly regretted it, grimacing at the taste they left in his mouth- the pair up ahead obviously heard him, stopping up ahead.

Dragging himself along to meet them, Drak'shal spat into the muck of the floor, hand clutching the cut in his side through his coat.

"Do you have any idea how hard you bastards are to find?" he snarled, yellow-eyes shining against the light.

[Luned]

The sharp whistle cut through the tunnel like a knife in their ears and Flint immediately halted, tense, and the pair looked behind them to view the approach of a very battered, vaguely reptilian man. Luned exhaled a sympathetic sigh of relief that he'd made it out, which quickly caught in her throat when she registered what he said. Flint didn't need that split second to jump to conclusions, immediately wishing this stalker was rat feast instead of occupying this delightfully dank, claustrophobic tunnel with them.

"He made it," Luned said, almost questioningly. She let go of Flint's shoulder, able to stand on her own in spite of her numb leg. It was weird, she almost expected it to wake up to pins and needles, but none such happened and she didn't dare look down and check on the bleeding, that was for sure.

Flint donned an impenetrable expression, stony stare meeting the other man's gaze as he drew closer. At the very least, this questionable character seemed to be in at least as bad a shape as they were. "And who the hell are you?"

"I'm the bloke that nicked the two sods trying to pen you in the dead-book, mate," he spat, then sneered. "You're welcome, by the by."

Luned frowned. "When? Why?"

"Back in the brothel where your minder," he nodded to Flint, "Grabbed his stash. Why is my business, luv."

"It's our business if it was enough to drag you down into that hellhole with us." Flint was already reaching for his brass knuckles, stance shifting to something much more hostile. Luned reached out and touched his arm as if to suggest he should hold back, a gesture that he didn't particularly appreciate, but he also didn't know this fellow's unique trick.

Surely enough, the man summoned swirls of black flame in each of his nonchalantly upturned palms, brow raised. "I saved your sorry little arse, and this is the thanks I get? Well, you can go pike yoursel', mate. I only 'elped you out to send a big 'up yours' to Swanra'ann."

The scribe's brow knotted in frustration. "But, why were you following us?"

He smirked, then winced slightly from aggravating his burns. "Look at the pair of you sorry sods –– if Swanra'ann wants to get 'er 'ands on the Swaysong, do you really think you berks could stop 'er?"

It made sense that word got out and scavengers had come creeping from the dark corners of the city to get their hands on such a legendary substance, as if it was that simple, as if it was theirs for the taking. Flint could have laughed, this guy's version of their story and the hopelessness of their investigation amusing in a miserable sort of way, but he simply shook his head. "If that's what you're after, you're out of luck, mate." He shrugged with his hands open, communicating their unfortunate lack of any such Swaysong. He had very little interest in butting heads with delusional strangers at this point, his injuries desperately in need of tending, and from the shape they were both in, it'd be an embarrassing skirmish on both sides.

"Regardless," Luned said, wrapping her arms around herself as it was hard not to be chilled in damp clothing, even if this was certainly worlds of improvement over her last sewer-spelunking ensemble. "We need to get out of here."

The tunnel was dimly illuminated through a couple ventilation pipes in the ceiling and Luned looked up into one, missing the cheery blue skies back home as a gray dot of polluted light blinked back down at her. There were several smaller pipelines off of this one, but from the improvement in air quality, it was obvious that they didn't have much further to go before they were back outside. This instilled a sense of security, and while false as it may have been, it was enough for them to set their issues aside for a brief moment and commence in a weary, grumbling mass toward the projected exit.

It felt like she was limping but she couldn't tell if it was from true weakness or her own psychological crutch, recalling the sensation of the local anesthetic Petru used once when she needed stitches. She let that memory distract her from what remained behind them until, just up ahead, a flurry of cloth in a familiar shade of brown disappeared down one of the intersecting tunnels and into the darkness.

"Shit," Flint sighed before she could react, tipping her off that he saw it, too. The fiery fellow already fisted some balls of flame, thoroughly spooked in light of recent events, but Luned waved him off.

