Gaolhouse Rock (closed)

[Otto]

Otto never actually expected Kaphyka to go down. The old sod was about as tough as they came - but the hellspawn had bested him without taking a scratch in return. What sort of chance did Otto have against that? With Kaphyka out, everything changed.

When have you ever won a fight, thinking like that?

Never. Otto had rejected death too many times to start falling into that old trap again. He had to think, and play his strengths against his opponent's weakness. Unfortunately, both of those seemed quite small at the moment... but what was the alternative? Otto squared himself, and shrugged a reply to Aurelius' goad.

"As you wish", stated the orc.

Perhaps it wasn't so hopeless after all. This 'Aurelius' had actually done him a favour by swapping over to that cleaver; such weapons lacked the sheer punch of a good dagger, which was what had got the tiefling through Otto's mail sleeve before. If he could just get the cleaver to hit his shield along the grain, it might just wedge into the wood and give him the advantage that he needed. He gave the shield an experimental twist, and winced. The odds of that happening weren't looking too good.

"Otto!".

Becker must have heard the commotion, and decided to check out the hallway. Aurelius' gaze darted away to the source of the noise... but Otto's didn't. He capitalised on the sudden distraction by stepping in with an outward swing at the tiefling's ribs - but Aurelius skipped backwards without missing a beat, and the hammer fell short once more. Now that there was a bit more space between them, Otto allowed himself to glance down the corridor, and saw that William had managed to come along as well. Becker had her mace at the ready, while Bill's sword was sheathed, left arm occupied with some sort of walking stick, the other one grasping Otto's spear.

Aurelius, meanwhile, seemed more amused than concerned by this development.

"Dear oh dear, what a sorry circus you lot are", he chuckled. "I'd 'ave loved to 'ave drawn it out, cutter - but frankly, you're forcing my 'and".

Then he charged.

Otto didn't try to defend himself. Rather, he squared his shoulders, hunched down, and leapt forward to meet Aurelius head on. He'd take the small risk of that chopper slipping past his mail if it meant that he could stop the tiefling in his tracks. And if he went down, well, the low swing of Otto's hammer would still spell farewell to the other fellow's kneecap. After that, two should be enough to stick the bastard till he stopped moving, even if one of them could hardly walk.

Too bad he misjudged Aurelius' intent entirely. It was another feint, and the tiefling rolled nimbly to the side, darting past the orc and grabbing his Baatorian dagger on the way. Otto turned to see Aurelius bound up the stairs three at a time, with but a grating cackle lingering in his wake.

"Thaynes, Kaphyka...".

Otto turned to Becker, who had crouched over the sergeant's corpse. She looked up, and Otto saw the same question in both her and Tallow's eyes: what now?

They were expecting him to give them the answers. Technically, they were all the same rank... but Otto was the most senior, and the most experienced. Kaphyka was out of it, now, and those were some pretty big shoes to fill.

"We need to patch you up", William said, nodding at the orc's bloodied arm.

"Agreed. Let's get back to the guard room. Becker, help me with Kaphyka".

They each took an arm and dragged the corpse back down the corridor. William took the lead, while Otto and Becker moved backwards, so as to keep a watch behind them. Once inside, they barred the door again; before it closed, Otto took note of the long, red smear which now ran the length of the hall. They moved Kaphyka into a corner, and Becker set about bandaging Otto's arm after he had propped his shield against a table leg. He looked around for a seat, and found the splintered remains of a chair by the hearth. William noted Otto's focus of attention, and pointedly tapped his new walking stick. The orc planted his rear on the table instead, leaving a chair for the other man.

"What the hell is going on?", Becker growled. She gave one end of a freshly-applied tourniquet a sharp tug, and Otto grimaced.

"Not sure", he replied. "Far as we saw, there's just one man, if you can call him that. He's bloody good, though".

"How'd he get in?", asked William.

"Through Rurin, I think", Otto replied. His eyes were pointed downwards, but he didn't seem to be focusing on anything in particular.

The three of them went still and silent. A sudden melancholic air enhanced the gloom within the unlit guard post.

William was the first to shake it off. "They should be taking Kaphyka out in a few minutes", he mumbled. "Once they realise that our sergeant has been killed, they'll investigate, won't they?".

"We could easily hole up here until then", added Becker.

"No", said Otto, but softly. The other two aimed their puzzled faces in his direction.

"No?", Becker repeated.

"Look at the body - he's grabbed Kaphyka's keys. If we barricade ourselves in here, that bastard can walk out any time he wants. We have to delay him. We have to hold the exit".

"Hells! He took out Carrin before we even knew he was here", William snarled. "And he bested Kaphyka in a two on one fight. I can hardly walk, and your arm is useless! All we'll do is get ourselves killed".

"If this wasn't the Citadel, that would mean something", Becker countered. "Otto may be right".

"We need to get to the armoury. He's quick, but I don't fancy his odds against a crossbow or two", concluded Otto. William either didn't have any more objections, or he was keeping them to himself, because he gave a single, curt nod.

Becker grabbed her mace. "Let's go, then", she suggested.

* * *

The pall of smoke had only thickened in the outside air. Otto had been expected to find to find Carrin's body as they had left it, open to the sky, but the thing was nowhere in sight. He must have been pulled from the arena, his wounds on their way to being mended by the monks. It was nearly impossible to tell against the stink of lingering ash, but there may have been just the merest hint of cooked flesh in the air. Whatever the case, things were far from pleasant out by the dusty dirt path in front of the jail. Otto was getting the worst of it, but Tallow and Becker hadn't been able to stop from coughing up a lung or two from the irritating haze.

"Let me try", said Becker. She put a hand on Otto's shoulder, suggesting he step back and make room. He did so, if a little grudgingly.

"I'm telling you", he grumbled. "It's stuck".

"I'm inclined to agree", William added. Still, he and Becker continued to slam their weight into the tall doors - without success.

"There's a little give. It's not locked - I think something's blocking it", said Becker.

William's face was wrenched tight as he gave a sudden shout. "SHIT!". He moved as though to kick the oak, but quickly thought better of it. "We're trapped. We're trapped in here with him".

But Otto wasn't listening. He had meandered back out from the small gatehouse, to stand in the open yard before the jail. Dull, orange sunlight filtered through the smog and glinted balefully off the freshly exposed metal on his sallet as it turned this way and that. After a few seconds, it stopped moving; the orc had locked on to an area to their far right, by the looks of it, and he raised a finger to point at his discovery.

"There", was all he said. Tallow limped over, but didn't seem to be sure of what he was looking at.

"What is it?", he asked. Otto lowered his arm and shook his head.

"Back to the guard post. We need to check it out, first".

The other two fell in line easily enough. Perhaps they actually trusted his command, reckoned Otto. The trio moved cautiously through the doors into processing, and even more warily along its worn stone flooring. Perhaps they thought he knew what he was doing. Perhaps he did. And, perhaps, they felt just some measure of safety because of it. Well... Otto could understand the attraction, if that was the case. But he knew that safe was the least of what they were, and that knowledge was brought sharply to the fore as he laid a hand on the door to the corridor past Processing.

A tortured shriek flung itself along the halls, muffled but hardly diminished by the heavy door of the room. As the scream dragged on, the sheer power behind it slackened into something doomed and desperate, until it suddenly died off altogether. Otto, Tallow and Becker exchanged deeply unnerved looks.

"We have to move", commanded Otto. He slammed through the portal and, letting the other two past, matched Tallow's frantic hobble towards the guard post.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

My One hundredth post!

Aurelius bounded up the stairs, still laughing his merry arse off after seeing the state of the remaining guards.

If that's the best of their new recruits, I 'ave pike all to worry about, he chuckled. He had tested their fresh blood, and it was sorely wanting. He had even managed to take down a veteran soldier, and so far there wasn't a mark on his pristine flesh. But the Orc.. that was a canny sod, Aurelius could tell. Even now, he could hear the grey-skin directing the other two berks, moving back to a more defensible position.

A door came into view at the top of the stairs, and without missing a beat, the tiefling shouldered his way through it, taking chunks out of the wood with his bladed leathers.

He emerged into what appeared to be a library, before eventually coming to a halt. Breathing a little heavier, he parked his ears- but there was no sign of pursuit. Good, got a little time for a breather, he thought, sheathing his cleaver. It sat snuggly against his shin, the base of the sheath held in place with one of the heavy leather straps on his boots. His Baatorian blade was kept in his hand though; it wouldn't do to get complacent. Not when he had so little time, and especially not when the bastards were so ripe for the taking.

As he stalked through the library, alert for any sign on a threat, a slow ache crept into his arms. He shook them out as best he could, the muscles sore from the strain of his little stunt with the warhammer. The tusker sod's got some swing on 'im, he admitted, licking his fangs in contemplation. As he had thought, the hammer made the guard slower than his Cager opponent, but not as much as the plane-touched warlock might have thought.

He'd have to be careful with that one.

He clicked his tongue idly against the roof of his mouth as he tried to tumble to what he should do next.

Then he remembered what was clutched in his right hand; Sergeant Kaphyka's keys...

A slow, malicious smirk split Aurelius' mouth in a sharp-edged grin.

***

To start with, the half-breed sprinted around the prison, making sure to lock every exit from the building, without going too near the guard post.. he wanted to draw out that little morsel of mayhem as much as possible.

To that end, the tiefling malcontent went to gather the troops.

Five minutes later, panting from the run, the tiefling was crouched outside of cell-block G.I, keeping his senses on alert. The guards were fairly piked, but if they managed to get the drop on him, they could still end him. Trying to slow his breathing and ignore the fire in his lungs, Aurelius slid the heay iron key in the sturdy lock, feeling the solid thud as it opened.

As the plane-touched insurrectionist sauntered into the cell-block, one Baatorian knife held in his grasp loosely, his serpentine eyes took in every pertinent detail of the room. Running down each wall of the long, narrow room were two rows of steel-barred little cells. There were, a quick scan told him, around six cells crowding each filthy stone wall. His pale lips quirked up into a smile as he marked the poor sods hunched on the straw and shit smeared floors of the cages. There was a single door at either end of the room, and apart from that, not a whole lot more. Well, that's 'ardly a surprise. After all, it is a birdcage, he mused, using his city's term for any sort of prison. Something caught his attention, and he ducked a flying lump of shit, followed by a raucous roar of laughter from the prisoners. A few more sailed his way, exploding against the walls in wet, brown starbursts.

Smiling, chuckling along with the prisoners hoots and calls, Drak'shal stepped further into the dank little hallway. It wasn't until he was standing next to the first cell that the inmate noticed the features of the bladed horror before him.

