A Mother's Love

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Thread Rated Aure

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The screaming started on the eighth day.

The cramped tunnels were, as always, roaring with the sounds of over a dozen men hard at work. Their voices echoed around the narrow crevices, blending together into an oceanic wave of white noise.

"Put your back in to it, you lazy bast--"

"--sake, Arn, watch your pick!"

"Wrap your pick, you cu--"

The first shriek silenced everyone in a heartbeat.

Cadin, crouching at the entrance of the small network of tunnels, his head brushing the rough ceiling of the antechamber, wiped the sweat from his brow and swore under his breath.

"Talk to me, lads!" he roared, trying to figure out where the noises were coming from. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, feeling the trickles of condensation that coated every surface - this many men in such a small place generated a huge amount of heat, even under the icy ground of Knife's Edge.

"Opening on three! Ope--" the voice trailed away into a wet gurgle.

Not good not good not good, the Salvaran thought, clambering into the mouth of the third tunnel entrance, moving as quickly as his muscled frame could in the claustrophobic environment. His sinewy shoulders scraped against the bare stone, eliciting another guttural string of curses before he finally stumbled into the wider space. Men were crowding in front of him and crawling through behind to see what the hell was going on. They were all staring down another tunnel, none of them daring to move a step further.

The men parted as much as they could, some of them pale despite the infernal heat, allowing Cadin to move down the corridor. One of them handed him a hooded gas-lamp as he passed.

Towards the screaming. Fantastic.

Cadin ignored the mutterings and the hand-gestures of warding of his men, sliding the dirk from his belt just in case. Considering who employed them, the man was not taking any chances. He finally made it to the end of the tunnel, noting with irritation the lack of support buttresses. He would have admonished the men digging out this particular burrow, but from the looks of it someone already had. What he could make out by the dim light was enough to make his bowels turn to ice.

Three of the miners were on the ground on a pile of rock-chunks, writhing and unleashing such an unholy cacophony that Cadin touched a finger to his ears to make sure they weren't bleeding. Two more men lay in front of them, covered in hideous wounds. One had his throat torn out, his life-blood pumping out in viscous gushes.

Cadin, after nearly four months of working at the House of Sin, took one look at the mess before him and sighed. He had no idea why Aurelius had demanded they start digging beneath the brothel, but the Salvaran was pretty sure they had just stumbled across the reason.

The three that were down were covered in gore as well, but even as Cadin marked the slick red-black smears all over their bodies, he realised most of it was their own. Two of the men had clawed out their own eyes, each socket a raw red ruin, and the third was gnawing his fingers off and somehow still keeping up his screaming despite the wet crunching of bones between his teeth.

Cadin vomited.

"Clear out, all tunnels," he snapped to the gathering behind him, back-pedalling as quickly as he could. They all hesitated, looking around at each other with bewilderment and not a little fear as their supervisor emerged from the mouth of madness, swigging from a water-skin to wash away the taste of bile.

"Now, you stupid bastards!" he barked, spitting.

"What about them?" one man asked, his pick dangling by his side.

"Torrin tried to shake Willem out of it," another grunted, referring to the man whose throat lay spread open to the air. "Didn't do him much good."

Cadin grabbed the nearest man by his beard and slapped him across the face with a meaty palm.

"Did I stutter, you rats? Get. Out!"

The men took one last look down the subterranean passage, the howls from within echoing, rebounding and reverberating to create a truly nightmarish sound. As one, they fled the tunnels as quickly as they could; some of them clawed at the men in front; others lashed out with boots at the ones behind them. It was a bloody affair, but within a few minutes everyone was out of the pit. Cadin was the last one out, his body slathered in blood, sweat and dust from the shattered stones underground. He swore as a fingernail embedded in the wood of the ladder tore his palm.

Twelve men all stood, steam coiling from their thews in the bitterly cold Salvaran air. They had the look of frightened cattle - all wide eyes and hiking breaths.

They milled around aimlessly, all of them discomfitted. A few of them rubbed their hands together as their sweat cooled in an instant.