"Helethra?" she called out gently. "Hel, is that you?" Luned approached the entrance of the tunnel, but now that her eyes were adjusted to the better light, it was hard to see into the dense darkness. She held up her last vial, its glow beginning to dim, and leaned in to coax the child out. "We came looking for you, actually. We got lost again on our way to visit you at the museum, like we said we would. Could you show us the way?"

A mournful little voice echoed back, small and frail. "No," Helethra wailed. "You got me in trouble. Why'd you have to go tell Mom I was playing down here? She made me take that awful, icky medicine, and now I got a tummy ache that won't go away."

"If you're sick, maybe we can help you," Luned pleaded with her, tossing Flint a worried look over her shoulder, then looking back. There was movement nearly just out of sight in the pipe and she knelt down, reaching in with her hand held out in encouragement. "Will you show us the way home?"

There was a strange growl as Luned's hand neared her and there was a flash of bared pearly whites in the shadows, catching the scribe off guard, but it was too late to react. Helethra lashed out. "No! It's all your fault!"

Flint and Aurelius watched on as something yanked Luned into the pipe, sending her sprawling and kicking. Inside, hands much stronger than a child's pulled at her, and suddenly pinned down on her back, she found herself wrestling a taloned creature in the dark. She dropped the vial and desperately tried to avoid breaking it as vicious claws came down on her face, neck, shoulders, and arms, tearing her clothes and flesh to ribbons wherever they met. The scribe shrieked and thrashed, but somehow had enough sense left in her to find the small dagger at her hip. She unsheathed it, raised it in a desperate fist, and dug it blindly into the clawing mass above her.

Meanwhile, Flint grabbed at her legs in an attempt to pull her back out, losing hold the first try as it slipped through his grasp, slick with blood. Before he could try again, he was shoved back as Luned's foot met him with a fierce kick square in the gut. "Stop. Kicking," he demanded, unheard by the woman in question, but after another try or two he got a grip on her unharmed ankle.

There was a scream, a horrendous, murderous, shrill scream that carried on for several long, torturous seconds, then fell away into piteous weeping that echoed down the pipe. Luned stopped kicking and Flint panicked at the sudden stillness, dragging her out to the horror of the entire upper half of her body drenched in crimson blood. Much of it was hers but certainly not all of it, and clenched in her fist was an equally gory dagger. She stared up at both him and Aurelius, wide-eyed, unable to move as her hand trembled and dropped her weapon with a clink onto the ground next to her.

"I-I hurt her," she choked, overcome. No matter what Ezura's strange medicine had done, no matter what this bizarre development implicated in their investigation, she was consumed by the horror of knowing she'd just stabbed a poor little girl. No matter what kind of monster she was now, that's all she really was. Helethra was nothing but a kid.

In the quiet, they could hear Helethra as she made her wretched escape, crying and sobbing and wailing as she fled back into the cold embrace of the underground, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

[Warpath]

Everything was heat and blood and weight. Flint knew something was wrong: his thoughts were fuzzy, his feet too heavy, and his senses muddied. He realized the causes were blood loss and exhaustion, and then his mind wandered. He saw Luned beside him through a haze, all red and brown and black and white and wet, and he endured. He remembered marching through snow, and looked at his hand. Why was his shoulder bleeding? He thought of Helethra, and his mind dismissed it. It was some monster in the sewers, some evil trick.

“It was a trick,” he told Luned. She didn’t say anything. It didn’t occur to him that she couldn’t hear him - that he was just muttering.

The snow must have been deep here, because it was hard to lift his feet and he was very tired. Why was it so hard to focus? He realized the cause was blood loss and exhaustion and too much adrenaline, and then his thoughts wandered. He needed to get Luned out of the sewers, she was bleeding a lot. How did they get to Salvar? They were in Ettermire before. How was there snow in the sewers?

“Keep movin’, basher,” the tiefling said from somewhere behind, “or I’ll gladly pen you in the dead-book myself.”

Flint growled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t figure out why he was having so much trouble putting thoughts together. It was dark and the snow was deep, but he could see the sun rising ahead of them – just a tiny white circle, and for some reason the sounds of Ettermire were echoing out from it. He didn’t try to make sense of it; he just marched, because that’s what a soldier does.