"He ain't a guard!" the man hollered, keeping his eyes on Aurelius, his hand surreptitiously fishing around in the vermin-riddled straw at his feet. The other prisoners quietened down a bit, finally realising something was amiss.

Now, surprise was a valuable weapon; it had allowed Aurelius to wound the Orc, and to pen his sergeant in the Dead-book; it had let him maim and murder the other soldier outside. It was one of the reasons the Anarchist kept his tactics unpredictable at best, and unfathomable at worst. But there was another tool at the half-demon's disposal - one far more potent.

Fear.

Flint Skovik (a basher Aurelius had first encountered back in the nightmare sewers of Ettermire) had it right; fear was the best weapon in anyone's arsenal, if they knew how to use it. It would keep a body honest. And it would keep these berks in line for as long as he required their services. His fist lashed out, catching the nearest man by the collar of his ragged tunic; Aurelius yanked him forward, smashing the man against the bars. The man lashed out with his hand instantly, catching even Aurelianus by surprise- more so when he felt the sharp stab of cold steel against his flesh. He looked down, seeing the small, crude chiv held in the dirty fist, buried in his shoulder. He snarled, even as the other man screamed, his hand slashed open by the barbs and blades on the warlock's armour. Black blood trickling from the small hole, Drak'shal lashed out and caught the hand in his own. The tiefling slowly forced the hand up, drawing the small blade out of his flesh, before giving the arm a vicious wrench.

It snapped against the steel bars, the radius and ulna grating together under his flesh, tearing out in some places with washes of rich crimson. A harsh shriek burst from the prisoner's lips. But the half-breed wasn't done.

Making sure to meet the eye of every other prisoner he could see, he sent a burst of Hellfire from his palm, setting the howling wretch aflame in a heartbeat.

The screams were music to the black-hearted warlock's thoroughly-pierced ears.

By the time he finally let go of the charred corpse, his fingerless leather gloves smoking at the edges, skin feeling raw and tight across his knuckles, the cell-block was silent. None of the other prisoners dared make a move.

He smiled to himself.

Fear.

Ignoring the thick smoke coming off the body in waves, Aurelius turned to the rest of the prisoners, gauging each of them with his keen, inhuman gaze. He strolled down the room, letting the tip of his green-steel knife rattle along the bars. At his passing, each of the man backed off a step, some glaring with undisguised hatred, others with genuine terror. It appeared the Ai'brone had worked hard to make their little apparitions as life-like as they could. Aurelius admitted to himself, he was impressed.

"Right," he said, ignoring the sharp sting of the small hole in his shoulder. "Which one of you sorry bastards will speak for the rest of 'em?"

A Salvaran stepped forward, his enormously muscled frame taking up fully half of the small cell. A matted beard hung down over his barrel chest, and as he crossed his thick arms, Aurelius noted the hundreds of scars marring the man's flesh. A fighter, without doubt. A proper butcher, and the tiefling could practically taste the murders staining the Salvaran's soul.

"I do," he rumbled, with a voice like two bricks trying to mate, his mouth full of rotten teeth. He jabbed a thumb at himself, and said one word. "Denga."

I'm guessin' that's 'is name, Aurelius thought, chuckling with mirth. Mutters greeted Denga's words, and from the corner of his eye, the Cager marked a few edging away from their ad hoc leader, in the cells to either side. Obviously they expected the big basher to try something. His bladed leather catching the dim light of the room, the half-breed stepped up to the cell, ignoring the hands from the other cells whipping out to try and grab him, the roars of the inmates gaining in volume as they tried to kill the creature in their midst. But his attention was locked on the big basher.

Aurelius saw the veins twitching in the man's huge arms, saw the tension a moment before he attacked. As the fist-topped battering rams came smashing out of the cell, buckling the bars, the plane-touched danced back a step, keeping just out of reach. With a flourish of his Baatorian blade, he sliced through each of Denga's wrists in a single swipe, tearing the flesh ragged with the serrated weapon. The big man yanked his arms back, jumping back, pressing against the rear wall of the cell. But there was nowhere to run - he roared in bestial fury as Aurelius calmly raised his hand, and incinerated the killer of men with a gesture. The Hellfire spread, catching the straw on the floor instantly, and within moments, the men in the two adjoining cells were on fire as well. Smoke swirled in eddies and whorls across the ceiling, the temperature in the room soaring. The inmates screamed, in fear, rage or some animalistic mix of both, but they all tried to keep as far back from the monster in the room as they could.

But Aurelius walked the length of the room, doubling back and pacing in front of the criminals, examining each in turn. No individual bravery, pack mentality, no morals, but all of them had one thing in common.

"You lads are in 'ere because of the Coronian Armed Forces," he began, seeing the uneasy glances some of the convicts shared.

"And I'm willin' to guess you want to see 'em dead as much as I do."

The captives instantly responded, barking hate and vile curses upon the CAF. A self-assured smile graced Aurelianus' pale, inhuman features.

"You lads, given 'alf a chance, would tear the bastards limb from limb, mount their 'eads on pikes." He turned to look at several of the men, nodding to the nearest, a tattooed dark elf. "Am I right?"

The man nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking to his fellow convicts for support.

"Well, boys, I 'ave a treat for you then." He gestured to the blood splattered across his alabaster flesh, trailing the knife in his other hand through the smoke in the air. "This blood is Kaphyka's!" he announced, gloating despite the fact the old cutter had peeled him good and proper. The criminals stared in open shock, and many more in sheer delight- clearly the veteran gaoler didn't endear himself to his prisoners. "He brought some friends with 'im; rookies, recruits and youngbloods. They're 'oled up somewhere in this prison, and they're wounded."

The air in the room instantly crackled with tension. He had their attention now, ever the orator. They moved to the doors of their cells, grimy fists wrapped, white-knuckled, around the steel bars. Their would-be saviour watched, noting those who licked their lips, marking who was looking to the charred corpses, who was eyeing the keys in his fist.. and finally, the berks with their peepers on his weapons.

"So, how about I unlock these cages, and you can get your paws on the bastards who put you away? What say you, lads?" he shouted, his voice ringing from the stone walls. The Anarchist spread his arms wide, charms, glyphs and talismans rattling around his bracer-bound forearms, turning on the spot as he gazed upon his small army.

The roars of approval were deafening in the narrow confines of the cell-block.

***

Mere minutes later, the planewalker was watching the small mob of convicts swarm down the hallway to the doors of the guard post. Two had tried their luck at attacking him to gain his weapons, and the keys.

Those men were now deaders, left bleeding across the dirty floor of their cell-block.

The rest had came willingly, if not through respect and fear of Aurelius, then from a deep-seated hatred of the Coronian Armed Forces. The surviving six from cell-block G.I. had been joined by another eight from the next corridor of cells; it had almost been too easy. A few shows of brutality, a few arbitrary murders here and there to instill fear, and the merest hint of a chance at revenge...

The bloodthirsty mob howled down toward the small (but sturdy) wooden door, the strongest instantly trying to break it down.

Keenly aware that he didn't know just how much time he had left to play, he still couldn't resist having a little more fun at the soldiers' expense. He halted the prisoners with a shrill, sharp whistle, hostile eyes turning to the blade-covered monster in their midst. Drak'shal knew these bastards would just as gladly turn on him, or even each other, without a moment's thought.

They just needed the right motivation, to do what he wanted.

"I want the Orc taken alive," he stated, ignoring the wave of anger radiating from the rabble. "And the bloke with the buggered leg is mine." The half-breed folded his arms across his barbed and bladed chest, cocking his head as he weathered the rage-fueled tirades of his minions. "You can have the other one."

"Why the fuck should we--"

"You never said anyt--"

"-- bastard, we want to--"

Aurelius summoned a ball of Hellfire into his palm, quieting the masses in an instant. The warlock watched every tense muscle, every set of teeth ground as the mob debated silently whether or not to just tear apart the abomination. And Aurelianus knew they could; yes, he could take a good few of them down with him, but that would upset his fun.

A slow smirk graced his face again, as he held a finger to his lips, making sure the last dissenter had ceased rattling his bone-box before he spoke again.

"Did I mention the other guard is a woman?"

The door was broken down in under a minute.

[Otto]

Congrats

Another scream filled the lower level as Otto slammed the bar down behind the guard post door. This one was even louder than the other, deeper and more feral. William paled upon hearing it.

"I think I know which one that was", he said hoarsely.

While Tallow eased himself onto a seat, Otto slammed the bars down behind the door, and Becker gave the room a quick inspection. Kaphyka's corpse had disappeared, just like Carrin's, leaving behind nothing but a smear and a pool of blood. It glistened in the dark, catching the odd glint of reddened sunlight which wormed its way in through the mean little windows. Most of the room was devoid of colour, the three figures little more than vague shapes in the gloom. This was remedied when Otto kindled a rather fat candle with the tinderbox above the hearth; the warm orange light wasn't much, but it was enough to see by now that the column of smoke outside had begun to obscure the sun.

"It doesn't look like anything's been disturbed. What did you want to show us, Otto?", asked Becker.

"We need to go up", he stated. They looked at the ladder in the corner, then at William's leg, and finally, Otto's arm.

"Think you can make it?" Becker speired at William. He nodded.

"I'll just let my arms do the climbing", he replied.

Otto and Becker went first. After another quick scout around, they concluded that the upper room had also been spared from Aurelius' intrusions. This floor was a little lighter, its windows somewhat larger; at this height, the risk of escaped inmates being able to reach the apertures was arguably minimal. The sound of Tallow's laboured ascent continued, and the other two went back to the trapdoor. They grabbed an arm each, and with synchronised grunts of effort, yanked their comrade up and into the room. The man righted himself while Otto set the candle down atop the mantelpiece and proceeded towards the windows.

"Now what's he doing?", William clipped, heading to the western door. "Playing with the inmates?".

"Could be", Otto said, peering out into the haze. "There".

William remained where he was, ear pressed against the door, but Becker strode over to join Otto at the window. The orc was leaning out and pointing a finger at a tall, thin wall which came out of the prison building just to the north of the guard post. It served to separate the outside space in front of the building from that at the rear, the latter of which the inmates were permitted supervised access to. Unfortunately for them, reaching it would require a short walk along a ledge which ran around the outside of the room. It was just wide enough to not guarantee a lethal fall should one find themselves shuffling along it.

"Uhuh", huffed Becker. "Your plan is that we kill ourselves, saving this Aurelius the work?".

"No, that's plan B", replied a deadpan Otto. "If we can make it to the wall, then we can get to the battlement, circle around to the front, and make our way down from the smithy or armoury roof".

"Well, it's... a plan", she conceded. "What about Tallow, though?".

They shot him a look, but William didn't seem to be listening. He was pressed hard against the door, his face furrowed by a frown of concentration. At mention of his name, the man waved his hand at them irritably for silence.

"Fats?", ventured Becker. "What is it?".

"Just listen!", he hissed.

They did so.

"I hear... voices?", said Becker.

"They're getting louder", Tallow responded.

Otto's eyes were wide open, fearful golden disks. "Aurelius has the keys", he said distantly. Then, he sprung into action with a shout. "Quick! Help me with this!".

He leapt at the heavy table in the middle of the room, and tried to upend it with his good arm. It proved a little difficult on his own, but with the aid of the other two, they soon had it on its side. Otto began to roll it over to the trapdoor, which he slammed shut with a foot, and let the table fall top-down over it. Just as the furniture landed with a deafening thump, it was joined by the unhealthy noise of splintering wood from the room below. Otto grabbed Becker by the arm.

"It's the inmates!", he growled. "We have to go, now!".

Becker flicked her arm free of his grip, and stared him down. "I'll say again: what about Bill?".

"I'll go last", said the man, craning his head out the window. "But don't get your hopes up. I'm not sure my leg's up to this".

"We'll see what we can do", Otto concluded. The orc brushed past and swung a leg over the sill, and onto the ledge. "Let's get moving".

There was an exceptionally loud crash, and the voices spilled into the space below them. It seemed that the inmates had broken through already; perhaps the three of them had less time than Otto had supposed. Without looking back, he planted the other leg onto the ledge and, splayed against the wall, began to sidle his way along. The shield on his back was an uncomfortable weight, threatening to to topple him if given the slightest chance. He dare not even sneeze. Then the hammering renewed, closer this time.

"They're breaking through the upper floor!", Becker screamed. Otto looked back; the woman was half-in, half-out, and staring anxiously back into the room. "Fats! What are you doing?"

The sinister chorus almost drowned out William's reply. "Bracing the door! Go on!".

Otto watched Becker glance back at him for a moment, swear, and then begin to slide back inside. He flailed out in an attempt to grab her, but even his apishly-long arms couldn't close the gap. "Becker, come on!", he yelled.

"The doors aren't holding", she screeched back. "William needs help. Get to the exit, and raise the alert!".

"Becker-".

"You're wasting time, Bastard! Go!". With that, she ducked back inside. Otto swore heartily, but did not follow.

He continued his shuffle along the ledge, doing his best to put the jeers and shouts from his mind. He failed. The former prisoners had started off yelling in a single, chaotic manner, but now shouted in unison and in time to their blows upon the guard post's doors. And each one was slightly louder than the last. They seemed to have reached their apex by the time he got to the wall, whereupon he assessed the remaining six or seven feet which he had yet to scale. He probably should have given some more thought as to how he would manage it with a wrecked arm - but he was here now, and besides, what other choices were left? Otto offered up a single plea to the universe at large, and without waiting for a response, took a leap of faith.

He launched himself as high as he could into the nook, and at his peak, pushed his booted feet against the rough brickwork of the jailhouse. His good arm shot up and out, and hooked itself over the lip of the dividing wall. Well, Otto didn't want to wait wait for his limbs to get tired; he scrabbled madly against the two walls and heaved himself up as far as he could, which brought him high enough to get the other arm over. After that, it was simply a matter of some more undignified clambering in order to heave himself up to the summit.

Otto brought himself unsteadily to his feet, and took a proper look at his escape. At its top, the wall was no more than a foot across, and the wind was somewhat stronger here, too. All in all, it wasn't looking to good. He needed to go now, and quickly, before the demonspawn had a chance to take some more potshots at him. But one misplaced foot would see him fall two storeys in a full mail suit - hardly any less perilous. He lifted his gaze gradually, taking in the length of wall he had to make it across, and then to the battlements which rose up another few feet.

When you strike the iron, he thought, You do not watch the hammer. You keep your eyes on the target, and just swing. All in one go.

He took a deep breath, and, to the sound of a breaking door, ran. It wasn't the fastest sprint, but it was fast enough - Otto locked his eyes onto the far battlement, and let his feet sort themselves out. He dare not slow down, nor even think... as such, he did not even consider to brake before colliding with the other wall. He slammed against the solid stonework, and, wheezing, shot two arms out and over the ledge of the slightly elevated walkway, so as to stop himself from sliding off to his doom. He stayed that way for a second, until he got his breath back.

Then, with renewed screams from the guard post at his back, he hauled himself up and away.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The guard-room shook to the sheer noise of the assembled convicts. Their roars of wordless hate rebounded off the bare stone walls, their cadence and guttural cant like harsh music to the tiefling who had freed them. Even though they were mere simulations of real life, the prisoners had all the traits one would expect to find in a condemned criminal- hate, rage, fury, and most importantly after a lengthy incarceration, lust!

The warlock parked his pointed ears, the many rings piercing them catching the dim light in the room, as he listened to the panic from the room upstairs.

He could hear the woman up there, could almost taste her fear. She knew what fate awaited her.

The group huddled around the ladder, urging the three crowding the top to break through the trapdoor, to smash it to bloody pieces and let them get at the fleshy bounty within.

Leaning against the wall next to the door, Aurelius folded his arms over his chest, the worn leather of his wand-bracers scraping against the spikes and barbs of his leather armour; idly, the warlock ran a finger down the length of one bracer, his finger tracing the scrimshawed bone running down the centre. He knew it was only a matter of time before the inmates broke through, and even though he also knew he didn't have an infinite amount of time to play with the berks who so laughably called themselves "soldiers", he was content to let their fear build. They had tried to kill him, and by now, no doubt tried to give him the laugh and escape. But, with a wicked fanged smirk, the half-demon told himself he had them right where he wanted them. He had killed their leader, burned their only exit to the ground, and held the keys to their freedom.

Quite literally, he mused, twirling the heavy ring of keys in his free hand. In his other, rough demon-hide rubbing against the scuffed fingerless gloves, sat his Baatorian knife. He was keeping it close to hand, both to use it against the sods in scarlet, and as a reminder to his ad hoc army- attack me, and die. The blood coating the blade dripped from the razor-edge, pitter-pattering like a tiny drum as it impacted with the worn stone floor.

The filthy, vermin-riddled animals beat bloody fists against the trap-door, screaming vile threats, and depraved taunts at the woman bracing the slab of wood from above, along with the other two soon-to-be-deaders. The creativity, and sheer obscenity of some of the things they roared made Aurelianus chuckle to himself. She'd need to be pretty pikin' flexible to manage that, he thought in response to one particular man's hate and lust fueled tirade.

After another minute of waiting, the plane-touched's patience was rewarded, as the trap-door started to lift, ever so slightly. He could see the faintest glimmer of light peaking through the hair-breadth gap.

Aurelius pushed himself up off the wall, his face set in an eager snarl, fangs bared in anticipation.

The prisoners had noticed the lessening in resistance too, and redoubled their efforts, heaving at the trap-door, as their companions shouted encouragement, trying to climb up the ladder behind them. The wood rose a fraction more, the light from above much more noticeable now- the unwashed cast-offs of society put every bit of their effort into it, forcing the entrance open, inch by inch, until finally--

**CRUNCH**

A mace swung down from above, obliterating the skull of the first prisoner to make it through the small opening in the stone ceiling. His face collapsed in on itself, showering those beneath with thick blood, brain matter and shards of bone.

The warlock sighed to himself as the man fell from the ladder, taking some of his fellows with him, others diving back and letting the slab of iron-enforced wood slam back into place.

"It's a pikin' cripple, and one chit!" he roared, cold, snake-like eyes flashing with anger at the assembled murderers, rapists, thieves and thugs, gesturing in wild exasperation with his blade. Some of them regained their feet, moving to climb the ladder again, before the warlock darted forward, shoving them roughly aside. Yes, the group could turn on him like the wild dogs they were, but in his eagerness to taste the blood of the Coronian soldiers holed up in the room above, the tiefling didn't care.

And as he raised his hand and sent a blast of pure arcane energy thundering into the small barrier, neither did the inmates. They could sense which way the wind was blowing, and most of them had seen what had happened to the last men to try and fight their liberator. Faced with their own mortality, it really wasn't much of a choice at all.

They would much rather fuck than fight.

His inhuman eyes blazing with concentration, Aurelinaus channeled his willpower into the Eldritch Blasts, launching them as fast as he could- the wood resisted at first, but not for long. Even with the guards bracing it from above, his magicks were more powerful than any mortal could hope to be. He kept up the barrage, his small mob keeping a wary distance. He could hear the woman screaming at her partners to hold fast... but after a moment something managed to filter through to Aurelius' brain-box.

There's only one bastard answerin' 'er back!

He knew in that heartbeat that the orc, Otto, wasn't up there. He had made it out of the guard post. The light filtering in from outside... there had to be a window up there.. it all made sense. Well, that didn't matter. The Cager could track down the orc after he had finished dealing with the grey-skin's allies. After all, it wasn't like had a plethora of places he could go from here. All this meant was that he had abandoned his friends to the depredations of the half-demon and his bloodthirsty rabble.

Never halting in his arcane assault for a second, Aurelius glanced at a human standing close by, chewing his lips bloody as he waited for the door to break open. He caught the Anarchist's serpentine gaze, and froze.

"Take these," the half-demon snarled, throwing the heavy set of keys at the man, "and let the rest of the boys out to play." He didn't wait for an answer before returning to his miniature siege.

The man made to argue, but he had seen what this bastard had managed to do to Denga, and wisely kept his tongue behind rotted teeth. Picking the keys up off from where they had landed, he staggered back through the sweating, heaving crowd, before sprinting to the other cell-blocks. If he was fast enough, he might even get to the woman before she was completely used up!

Back in the guard-room, a dent appeared in the surface of the oak, followed by a thin veil of hairline cracks. Sensing how close he was to getting at his prey, Drak'shal barked a few words in the guttural tongue of the Nine Hells, running a black tongue over his lips. The guards were losing the fight- his mouth was watering at the prospect. Switching back to Tradespeak, he shouted at the men standing ready around the room to move their arses back to the ladder. They didn't wait to be told twice, and in seconds, four burly, unclean brutes were bracing their hands against the slab of wood and metal, their comrades holding them up as they forced it open. Everyone present could hear the desperation of the shouts from above, hear the near panic of the Coronian law-dogs cloistered within. Like wolves moving in for the kill, the prisoners crowded the ladder, eyes fixed on the only entrance to the upper room.

With one final triumphant roar, the gathered scum managed to ram the trap-door open, throwing the guards, and whatever they had piled on top of it, free with a strength born of sheer rage.