A young boy sat on a broken fence at the roof of the world, eating goat cheese on bread. He was a plump boy, with a round face and a round belly, but skinny arms and skinny legs and shaggy hair, and he was mischievous and sharp and smiled always. The snow was melting and he’d run off from home without his jacket, but he liked the cold. Killers came up the road that day, hard men who’d been raiding in the south, dressed in boiled leather and carrying clubs.

“Hey boy,” the leader said. “Yeh wanna be a soldier like us?”

The boy shook his head slowly, suddenly wide-eyed and shy.

“Eh? Why not, eh?”

“I’m not a strong person like you,” the boy said.

“Lemme tell yeh somethin’ boy,” the man said, taking the bread from him. “T'ere ain’t a man born strong in the world, no. Yeh get strong by tryin’, and only by. So yeh see, yeh see, yeh ain’t a strong man yet. Yeh wanna be strong like us?”

The boy hesitated, and then he nodded his head slow.

“Course yeh do.”

“What have you done?” Flint growled, squeezing his eyes against the light shining in his face. Were they in a warehouse? It smelled like dust and leather, and he could hear Aleraran engines outside, and shouts in the dark elf tongue. His shoulder ached.

“Keep still, you soddin' leatherhead.”

“Calm down, Flint,” Luned interjected, steadying him with a gentle push at his uninjured shoulder. “Aurelianus is stitching you up. Be still.”

“Who…”

The boy cowered in the far corner of the yurt, edging toward the entrance. There was a man in the tent with him, which had been unexpected. The boy had come to loot, and had surprised the man. The man was badly injured and could not stand, but he held a knife out in his hand and the boy did not want the man to kill him. He was going to run away.

Kentigern entered the tent though, and the boy froze. The big warrior looked between him and the injured man, and let out a gruff bark of laughter. “Where yeh goin’, boy?”

“He’s got a knife,” the boy said.

“Look a’ ‘im!” Kentigern said, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and pointing.

“Look a’ the fear on ‘im, yeh see it? Look!”

The boy looked.

“The fear is yers, boy, see? Yeh control it, not ‘im. Yeh are fear. Go on, show it. Go on.”

The boy wasn’t fear, Kentigern was. The boy feared Kentigern more, so he took a steadying breath and he approached the injured man. He was bleeding badly, and tears were welled up in his eyes. He seemed very old and tall. He waved the knife, but he did it slow, like he was drunk, so the boy hurried. He cut himself on the knife, but he got it away from the man, and then he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, and he saw in the man’s eyes what he felt in himself.

The man was so, so afraid of him.

“I am fear,” Flint croaked. His throat was parched.

“What’d ‘e say?”

“I think he’s speaking Salvic.”

“The slavers’ll be on us in an hour, Kentigern,” one of the big men whispered. The boy pretended not to hear, which was easy because he did not understand.

They were hiding in a building that had been a house once, but now the roof was gone and there were holes in the walls, and the fireplace was full of soot. The boys were huddled in the corner, some trying to sleep, others too cold to make the attempt. The boy sharpened a knife with a rock, the way he’d seen Kentigern do it.

“Hey, boy,” Kentigern said. “Rauk, you c’mere, look a’ me. Good, now yeh listen. Me and this bunch're goin’ off fer an hour or two, but we’re comin’ back. We need t'is ‘ouse, see? So yeh gotta guard it. Yer in charge. Yer a big man now like us, yeh see? Yer like a big chunk o’ flint, cut right out a mountain. What are yeh?”

“Fear,” the boy said.

“Tha’s right.”

Kentigern left with the rest of the men. Some of the boys froze to death before the slavers came. Rauk fought with his knife, but he was so hungry and cold.

“That one’s going in the pits,” he heard one of the slavers say. “Mark me, that one’s a gladiator.”

They took his knife away and kicked him until he fell to sleep.

Flint woke gasping, and then clutched his shoulder, curled up, and squeezed his eyes shut, and he hissed as he buried the pain again. It took a long time. Come to think of it, it seemed to take a little longer every time he had to do it, but he managed to push the cold and the snow deep inside just like he always did. And then he made himself forget it was there.