As the plane-touched had anticipated, another ambush was waiting for the first man to crest the wooden ladder. A spear this time. It bit deep into the throat of the elf, unleashing a mist of arterial spray from his grimy neck.

Another one down, but plenty more where that came from, he smiled a predator's smile.

Before the men could even make another move, however, Aurelius was sprinting at the ladder, his enchanted knife gripped fiercely in one fist. Leaping onto the back of a lice-riddled Orc, and a grubby Dwarf, the tiefling kicked off them, spring-boarding himself into the air, and tearing past the other convicts trying to be the first to the woman. He shot through in a bladed blur, landing in a crouch at the very edge of the opening. Even as he regained his feet, the female soldier was assaulting him, trying to drive the grotesque horror back down into the guard-post ground floor with a solid looking mace.

Without halting for a moment, the murdering half-breed dived forward with all the speed he could muster, rolling under the clumsy swing of the heavy weapon. Springing nimbly to his feet the Cager lashed out with his right hand; but he didn't use the blade gripped tightly in his white-knuckled fist. Instead, he used the curving front quillon of his Baatorian green-steel weapon as a knuckle-duster, pulverising the cartilage in the chit's nose. Close quarters fighting, in all it's gritty, dirty brutality, was like second-nature to the Sigil-native tiefling, and he knew exactly where to hit to cause the most damage.

The steel caved in her nose, instantly blurring her vision with tears, and making breathing feel like she was trying to pass fire through her nostrils. But her training kicked in and even as the blow blinded her, she lashed out wildly with her weapon.

But, she was outclassed by the quicker, more experienced gutternsipe, and Aurelius caught the haft of her mace in his empty hand, turning with the momentum of the blow. Spinning on his heel, inside the woman's guard, he managed to nick her fingers with the vicious barbs on the leather straps circling his elbow. The scream was visceral, and to the depraved mind of the malcontent, it was like the purest aphrodisiac.

Unsurprisingly, as the keen blades and spikes parted her pale flesh, the gutsy chit's hand spasmed, dropping her mace... but Aurelius still had his hand wrapped tightly around the wooden haft. Still turning, the move taking less than two heartbeats of time, he spun low and smashed the heavy head of the guard's own weapon into her right knee. The wet, tearing sound of her ligaments giving way, and her kneecap being reduced to gravel inside her skin were deafeningly loud in the small attic-chamber.

But they were nothing compared to her screams.

Standing over the broken body of the chit, his blood up, and his patience exhausted, Drak'shal grinned viciously- they had teased him for long eno--

A white-hot lance of pain was driven into the tielfing's shoulder, dropping him to a knee even as he roared in agony and anger, his brain-box screaming at him he'd forgotten something.

The pikin' cripple!

In his haste to take the bitch out of the fight, Aurelius had forgotten about her wounded companion, lying half-buried under the overturned table.

He had taken the warlock off guard, and had even managed to draw blood from the insurrectionist bastard. That'll pikin' teach me to be more peery, Aurelius thought sourly, reaching back to tear the length of steel out of his back. It came loose with a small gush of inky blood, and a string of Infernal invectives from the wounded killer. But rising back to his feet, fangs gritted as he tried to ignore the burning pain pulsating in his shoulder blade, Aurelianus tore the weapon from the crippled soldier's grip and tossed it aside. Placing a boot on the surface of the heavy table, he pressed down hard, eliciting a yell of agony from the human pinned beneath- the shuriken still embedded in the flesh of his leg was forced deeper into him, ripping flesh like tissue and soaking the already stained bandages crimson.

"I'll deal with you in a minute," the devil sneered, fury burning in his soulless eyes.

With a final, unnecessary stomp on the table, he turned his attentions back to the bloody chit, lying on the ground, her watery eyes throwing daggers at her attacker.

She reached for her dagger but the torment of her wounds dulled her reactions, and the warlock blasted the weapon out of her hand with a casual gesture.

"Now, now, luv. Careful, or you could 'urt someone," the bastard smirked, forcing himself not to show the pain he felt in his back.

His slit pupils narrowed as they came to rest on the sword-and-feather badge of the Coronian Armed Forces and with a grunt of contempt and disgust, he spat on it.

"You boys ready for 'er?" he called down to his own soldiers, smirking at the chorus of jeering, slobbering voices that bubbled up from below.

Pale hands, like marble claws, gripped the brown-haired chit's collar, dragging her eyes up to meet his own.

"Your laws," his voice cut through the fugue of Becker's pain like a knife, "are a joke. A corrupt mockery. You profess to keep the people safe, secure.. lies," he hissed. "You keep the masses docile, and force obedience from any with the mind an' the balls to speak out against you. These "laws" are a noose around the neck of every free soul in the lands you infest. Everyone," he snarled, shaking the chit to emphasise his point, "everyone 'as to be free to make their own choices. To find the truth of their own existence, find their own reasons to be who they are, and become who they want to be."

He stood, dragging the soldier close to him in a laughable parody of a lover's embrace. His bladed armour tore her clothing where it touched.

"Who the fuck" he barked, liking the way the unusual word felt on his forked tongue, "are you, to deny them that right? You want to see the truth, see what your law does to people? I'll show you, luv."

His smile was as cold as the grave Becker was wishing for at that moment, with every fibre of her being.

He dragged her body to the edge of the trap-door, slapping her hard to put a stop to her feeble protests. As soon as the chit came into sight, the men below went into a frenzy, stamping their feet, roaring like lions ready for the feast. The woman saw all this over her shoulder, saw the way her blood dripped onto the braying mob below.

She wept.

"Those men, an' I do use that term loosely," he grinned, "they all hate you." Even in her near delirious state of panic, she could sense the bastard's cruel satisfaction at what was about to happen. "And d'you know why? Because your laws punished them for acting in accordance with their own natures. You hunted them down like animals, and you caged them."

The men were almost frothing at the mouth by now, the anticipation almost more than they could bear.

"You bastards, you all saw yourselves as so much higher, and more righteous than these sods. After all, you had the law on your sides. You all 'ad the pikin' arrogance to sit in judgement of these bodies right 'ere." He dragged Becker closer, their faces almost touching. "And now you get to see what it feels like when others take your choices out of your 'ands."

He pressed his lips to the woman's, feeling her revulsion, feeling her soul-crushing panic as he let go of her collar. Their kiss ended as she fell through the hole.. and into the waiting hands of the beasts below.

***

She had screamed as the first man tore his way into her.

She had screamed as the second climbed on top, rutting like an animal.

She had screamed at the third, at the fourth, the fifth...

And oh! how she had screamed when the inmates had decided they lacked patience, and tore her open from the back as well!

Aurelius had witnessed every moment of it, savouring the misery he was inflicting, albeit vicariously. And he had not witnessed it alone; he had forced the crippled soldier, the man, to watch, to listen, to experience his companion's torture.

Through it all, Aurelius had perched at the precipice, like a malignant spider, his eyes glittering with inhumanly dark thoughts as he kept the other human's eyes pried open, holding his head in an iron grip, so that he could not look away, no matter how hard he tried.

The woman was eclipsed from view in the sweating, heaving tide of rank flesh, rancid breath, and the clammy embraces of lust... her body would heal- in fact, Aurelius wasn't sure whether her real body was even present in this Citadel-produced simulation. But whether or not her flesh was actually here was irrelevant. The important thing was her mind was. Her body could be repaired, fixed, pieced back together good as new.

But her mind was shattered beyond repair.

Her screams had reached a destroyed crescendo, ringing out into the air like the voices of some angelic choir, and bringing a heartless smile to Aurelianus Drak'shal's pale lips.

***

But that had been a while ago now.

Now, all that could be heard from below were the grunts of the inmates as they continued to take turns abusing Becker, finding limitless joy when they found a new way to defile the woman. That, and the occasional tormented moan from the desecrated plaything. For some of them, it was years worth of catharsis, venting every ounce of hatred and misery onto this- an avatar of the institutions that had seen them stripped of their freedoms.

Aurelius mused on the circular logic of it all- some of the men were monsters to begin with, true, but would never have been half as bad as they were now, if not for the fact they'd been imprisoned. Their incarceration had simply allowed their hatred to fester, to become pure, so they now took much more pleasure in the shit, blood and cum on their hands than they ever would have before.

Hells, I bet some of those sods down there were only in here for thievery. Now look at 'em- accomplished rapists, and given the chance, they'd gladly murder any of the scarlet-coats to cross their paths. Well, tell a body 'e's a monster often enough, and it's no surprise when 'e becomes just that.

He did his musing, while Herzaa's blade parted the flesh of Tallow, lying splayed open to the elements beneath him.

The man-- well, with a glance over the gore-soaked upper-floor room of the guard-post, Aurelius admitted Tallow could no longer be considered a man-- had finally cracked, sobbing as he watched the debauchery below. Knowing he wasn't going to get any more fun out of the berk that way, the Cager had opted to do some spontaneous re-decorating.

Using the human's organs.

He had kept the sorry little wretch alive as long as he was able given the time restrictions, and the fact he wanted to make sure the Orc had a nice set of surprises waiting for him- but the mortal form only held so much blood.

Well... he sniggered, standing up from his demented (if woefully rushed) flesh-work, not any more it doesn't.

Blood, viscera, bones, organs... everything that had once been Tallow's physical body was now spread over the room; coating the walls, sliced open and splattered across the rough floor.. his intestines were even dangling from the rafters like festive decorations, raining blood and less pleasant fluids down onto the mess. All with the exception of his face- that had been left untouched, locked in the rictus scream of his final moments, and left facing the window Otto had to return through.

The smell was overpowering, and the sight would turn the stomach of even a hardened veteran.

Which was exactly what Aurelius had wanted. With a grim smile, he climbed up to nestle among the rafters above the only window in the room, hidden there like a snake in the grass. He licked Herzaa's blade clean and tucked it away at his belt, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder and drawing his twin Baatorian daggers with relish. He settled back, keeping his senses alert for any sign of movement..

And awaited Otto's return.

[Otto]

The winding column of smoke slithered forth from the ruins of the prison's barracks, writhing dreamily this way and that over the battlements. A solitary figure plunged into its blackened body, completely swallowed in a mere second, save for the sound of some muffled wheezing. Then it stumbled out the other side, only to take a turn right towards the heart of the cloud. The plume rolled by just on the other side of the battlement, obscuring the jail proper from sight and giving the impression that the wall itself was moving along, perhaps floating amidst the clouds. There was no such illusion on the other side of the battlement, however, merely the somewhat hazy apparition of the compound's training yard, bordered by the smithy and armoury. The figure slowed, stopped, and peered down at the shingles of the smithy roof. They were a good eight, maybe ten feet below, which was significantly less than any other alternative. This appeared to be his conclusion, since he eased down the side of the wall slowly, and above all carefully, until he was only supported by the defiant grip of one hand upon the ledge, and his thick boots dangled anxiously in the air. This still left a few feet left to consider, which the fellow did. He frowned.

Then he dropped.

He hit the roof of the smithy, and kept dropping.

If Otto had ever wondered what the weight tolerance of the rough-shod shingled roof was, he had his answer - roughly three hundred pounds of iron-clad orc, focused through the feet. His boots smashed through the wooden slats and supporting struts, freeing plumes of dust into the cavity below. Two lanky arms scrabbled against the roof and slowed his momentum, until the shingles slipped free beneath his hands and he was tumbling down once more. He had time to register landing on something hard - again - whereupon his knees decided they weren't up to the task of supporting the rest of his earth-bound bulk and collapsed beneath him. Otto teetered back, landed on his arse, and promptly cracked the wooden bench he'd fallen upon in two.

Otto watched the swirling currents of dust above him while he waited for his body to present a damage report. Amazingly, the most painful region was still his arm, although a rather tender feeling flared up at the bottom of his spine when he went to regain his feet. Moving with decided stiffness, Otto shuffled towards the large open doors of the building which led into the training yard. The whole place was still the dull, dusty orange of filtered sunlight. When he walked to the exit, however, and rounded the armoury's solid walls, another sign of the fire hit him full force.

"Godsdamn", Otto muttered. The heat slammed into him much like a well-stoked forge, but the smouldering barracks was at least one score feet away. Except for the solid stone walls of the ground floor, the entire thing had collapsed in on itself by this point. Not that he could really tell, mind you; the smoke was rolling out thick and heavy along the ground before it billowed up towards the sky. If he didn't pass out from the smoke, and if the exit wasn't somehow blocked by still-burning debris, then the heat alone would roast him alive before he'd be able to escape. Becker's gamble hadn't paid off.

He realised that he didn't have a plan any more. It was a strangely liberating sensation, and he slumped back against the armoury wall, able to relax for the first time since he'd stepped foot within the Citadel this day. Now that he didn't have to focus on traversing ledges, evading assassins or handling prisoners, his mind was free to focus on the smaller issues at hand, and he noticed he was thirsty. He had been in too much a hurry to reach the Citadel to refill his canteen, and the paltry sum of water it still held did little more than wet his mouth. First, he scowled, then a thought struck him, and he strode back around the corner to the forge. He'd thought right - there were two slack tubs, one empty, and the other full of stagnant water, into which he plunged his head and began to slurp up noisily. It left a bit of a foul taste, but Otto had gotten by on worse before, and when he pulled his dripping mane from the trough he was feeling much better for it.

His hands grasped the tub's frame on either side, and Otto could just make out his wavering reflection in the water's freshly-perturbed surface. Water trickled out from his beard and the tip of his large, flat nose back into the container. They slowly trailed off, and the reflection became clearer.

He was not safe. That was not an issue for him, though. There was nothing to stop Aurelius or the inmates from following him along the same route, and the infiltrator had shown that the walls were no obstacle to him. Aurelius had very much seemed to treat all of this as a game, with the guards as his playthings, in which case Otto was the last challenge. If he stayed here, then he could expect a visit from the hellspawn very soon. Then it would be over, but Otto would have followed his orders to the letter. No one would be able to blame him for what happened here.

The face in the water was unconvinced. Is that it?, its glare seemed to say. Wait here and take the easy way out?

A year ago, he would have relished the prospect of such a fight. Then he'd fought in the war, and violence had taken on a different visage. A picture of a windmill, a young man, and dawn-kissed mountains flashed before his mind, and Otto squeezed the bridge of his nose as he tried to push them aside. They, and more like them, were there whenever he swung a hammer or hefted a spear. His training had suffered as a result, his instructors coming to think of him as uncommitted. He supposed they were right. It was why he hadn't been able to stop Aurelius back there in the corridor. He'd stopped caring, stopped trying. He'd stopped thinking. Otto's white-palmed hands clenched tight against the metal, but he ignored the dull, throbbing pain which also shot through his left arm. He killed Rurin. Can you just let him waltz out after that? What scared Otto most was that he didn't know. Aurelius was a terrific fighter; given how rusty Otto had become in the last couple of months, he didn't see what the point of trying would be. As the words cropped up in his mind, some part of him was amazed he could think like that. It was not the way, never had been.

Even in this mock imitation, he could feel the power of the forge. Several weeks ago, Anvil had taken him the orc reforged him like a lump of hot iron, and ever since then he'd become increasingly aware of the murmurs of raw... potential in such a place. This place was no different; when he closed his eyes and focused, his palms tingled and he could feel the ghost of every bit of iron in the room. This was the place where it came when it was old, tired, rusted and broken, where it was forged anew. His eyes snapped open. Not just iron.

Otto needed a plan. He went outside for inspiration. but this time, when he got to the path between the buildings, he actually had a look around. The dirt track leading from the outer to the inner gate was much the same, save for perhaps a growing layer of ash which had come to blanket most everything by the barracks. Whatever had been blocking the gate when they tried to escape was totally obscured by haze on this side, so Otto began to walk towards it. Which is when he saw the other door to the armoury was open.

Half a minute later, he walked out with a light crossbow slung over his back and a quarrel at his belt. Drawing it was a pain in the arse with his bad arm, but he could still manage with enough time. The most difficult part would be actually hitting something; Otto had usually been on the receiving end of them in the past, and on those occasions that he'd found one in his hands, the orc had proven to be a danger to anything apart from what he'd been trying to hit. Still, it was best to be prepared, and the extra weight upon his back was a comforting sensation on the walk to the inner gate. The obstruction they had encountered earlier became clear as he approached - a thicket of pilfered spears, sunk into the road and braced against the giant doors. No wonder they hadn't been able to get out. Now, though, he needed to get back in. He began to clear the way.

* * *

Geoffrey was more than a little intimidated by his new boss. To be fair, he wasn't truly scared, not really. He wasn't even a 'he'. But the Ai'brone took incredible pride in their work, and the construct which was designed to respond to the moniker 'Geoffrey' (or several variations thereof) was doing a very good impression of a terrified prisoner who wanted nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between himself and the marble-skinned lunatic who had begun to call the shots. Geoffrey was no fool, though, either; he'd hung around the bottom of the guard post until Aurelius had gotten tired of voyeurism, then slipped away without fuss once the screams from upstairs suggested their new warden had started with his own plaything.

Geoffrey padded softly through Processing and tried the front door, which yielded to his touch. So far so good. He stepped outside and eased the door shut again; no need to leave a trail for anyone to follow. That done, he turned and darted towards the gate. If Aurelius had chosen to look out the window just then, well... Geoffrey shivered, and picked up the pace. The gate had no sign of a lock this side, so whatever kept it shut would be on the other side. With any luck, someone would have forgotten that part in all the recent excitement. He placed two grimy hands against the wood, and pushed. A lopsided grin lit up his features as the gate swung out, but promptly fell away as it revealed a hulking figure beyond the portal. Both of them looked down at the spear it held in one long arm. They looked back up.

Otto dug his heels into the ground and lanced out, catching the man through the chest. His eyes widened in shock and his mouth parted, but Otto didn't give him the chance. The orc stepped forward, twisted around, and thrust the prisoner hard against the stonework. The back of the man's head made a meaty smack and he began to slump - but before he could recover, Otto let go of the spear, unhooked his hammer, and brought the reverse spike down hard through the top of his target's skull. The man convulsed for a few seconds, then resumed his downwards journey. Otto put his hand back upon the spear's shaft, but after a moment's thought decided against taking the extra burden with him. He left the corpse where it was and walked as quietly as he could towards the jailhouse entrance.

He stopped just at the top of the steps to put away his hammer, replacing it with the crossbow. Then he grabbed the handle, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. The bow came up swiftly, but there was nobody inside Processing. Otto resumed his cautious pace, trying to minimise the jingle of his mail and the solid click of his boots against the stones. It was hardly stealthy, but if he was any judge, it would be easily masked by the babble of voices from further inside. He would have to be particularly careful, now; the guard post was immediately to the right from his current room, and furthermore, it sounded to be full of freed inmates. Otto could only pray that Becker and Tallow had somehow made it out. He put that hope to the test, and peered around the corner.

The door to the guard post had been busted in, and hung ajar. He could see Becker through the gap, and she him. He looked away.

He knew what he saw. He truly wished he had never seen anything like it before, but he forced himself to look back, lip curled in a snarl. She was face down on the table and looking at him with terribly blank eyes, eyes which flickered momentarily to the crossbow in his hands. He understood. The bow came up, and Otto took a step forward.

Someone slammed the door shut and said something unintelligible, which was greeted by the mob's muffled laughter. Otto could feel Becker's gaze boring through it, waiting for it to be kicked down at any moment, and for her to be freed.

It didn't happen. Otto took a few steps backwards, then turned and stalked back down the corridor. G. II looked empty, its door wide open and prisoners released, so he walked inside and stopped beside a flickering torch. He'd been fooling himself; there would be no way for him of all people to make that shot, and even if he did, that would be his chance at getting Aurelius over. Yet, neither of those excuses changed the fact that he had just abandoned Becker. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration once again.

The flickering nimbus of the torch drew his eye. Perhaps there was a way.

He extracted the torch from its bracket and resumed his course, taking the opposite door out towards the rear corridor. Was it just him, or was the voices getting closer...? It wasn't his imagination; four or five pairs of feet were just about to round the corner. Otto ducked back inside the cell block just time, and splayed himself against the wall. The voices stopped a little way past the corner, and then there was a hollow thud. Then another. By the fourth, Otto realised that they were breaking in to the kitchen. After a few more goes, the door gave way with an eye-watering crunch, and the voices filtered inside the newly-opened room. Otto gave it a few seconds, and then peeked around. The coast was clear, and a cacophony of smashing pottery and clanging metal now masked his movements - so, taking his chances, he darted past the kitchen door and shot up the stairs. Two doors came in to view at the top of the landing, and he took the one straight ahead. He burst through and, again, raised the crossbow menacingly.

Empty, again. And his luck only seemed to be improving; he was in the library. It was a small one, granted, but it more than enough for his needs. Otto couldn't help but smile at this turn of events, as a library was the last place he would have normally expected to find help. The smile gained a fearsome, frenzied element as he got to work.

Less than a minute later, he was out the door. Otto hadn't seen a map for the upper floor, but a quick survey of the corridors showed that it followed the same layout as the ground level, so he took the hallway which lead towards the guardpost. If he was lucky, he might be able to line up a shot through the trapdoor to get the prisoner's attention. More importantly, it would be as much help as he could offer Becker.