That part was usually hard, but not this time. This time he turned his thoughts toward Luned and Helethra, and the memories faded.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius brought up the rear as they left the sewers tunnel behind, still on edge after what had just happened. The chit was walking, her and Flint supporting each other as they staggered in front. What the fuck was that? he thought, eyeing every shadow, ears parked for the hideous wailing, weeping that had followed the attack. It had had the voice of a kid, but looking at the slashes and tears on the chit's flesh... that weren't no pikin' kid.

As the pair of mauled little rubes staggered on ahead, Aurelius considered his options- he wasn't leather-headed enough to believe either of them had the Swaysong on them. But it also appeared they had a clue where to find it. So.. the tiefling could either make sure they got "lost" down here in the sewers, and keep hunting himself, or he could force himself to keep up the deception of friendliness until his moment presented itself. It wasn't a hard choice.

Friendliness? You!? the voice in his brain-box crippled itself laughing at him, the sound grating on his nerves.

Aurelius shrugged it off, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Sheathing one of his knives, he glanced over his shoulder at the pair, seeing Flint falter a little, his movements sluggish.

"Keep movin', basher," he snapped, "or I'll gladly pen you in the dead-book myself."

He reminded himself he was supposed to be playing the ally, the rescuer, etc. Taking a deep, calming breath, forcing down the urge to knife both of them and just call it a day, he walked closer, seeing the polluted ochre sky of Ettermire, knowing they were unlikely to get attacked again this close to the surface. Grabbing the more lucid of the two, the chit, he led her by the arm away from Flint by a few steps. Up close, he could see her wounds were mainly superficial- a few nasty deep ones that'd need stitching, but apart from a few scars, she'd heal up fine. Judging by the way he was dragging his feet, muttering, eyes glazed, the basher wasn't as lucky.

"Look, girlie, what's your name?" he asked.

Her eyes unfocused through sheer terror, and apparent horror, she mumbled a response. "... ed". Even with his heightened senses, the warlock had difficulty making her out. He asked again, and the response was louder this time.

**"Luned."**

"Alright Luned, I'm Aurelianus. Mark me, luv, you and your minder are in pretty bad shape. If you don't want to be deader's by nightfall, you're gonna 'ave to trust me, and 'elp me with 'im. You both need patched up 'fore you bleed out, so let's 'ave no if's, no but's. Do what I say, when I say it," he shook her lightly to make sure she was focused. "We clear?" he asked forcefully.

***

An hour later, and the unlikely allies were calling kip in a disused warehouse, far enough away from any sewer entrance that they could all relax a fraction. The ochre skies were darkening above, the thick smog and impending darkness making the sun a barely visible pale disc against the thick, dirty sky. Aurelius had made sure they weren't tailed, still wary of this Swanra'an tracking them. Was it her who'd sent the thing in to tear into the chit? So far, Luned hadn't really been in the proper mind-set to offer any answers, and Flint was barely conscious.

Aurelius had went out for a while, to gather some things they would all need, and to keep up the pretence of being "on their side". It wasn't difficult to find what he needed- a bottle of strong booze, and some clothes for the bedraggled pair back in the warehouse. The former, he'd bought from a nearby tavern, loaded to the rafters with labourers from the industrial district. But he'd had no trouble. The clothing, on the other hand, had taken a little while. But after finding two Aleraran elves (both male) engaging in some.. amorous activities in a darkened alleyway...

Well, Aurelius hoped Luned and Flint didn't notice the minor blood splatters on the dark clothing.

He slipped through the door of the warehouse, checking again to make sure they weren't being watched, before he headed to the little enclosed space he'd left the pair in. It was walled in by shippig crates, out of view of all the grimy windows in this shit-hole. Luned was sitting dejectedly, muttering about "Helethra", whatever the pike that meant, and Flint was passed out on the floor, in a cold sweat. A sorrier pair of sods you couldn't 'ope to meet. An' I'm the berk who 'as to patch 'em up, he sneered, setting out all his supplies on top of a crate as a makeshift table; needle and thread, bandages, the bottle of Aleraran T'keela, some gauze he'd picked up somewhere, and finally, from its strap at his belt, Herzaa's blade. The notched and curved dagger used to belong to Aurelius' only real friend, a long time ago, and was as much a surgical tool as a weapon.