His nose was recovering from the last of the smoke, and now it was telling him that there was something wrong, something off. He could smell blood, but there was a cloying, putrid, visceral tone to it. Otto's steps slowed as he approached the door, and the muscles on the back of his neck tensed. The door was open just a crack, through which the smell roiled violently out.

He hefted the bow, and nudged open the door.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Lurking in the rafters of the guard post, a smile graced the demonic insurrectionist's blood-slick features, his senses telling him someone was approaching the door at the other end of the room- it was hard to tell with the jeers and grunting still going unabated downstairs, but his sharp hearing heard the click-click of boot heels on the stone floor. Hunching lower, the movement brought another trickle of inky blood from the gash in his shoulder, slithering down his back under the leather plates of his bladed armour. Grimacing a little, he idly ran a finger over the small puncture from the dirty chiv on his chest- he wondered briefly what sort of diseases and infections would start burning through his system.

With that thought in mind, as the boot-steps outside the wooden door got closer, he invoked a small bloom of Hellfire into the wound, burning it closed with a barely suppressed growl of pain. The smell of burning flesh reached his nostrils, but it paled in comparison to the metallic reek of Tallow's remains.

Taking up his Baatorian knives again, Aurelius hunched tighter, like a serpent coiled for the attack.

The door opened a crack...

The tiefling ran his forked tongue over his dry lips, mouth watering in anticipation of another kill. The wooden barrier was pushed open, and the shining tip of a crossbow bolt entered. It was followed quickly by the burly form of Otto. The Orc's normally keen senses were occluded by the gore and viscera plastered over the cramped room, just as his warlock opponent had wanted. Still, the half-breed was surprised the tusker hadn't entered through the window.

Looks like the canny bastard managed to get past the boys, he thought, licking his fangs eagerly. Without realising, he caressed a shrivelled ear hanging from his armour- the remains of a Harmonium officer from back home. There, the law was upheld by some seriously tough bastards, but Althanas? The planewalker had so far found their peacekeepers and guard-forces wanting. Point in question, he thought, glancing from Otto to the butchered guard dripping from the walls and pooling on the floor.

The hirsute brute's eyes widened as he took in the carnage of the guard post, gagging and reeling away from the stench of death. For his part, the hellspawned murderer savoured the miasma of suffering he'd introduced to the place, but he didn't spend time on idle musings; he had Otto at a disadvantage, and that was not something to be wasted.

Adjusting his grip on the Baatorian knives, the acrobatic malcontent dropped into the attack: Grabbing the edge of the wooden beam in front of him, the plane-touched swung down in an almost ape-like fashion. But, for it's lack of grace, the attack caught Otto off guard- both of Aurelianus' hobnailed boots hammered into the barrel chest of the soldier. The ambush sprawled him back a few steps. His training showed through, however, as he pulled the trigger on the crossbow even as his back smacked meatily into the rough-stone wall. The short projectile whistled through the air, and if not for his Sigil-born instincts, the tiefling would have wound up in the Dead-book then and there. Launching out a speedy Eldritch Blast sent the bolt just off course enough to slice a neat line along his right forearm. The wound started bleeding instantly, but it was nothing compared to what would have happened had it hit its mark in his chest. Breathing a silent sigh of relief he backed up a few steps, clearing some space between himself and his opponent and shook the black blood from his arm.

Aurelius was a tough Cager, no doubt about it, but with these small wounds mounting even his constitution would fail given enough time. The thought brought a feral snarl to his tainted features, fangs and horns glinting in the sunlight still coming in the window. Ain't no way I'll let these nicks bring me down 'fore I finish 'avin' my fun.

Otto regained his composure but he was smart enough to know he couldn't risk trying to reload the weapon with this abomination so close.

Nodding amiably to the tusker, Drak'shal knelt down, picking up something from the floor. From his vantage point, the guard couldn't quite make out what the object was.

His eyes were repeatedly drawn to the abattoir surrounding him, and to the open hatch leading down to the lower room, feeling his gorge rise. He forced down the revulsion, with no small effort, and locked his eyes onto Aurelius' serpentine orbs. The grey-skin could almost feel the amusement in that soulless gaze, an unspoken laugh everytime one of Becker's agonised cries gurgled up from below.

"Glad to see you again, basher," he smirked, licking his fangs again in what was fast becoming a habit. "I was honestly worried you'd pissed off and left your mates to the Mazes."

Letting his inhuman eyes dart over the Orc's frame, he marked the blood on his enemy's hammer instantly.

"Ah, I see you 'ad a run in with the lads." The smile lacked any sort of genuine friendliness. "Good for you. But while you were playing with my mates, I 'ad to amuse myself with yours."

He flung the object in his hand to Otto, who caught it on instinct. Risking taking his attention off of Aurelianus for a moment, he turned the heavy object over.. and nearly gagged when he recognised the features of William Tallow staring up at him from his meaty fist. A note of horror started to creep across his face, before he quashed it, dropping the severed head in disgust- this was the Citadel! His friend would be resurrected and healed by the Ai'brone. Despite this, the tiefling could see the hatred Otto felt for him growing.

His jaw tightened, tusks bared in a frown--

-- and then he turned on his heel and sprinted from the room.

"Well," he chuckled to no-one in particular, "that was unexpected."

With one last glance at his artistry, the half-demon sprinted after his enemy- he knew now his time was running short. One or more of the deader guards would be waking up in the Citadel infirmary, if they hadn't already, and reinforcements would be coming. The gutternsipe Anarchist would be damned if he would let them scrag- that was to say, arrest or capture- him before he murdered this last law-dog berk.

His boots rang out, echoing from the rough, unfinished walls as he gave chase to the Orc. 'e's no addle-cove, the warlock realised, so 'e must 'ave some plan up 'is sleeve. Well, we'll see 'ow that works out for 'im. It added a tinge of excitement to this ride. It was this thrill, this surge of adrenaline that the plane-touched craved.

As far as he could tumble to, this level of the birdcage- the prison- followed the same plan as the one below. If that was the case, there was only two places the grey-skin could run the way he was sprinting; the staircase down through the library, like the tiefling had done earlier; or the stairs up to the roof. He could see the hairy bastard up ahead, nearing the end of the corridor. With a sharp-edged smile, the warlock sheathed one knife, drawing one of his few remaining shurikens in a practiced and fluid move. Skidding to a halt as quickly as he could, so as not to throw off his aim while moving, Aurelius hurled the barbed disc at the retreating form of Otto.

Even as the shuriken left his hand, powered by an Eldritch Blast, Aurelianus knew it wouldn't find its mark. The Orc was too close to the corner at the end of the hallway, and just before the blades tore into his back, he ducked out of sight.

Sparks exploded from the rough, unfinished stone wall as the shuriken ricocheted from it.

Spitting curses at the soldier, he took up the chase again, drawing his knife once more. Yes, he was enjoying the chase, but the half-breed knew he would enjoy the kill so much more. This thought was added to the fact time was running short; the insurrectionist knew that Kaphyka would be awake, and that canny old sod wouldn't waste any time getting more guards together- the thought was not a welcome one. A welcome party was the last thing the Cager wanted waiting for him when he exited this arena.

Aurelius didn't plan on getting scragged yet- no, he had plans in motion now. Getting imprisoned wasn't part of them.. yet.

Stopping close to the corner, the warlock Anarchist edged to the end of the wall. He kept his ears parked for any sign of Otto, but there was nothing that would--

There!!

The creak of a leather boot sounded out like a clarion call in the tense silence of the prison. It gave the plane-touched just enough warning to whip his head back and dive out of the way; a crossbow bolt smashed into the edge of the wall, splintering off in every direction. Kneeling back on the floor, the half-demon threw up an arm to ward off the shards of wood peppering him. He grunted in irritation when the steel tip bounced off one of his horns, yanking his head to the side. Black spots danced across his vision, clearing only when Drak'shal gave his head a violent shake. Probing gently with one finger, he was relieved to find his horn, and the flesh around it, undamaged. Got lucky there, mate, he chided himself.

Staying low, the guttersnipe quickly peeked around the corner- in that brief second he marked Otto's crossbow sticking out of the stairway that led up to the roof. Even from this distance, Aurelianus' sharp nose could pick up the scent of smoke. It must have been from the barracks he had razed to the ground, drifting over the roof of the main prison building.

He ducked back before the Orc took another shot at him, mulling over his options. He could chance his luck, and keep dodging bolts until Otto ran out of ammunition; he could double back and try to come at the guard from another angle.

Or I could do this.

Without a second thought the tiefling threw himself into a run, darting round the corner and with will alone brought up the protective fires of Freki's Shield. The sphere of magickal flame burst into life around him even as his barrel-chested opponent fired another steel-tipped bolt at the charging half-demon. The missile hit the Shield and burst into flames instantly, dropping to the floor at the warlock's feet. But he didn't slow down for a moment. A Baatorian knife in each hand, Aurelius rushed the entrenched Coronian soldier- Otto, realising he couldn't risk another attempt at reloading did the next best thing.

He hurled his crossbow at Aurelius.

The weapons hit Freki's Shield and like the bolt before it, burst into flames. But the mass of the object carried it through the barrier. Ducking the burning wood, faltering only for a moment, the veteran murderer closed in on his target with a feral growl building deep in his throat- but the Orc was no stranger to combat either. He had used the distraction to allow him time to draw the vicious looking warhammer at his belt. Reading the attack just as Otto started to swing, Aurelius' eyes widened in rage- he didn't have time to avoid it. The steel head smashed into the invoked Shield with the force of a battering ram, the barrier resisting for a heartbeat before it was destroyed. The blow shattered the magickal bubble even as the heat charred the wooden haft of the weapon. The resistance, no matter how little, gave the warlock the briefest moment to lash out with a pair of blasts, pure arcane energy meeting the warhammer's onrushing business end.

It wasn't enough to stop the weapon, not by a long shot; but, it stopped the attack from caving in Aurelius' chest when it connected with a hollow crunch.

The impact sent Aurelius spinning through the air, to rebound off the wall. He didn't remember his short flight, nor the impact against the hard, clammy stone. What he did remember, and would for a good long while afterwards, was the agony in his chest of at least a few cracked or broken ribs grating against each other. Even as he drooped to his knees, all the breath driven from his body, instinct kicked in. A childhood spent growing up in the nightmarish slums of The Hive afforded one few benefits. But a killer's instinct was one of the few silver linings.

A blast of retina-scarring Hellfire surged from a hastily throw out hand, scorching the bricks of the wall black instantly. The clinging, liquid fire ran down the walls in rivulets of deepest black.

Throwing out another to keep the Orc at bay while he tried to remember how to breathe properly, Aurelius shook the dancing lights from his eyes, snarling as the shards of bone in his chest grated together. As his vision cleared, he saw the broken and buckled blades and spikes on his chest armour, and the small trickles of black blood from underneath- some of the barbs adorning the leather had been driven into his flesh a little way, apparently. He kept up the roaring cone of black fire, driving Otto up the stairs further and further to escape the heat. He knew he could not stay in the stairway; the narrow confines would allow the abomination to roast him alive in seconds. Instead, he fled the only way he could- up.

Even over the roar of Shahab's Lash, the hellspawn's knife-ears perked up when he marked the sound of a door being smashed open. Otto was on the roof now, no doubt about it. In the slight reprieve, the bloodied malcontent examined his wounds; most were minor, barely even bleeding. But the tear in his shoulder had opened up again on collision with the wall and was sending pulses of agony through the tiefling whenever he moved his left arm. Added to that, every breath now felt like someone was sand-papering the warlock's lungs, his ragged breathing burning like the Hells with every inhale and exhale.

In short, he was in a sorry state. But that wouldn't stop him from murdering the tusker bastard waiting for him upstairs. Oh no! His wounds gave him the impetus to hurry up and pen the sod in the Dead-book. Been in worse states than this before, he thought. For some reason, the thought made him smile.

Grumbling quietly as he realised he was as good as he was likely to get, the tiefling dragged himself to his feet, making for the stairway Otto had vacated. He ran a hand through his quills, clearing them out of his eyes, before stooping to gather up his fallen knives. Trying to stretch out the pain in his muscles only brought more tiny motes of black dancing in his peripheral vision, so the Cager tried his best to shut out the irritating bite of his wounds.

He had more important things to be doing.

"Ready or not, 'ere I come," he called, ascending with murderous intent.

[Otto]

Otto fell through the squat portal in a cloying black cloud. He could smell burning leather atop the background pall of woodsmoke, and a distressing sensation of heat along his left leg confirmed his fears. He carried on a few steps purely by momentum, until gravity won out and he collapsed with a crash. He rolled onto his back and, dropping his armaments beside him on the timeworn shingles, slapped frenziedly at the oily black flames which ran the length of his thigh. Yet, they persisted - he shook the limb madly as the pain intensified and the faint odour of cooked flesh began to smell not-so-faint. He gave a cry, visceral and unbeckoned, but soon enough had pressed the flames out under his palms. Maybe he just had a bad memory, but the damn thing hurt more than his arm, now.

He looked up. The stairwell had led past a third floor to a small, jutting landing, which provided access to the gently sloping rooftop. There were chimney stacks at the north and south-east ends, and spiked barriers above the walls which Otto had used earlier to escape. The surrounding fortifications were perhaps a little taller still, but a three-storey drop was not to be sneezed at. Nor was Aurelius, however injured he might be. Up till now, Otto had survived due to a healthy mix of luck and distance. He was aware that the former could run out at any moment, and now he was crippled by his raw leg, keeping the latter might not be possible any more. He rolled over to his chest and, grabbing the hammer and shield, pushed himself up. It turned out to be quite a difficult maneuver. Once he had, though, he limped away from the door and gave his hammer a couple of swings; having spun himself around on the floor, he'd grabbed the weapon with his left arm, which he usually reserved for the shield. He was even more awkward with it than usual, but it was a much lighter burden for the damaged limb than his stout roundshield.

The door crashed open, and Otto snapped round to see Aurelius emerge from the gloom. His breathing seemed a little laboured, which explained the delay. When Otto had landed the blow against his foe's chest, he knew he'd landed a decent hit, even as he had been alarmed at how the hellspawn had been able to raise a magical barrier. Trisgen alone knew what else that man was capable of.

Otto tried to go for the snide approach. "Having a little trouble-".

Aurelius took note of the orc's smoking leg, and immediately cut him short by lodging a shuriken through his mail skirt. Otto's smile turned into a clenched-toothed mask of shock, through which burst an involuntary cloud of spittle. He sagged, but managed to keep himself upright by slamming the rim of his shield down and using it as a prop. The vile little disc had lodged itself high into what had until now been his good leg.

"Nothin' I can't 'andle, basher", Aurelius spoke with blatant, sugary tones as he advanced, and the trademark grin never left his face. Other figures were emerging from the stairwell; prisoners, following the commotion and anxious to watch the spectacle unfold. "Never knew I could 'ave this much fun with a tusker before, neither, but now it's really time to pen you in the Dead-Book. Give my thanks to your mates, will you? 'Specially that blonde chit. Now, she was really somethin' special". The black smile deepened.

Otto pushed against the shield, back to his unsteady feet. Behind the devil, the inmates continued to pour in. Some grinned, and there were a couple of cheers, but many were grim-faced and silent. He realised that, to them, this wasn't a show. They were actually hoping he would solve this Aurelius-shaped problem for them.

His mouth opened, but the words didn't come. He just didn't know how to reply. Aurelius' cheerful veneer was impenetrable, and like his armour, any attack on it just left you bloodied for your trouble.

"Mind you, not quite as special as that Becker. There's a girl who knows 'ow to scream. Not that I gave blondie much of chance...".

Otto's retort came in at chest height, going for the damaged ribs - but the attack was slow and pathetic. Aurelius simply skipped back a step, laughing. Otto took a faltering step forward and swung again. This time, Aurelius ducked under it with ease and planted a vicious kick right on top of the half-buried shuriken. Otto's face went white, and Aurelius remedied this by punching him squarely through his open visor. The orc toppled back, while the halfbreed shivered with delight at feeling the crunch of cartilage beneath his fist. Two thick rivulets of blood ran from Otto's crumpled snout.

As Aurelius peered down at Otto's supine form, the orc began to chuckle.

Aurelius had two knives in his grip, but he stayed them in light of this development. "I 'spose I've got a few seconds to spare", he remarked. "Fancy fillin' us in, basher?".

The laughter turned into a short-lived choking fit as blood trickled down the back of Otto's sinuses, and into his throat. He levered himself to a sitting position and hawked a crimson globule at Aurelius' feet, before turning his amber eyes up to the other fellow. "Bit warm coming up, was it?", he wheezed. When Aurelius' blank stare didn't change, he added, "I should thank you, too. For the inspiration".

The inmates by the stairs were looking a little uncomfortable, and it was at that moment that a nearby section of roofing decided to cave in. The small, telltape wisps which rose between the shingles had blended in with the smog from the burning barracks, but there was no hiding the leaping fire clawing upwards from the newly formed cavity. The prisoners moved as one to the stairs, but jammed as those in front began to push back upon being confronted with heavy smoke and more lethal flames.

Otto's business in the library with the torch had reached fruition, and with no time to spare. The commotion distracted Aurelius enough for Otto to heave himself up, and Aurelius, moving on instinct, leapt backwards in the face of the potential attack. He turned back to the orc, and decided that the guard needed to be dispatched with renewed urgency. A knife lanced out around the shield, but Otto had adjusted his strategy. He flung out the hammer, yet, not with the intent of landing a blow; it hooked around the tiefling's wrist, and he pulled, using his opponent's momentum to drag Aurelius in as the shield came up. The first knife jagged on the mail below his ribs, while the second came in to skitter fruitlessly against the rising shield's face. Its iron rim slammed against Aurelius' chin with brutal force and then, as he reeled, smacked into his nose. Aurelius staggered back, and Otto - with everything he could coax out of his sorry body - charged in like an ironclad juggernaut.

Aur's wits raced. He could stab the orc through his wretched face, but the momentum would keep him going and still take both of them off the roof. So when Otto thundered in with outflung arms, Aurelius dropped the knives and smiled beatifically. As the gap closed to its last couple of feet, the tiefling's hands shot up. They grabbed Otto's tabard, and Aurelius dropped onto his back. Otto found himself sailing over Aurelius, while the other man's legs came up and launched him onwards with renewed force. The lip of the roof flew by below him, and in desperate panic, he flung his intact arm out to seek purchase. His paw flailed onto something strong and slender, and he clung to it like grim death.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The hirsute arm shot toward the half-breed, barely seen against the background of black spots exploding across Aurelius' field of vision, popping and dancing in a dizzying and nauseating swirl of half-seen colours and blurry sight.

The tusker had managed to catch him a decent hit with the shield, and the tiefling fancied he had a broken nose at the very least. But when the iron grip clamped around his wrist, Aurelianus knew he had a problem. The thought barely had a second to register in his mind before gravity made itself known.

As Otto fell, he yanked the lithe murderer off his feet, the weight of a fully armoured Orc a little beyond what the wolf-lean half-demon was used to. Aurelius hit the shingles at the edge of the roof with a roar of pain, the impact jarring the broken ribs in his chest- he growled as he felt something give way inside his flesh. That ain't good, he thought, feeling almost like something had started.. leaking. Saliva (or possibly blood) trickled from the corner of his bone-box, between his fangs as he tried in vain to alleviate the pressure on his broken bones.

It was no use.

The weight of the tusker hanging from his right arm prevented any such attempts. Shaking his head violently, quills hissing as they scraped together, Aurelius cleared his vision, snarling inhumanly as his wounds finally made themselves known. The spear-wound in his shoulder had opened more, spilling his black blood down his left arm in a steady flow. More of the liquid was trickling down the back of his throat from his broken nose; with a sneer, the warlock hawked a mouthful in Otto's face. The soldier was glaring up at him magnanimously, thinking himself victorious. His good hand was locked around Aurelius' wrist, with a grip like a vice, while the wounded arm hung almost useless at the tusker's side. He may not have been able to fight back, but the smug sod seemed just as happy to keep his opponent in place until the inferno claimed them both.

Feeling the heat behind him as yet another section of the roof gave way, Aurelius had to admit, the barmy law-dog had made a berk of him. Credit where it's due, the big bastard peeled me, he mused briefly, smiling despite his precarious position. He was actually impressed.

A moment of panic threatened Aurelius' mind, however, as he slid an inch closer to the edge before he lashed out with his free arm, gripping the shingles tightly- with Otto hanging from his arm, he didn't have much time before both of them were dragged over. Another snarl of pain burst free as the shoulder-wound was stretched, more flesh parting. The blades on his armour squealed furrows into the roof with every movement, grinding and scraping against the slate.

He didn't know where the inmates were by this point, unable to look over his shoulder, nor did he care, but he doubted the addle-coves were faring well. As if to prove the point a hollow crunch rang out followed by a scream of agony and the dry roar of the flames.