"Right then," he grinned wickedly, toying with the razor-edged curving knife, "Who's first?"

***

Luned came first, and oh, but her screams were sweet when they came. Aurelius had sat her on another of the wooden crates, throwing a tarp over it to make it at least a little more comfortable, before he started working at her wounds.

"Stay still," he warned, "and 'ere," he added as an afterthought- he handed her a strip of leather. Seeing her understanding, the tiefling nodded- she's a canny chit, I'll say that for 'er. He tried to focus, and remember all the handy little tricks Herzaa had ever taught him for patching up wounds. He turned to the equipment laid out, picking up the bottle and popping the cork out of it. The smell of almost pure alcohol assaulted his nostrils, but he took a swig anyway before offering the bottle to Luned.

"Drink up, luv. You look like you could use it," he smirked. As soon as she handed him back the bottle, the tiefling struck, quick as a snake; shoving Luned onto her back, he poured a healthy measure of the bub over her face, soaking her wounds, cleaning them out in a wash of burning pain. She screamed, the sound caressing Aurelius' like a lover's fingers, sending a shiver up his spine. Oh, when he got his hands on the Swaysong, he would have fun with this one. Her hands shoved at him ineffectually, and he laid the bottle aside, pinning her down as the alcohol cleansed the injuries. It only took a few moments.

After that, he picked up the discarded strip of leather, standing over the whimpering chit. He waved the strip in front of her, "now, do I 'ave to tie you down, or will you grow a pair and sit still while I do this next bit?"

To her credit, she didn't move- besides flinching- while he stitched her deeper wounds. His bedside manner could have used improvement, but Aurelius managed to get her sorted, even applying gauze and bandages to cover the injuries. She looked like she'd been in a bar-fight with a Baatezu, but she'd live.

His own wounds had taken a fraction of the time, and after using a handy little incantation to repair his tattoos, the tiefling had donned his viciously barbed armour again. He was too peery a body to stay unprotected around anyone- even this sorry pair of addle-coves.

Now came the hard part- Flint.

***

It was another hour of work before Aurelius was satisfied with the short-framed basher, but he was done.

The basher's shoulder wound had been the biggest bastard- it had become infected, and when the fever peaked, the silly sod had been ranting incoherently, flailing at Aurelianus as he tried to clean and stitch the wound. Even with Luned there to try and calm him down, the berk had kept trying to fight Aurelius off, stopping him from performing first-aid. The tiefling had to fight off the urge to just nick his throat and be done with it, but he needed the sod alive- no matter how little he liked it, he had to pay the music.

He turned to Luned, raising his pierced eyebrow. "Do me a favour- when 'e wakes up, tell 'im 'e needed this."

Before Luned could voice her question, he turned to the delirious basher, and hammered a fist across his jaw- Flint's head snapped to the side, and he slumped down flat on the floor, out cold.

That had made the work easier, and he was now as healed as Drak'shal could manage. Once again, he mouthed a silent thanks to the long-departed spirit of Herzaa- if it hadn't been for the grim sod, the warlock would never have managed to wash out the deep shoulder wound, sinking the tip of his knife into it to dig out the chipped shard of rat tooth left embedded there when Luned had kicked the mangy animal off. After that, he had used a burst of fire to stem the bleeding, and sown the nasty gash shut. It wasn't as easy as his friend had always made it look, but he managed alright. And the sheer bloody satisfaction he had received from punching Flint in the teeth had helped assuage his temper for the moment.

Speaking of the bald bastard, a grunt from across the little space they were hiding in told Aurelianus he was waking up. The tiefling got to his feet, throwing a set of clothes to each of the Sewer Rats, as he turned his back.

"They should fit," he said over his shoulder, lighting a cigarette and puffing away happily.

After a few minutes, he sat back down, planting his heavy boots up on the crate. Resting an arm on his knee, he rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. It's been a soddin' long night, he mused, the exhaustion just setting in. Idly chewing on one of his spikes of hair, the half-breed turned to the patchwork pair, serpentine eyes darting between them.

"So," he said, after a few moments, "which one of you sods is going to lann me the dark of this ride?"