There was only one option. And it made Aurelianus glad he was in the Citadel, or he might have hesitated.

The Cager slowly released his grip on the shingles, wincing as he slid another inch. Feeling every nick and scrape on his flesh as he slowly, agonisingly edged his left hand down towards his right shin, Aurelianus grunted- with a herculean effort, the bloodied and battered tiefling managed to wedge his knee under himself, pushing up just enough to clear his hand. With no small amount of difficulty, the warlock forced his hand underneath his torso, reaching for the heavy steel cleaver strapped to his shin; he grimaced as some of the shattered blades and hooks from his armour nicked his forearm. Gritting his fangs, he wrapped his blood-slicked fingers around the leather-wrapped grip of his cleaver and haltingly dragged the heavy blade free. He dropped back down flat on the roof, his energy expended and the blades sticking into his flesh pressing deeper.

Every breath rasping from the half-breed's lungs felt like some bastard was sand-papering his airways; the broken ribs were grating together, but as a wave of heat washed over him, Aurelius realised he didn't have much time- more holes were collapsing in on themselves across the roof, some of them alarmingly close.

He raised the cleaver, relishing the look of panic on Otto's face- he relished the impotent rage as he realised Aurelius could still escape. The heavy-built Orc tried swinging his weight, to haul the tiefling off the roof with him, but it was too little, too late.

"Long drop and a sudden stop, basher," he winked, smirking despite the sheer agony of his wounds.

The half-demon swung the hefty weapon, forcing his mind to ignore the self-preservation instinct. The keen-edge bit deep into his arm, just above where Otto's hand was locked around his wrist. Aurelius almost passed out from the utter pain, his blood flooding down his arm and gushing into the face of the Orc below. He pulled the cleaver free, and hacked into his own arm again feeling the steel-edge bury itself in the bone- his breath was ripped from his chest in a scream of pain and fury as he forced himself to take a final attempt.

He could barely lift the blade, quilled head drooping with woosiness as his blood left his body in powerful spurts, each in time with his laboured heartbeats.

Otto stared up in horrified confusion. How could any creature willingly mutilate itself like that?

The final swing descended like a headman's blade.

The Coronian soldier could do nothing but watch as the cleaver splintered Aurelius radius and ulna, before slicing through the remaining shreds of flesh keeping his right hand attached. There was a sickening moment of weightlessness before Otto fell, screaming and still gripping the pale, black-blood-stained hand.

Aurelius, his vision pulsing in and out of focus, watched as the tusker hit the ground far below. His head met the hard-packed ground first, bursting like an over-ripe melon and splattering his grey-matter over the dirt. The rest of his body hit a split-second later, with equally gory results. If he had a clear mind, Aurelianus might have been disappointed that Otto's death wasn't more painful; but he was more concerned with the inky blood pumping from his amputated stump of a wrist.

Dragging himself to his feet, swaying with every movement, the tiefling looked over the prison, barely feeling the bloody wounds leaking all over his battered frame.

The main building was blazing now, the heat beginning to blister Aurelianus' skin. With the grisly wound he had given himself though, he knew he wouldn't live long enough for the fire to claim him. The roar of the flames was dulled, sounding muffled to the tiefling's normally sharp ears. He shook his quills from his eyes, blinking as he saw them start to smoulder at the tips. But there was no pain.

Curiously, the plane-touched felt only cold...

With a final smirk, looking at the mayhem he had wrought here, the tiefling took a single step back and plummeted from the roof.

[Otto]

"We've got another".

The senior monk peered over his student's shoulder. "Not even half as messy as the last one", he croaked. "Still, it looks like significant head trauma. Spine damage, too". He tapped a finger thoughtfully against a pair of wizened old lips. "You will take this one, but I shall still supervise. I think you are up to the task".

The younger man stiffened, half in pride, half in fear. One thing was certain, though, which was that there was no disobeying the old master.

"What could they possibly be doing in there?", the student asked, as he set about his work. "The guard usually cram soldiers in if they're running exercises, but the casualties are nothing like what we normally see. And that fellow who came out, and said he was a contractor...".

"Quiet, and focus on the task at hand", the master chided. "Or I'll have you heal our horned friend's hand, hmm?".

The student grimaced, and redoubled his efforts.

* * *

Otto awoke.

The pallet was an incredibly welcome comfort. It said something about the last hour, that he considered linen-covered straw bales to be cosy. He was in a smaller infirmary than usual; it held about one score of 'beds', most of them unoccupied. The stone floor was covered by a patchwork of thin rugs, enough to keep the cold of the stones from any naked feet, and a long row of short, glazed windows showed off a remarkable, north-facing view of the city, even the distant mountains. One corner of the room was partitioned off by white sheets suspended in a wooden frame, and the only upright figures were a couple of monks, and -

"Thank Trisgen you're up", sighed Carrin. The young man smiled weakly down at the orc.

Otto breathed deeply, almost contentedly. However, too much had happened, which the magic of the monks had no control over, for him to feel peace. He rubbed his eyes, and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

"Did we get him?", he rasped.

"We got him", Carrin said smugly. "The guard burst in just as the monks were patching the whoreson up".

Otto breathed out in relief; it felt as though all the tension had just suddenly flowed away. He spotted his canteen on top of his equipment, which lay by the pallet, and reached for it. The plug came away with a pop, and the orc gulped its contents down with gluttonous enthusiasm. Then, wiping away a few drops from his beard, he swung his legs out of bed. Carrin, looked down; apparently, the monks had left him with just enough clothing to preserve one's decency. The young man seemed amazing by the amount of hair on the orc's legs, but then again, it could have been simple jealousy. Otto leant down and grabbed his linen raiments, and tugged them on.

"Where are the others?" Otto queried through the fabric of his shirt, as he slipped it on.

"Tallow's still lying down", said Carrin. He was fidgeting slightly, and looked over at a recumbent form across the room. "He's awake, but he isn't really saying much. And Becker's...".

He stopped talking when Otto saw what lay a few beds over. One of the monks noticed, too, and began to hurry over as the orc strode towards the pallet. The linen sheet had been pulled right up, and contoured itself around the obvious figure underneath. The monk reached them just as Otto drew the linen back over Rurin's face. Her eyes were closed, and her long mane of hair coiled behind her head. He looked up into the anxious features of the monk, who immediately dropped his eyes, though he remained hovering nearby.

Otto didn't have any words, not yet. She was gone, but they would all give their goodbyes in due course. There was one thing he felt compelled to do, however - something which Anvil had drilled into his head night after night. With two thick fingers, he pinched one of the golden threads and teased it away, before lifting the sheet back up in to place. The hair drifted lazily to and fro in his grip, until he tied it in a loose loop around the leather cord which held his amulet.

"He'll hang for this", Carrin muttered. Otto had never heard the youth speak like that before; his voice trembled with rage. "And we'll make him dance for his death".

Otto also doubted that the guard would let Aurelius' passing be a gentle one. He might not even get to see the noose - some said that sergeant Wright could keep a man alive for more than a week of interrogation...

"You were saying, before?", Otto prodded.

Carrin snapped out of his flight of fancy. "Oh. Uh, Becker's in there", he said, pointing at the partitioned area. Silhouettes could be seen through the fabric; women, from the sound of it, speaking in hushed tones. Otto looked at it warily. "The monks wouldn't let me in to see her, though. Otto, I thought they could heal anything that happens in here?".

"No", said the orc, simply. He thought about going in and apologising, but he was probably one of the last people that she wanted to see. Instead, he turned away. Again.

Which left... "Kaphyka?", Otto asked. Carrin's fidgeting increased, and Otto pressed on. "What is it?".

"He - he was arrested".

"What?".

Someone began to laugh behind them. They tensed, and turned around to see that William had sat up in his bed, and was sniggering away.

"Oh, come, now", he chided them. The man seemed a little more pale than usual, to Otto, but his voice was strong enough. "Who do you think the brass were going to blame for this mess? Themselves?".

"'Gross negligence'", Carrin quoted, sour-faced.

"Gods damn", Otto concurred.

"Yeah", said Carrin. "He was shouting something fierce when they dragged him out".

"I can imagine".

"No, that's the thing. He was yelling about the... about Aurelius", the young man elaborated. Otto immediately froze, his ears pricking up. William had buried his face in his hands.

"What was he saying, exactly?". The orc spoke with slow clarity.

"I think it was to do with the guards. They split the squad to detain Kaphyka and secure the Citadel, but he reckoned that we needed more than two to haul Aurelius off to the clink...".

* * *

Ten minutes later, Otto was pounding down the city's streets in nothing more than his linen shirt and trousers. All he had grabbed on the way out was his warhammer, which was now happily reunited with his right arm. He was normally inclined to respect the personal space of others, but a number of citizens who had the misfortune of being in his way suddenly found themselves flying off the charging frame of the tusked juggernaut. Screams and curses followed him over the sunlit cobbles.

Even if he hadn't known the route to the garrison jail, all he'd have had to do was follow the smoke.

As he approached the thick, black column, the crowds became so dense that they gave even Otto some resistance. Multitudes had gathered around to gawp and gape at the overturned wagon, now smouldering away, and many regarded the two prone figures in guardsman's red lying to the side. Otto squeezed between the last of the onlookers, who had taken up a comfortable distance from the heat, and strode towards one of the soldiers. He turned the man over. Burnt, hacked, sliced and bloody - there was little doubt as to who had done this.

Otto's gaze was drawn to the small steel arming sword in the dead man's grasp. The escape had cost Aurelius something, too, by the looks of it.

He pried the weapon from the dead man's hand, and lifted it up. Black ichor glistened on the blade's edge; the same stuff he had seen pour forth from the tiefling on the rooftop. He hunched down until his nose hovered less than an inch from the bloody rivulets, and breathed in deep. The smell flooded his nose, in all its festering glory.

Otto's hand rose to toy with the single strand of hair he had tied at his neck, and looked at the blade. He had the scent, but also so much more than that. What he held in his hands - he could use this, and he would make Anvil show him how.

Now began the hunt.

[Otto]

---

So concludes Gaolhouse Rock

Thank you for reading! Just a couple of things for our friendly judge to note:

1. We would like for post delays not to factor in to scoring. I repeatedly informed Aurelianus that there was no rush to reply, and that he had as much time as he liked. As such, it would be unfair to dock points for tardiness.
2. Spoils: for Otto, a strand of Rurin's hair, and the blood-coated short sword in the final post. Both will be used to create an enchanted quest item for the sequel, purely as a means of tracking Aurelianus (if that sounds good to him). No combat applications for it either, really. Anything for yourself, Aur?

And I think that's it. Thanks again!