The group looked around the sprawling backyard of the House of Sin grounds; they had started digging from a well-shaft already there, but over the past week has expanded the works below. Cadin, running a blood-slicked hand through his mousy brown hair, snapped himself out of his reverie and singled out the nearest man.

"Edd," he called to the bearded brute. The shaggy man turned, scratching at the tattoos across his forearms. Cadin noticed blood under Edd's finger-nails as he clawed his own flesh.

"Edd," he said again, after a deep breath to calm himself. "Go get Aurelianus. Tell him we've found.. Shit, I don't know. Tell him we've found something."

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Running a brothel was, all things considered, one of the more enjoyable lines of work Aurelianus Drak'shal had ever found himself in.

He had been many things over the years; mercenary; planewalker; smuggler; cut-throat. But as he looked over the room of fresh new petitioners, the tiefling could not hide his grin. He ran a hand through the three crests of quills running down his head, the left and right mohawks shorter than the centre. The flanking quills were still newly grown, the flesh around them darkened with blood beneath. He was without his usual armour, his scarred and inked frame hidden under his buckle-laden leather trousers and sleeveless jerkin. Tattoos coiled up and around his exposed arms and across his scalp. Even with so little on, the purveyor's body was dotted with droplets of sweat. The body-heat generated by the other occupants of the building was enough even to fight off Salvar's biting chill.

Aurelianus stalked back and forth in the entrance hall of his dark little domain, inhuman eyes assessing the gathering.

"Everyone 'as their pleasures," he began, his voice cutting through the chorus of hushed whispers.

"For some, it's the drugs. And," he gestured to a small table next to him and the cornucopia of narcotics spread out on it, "we provide for them."

"For others, it's the flesh, and we provide for them, too."

Turning his horned head to survey the group of men and women, Aurelius marked a representative of most of the nations and races on Althanas, all here to submerge themselves in the unbridled excesses and famed red delights of the House of Sin. Some of them had been customers within the walls of this establishment and had become addicted to the pleasures on offer. Others had come from far off lands, some few rubes had even come from other brothels - all of them had been tempted by the half-devil and his silver-tongued promises.

But all of them were here to slake their thirsts. And in their hunger, they wanted to help others do the same. His mouth parted in a razor-edged smile. These were his flock, as he mockingly called them. Converts to the Worship of Flesh. These were his favourite kind of whores - the ones that didn't even want payment. Yes, it was true many of those working in the House had started off being paid like lords for the debaucheries; but many had since shaken off such hollow desires. They were provided food, drink and a roof over their heads. Anything more was inconsequential, so long as they could indulge every fetish and whim.

"Those of you who're familiar with my 'umble 'ome know the way things work round 'ere. And for those of you sweetlings still.. innocent," he spread his arms wide, walking backwards up the hall until they emerged in the main foyer. With a flourish of the amethyst-topped cane in his hand, he guided them in.

Countless depraved acts were happening, even here in what was essentially the waiting room.

"Well," he chuckled darkly, "you'll catch on quick."

Iron braziers lit the wide room, casting flickering shadows up the tapestries covering each wall. Women, men and other, more.. questionable creatures prowled the shadowed chamber, tasting each other as they willed. Narrow alcoves lined the walls, carpeted with plump cushions and warm furs for those too eager to wait for a room. His fleshcrafting was coming along in leaps and bounds, and among the standard denizens of the House, there walked Aurelianus' art. Each had chosen their new forms, and the fleshcrafter had granted their every whim. Some stalked the room on backwards jointed legs; one of the servers had an extra pair of slender arms, each bearing a tray of wine laced with aphrodisiacs; a girl rolled over on top of her partner, and her skin shone as firelight caressed the iridescent scales covering her body.

Alright, so I might need a new 'obby, he thought with a wry snort of laughter, as he spotted a dwarf with additional members hanging almost to his knees.

He turned his attention back to his guests-cum-workers. He always loved tasting their initial reactions, and his black tongue slid hungrily over his fangs in anticipation.

But just as the half-demon spun on his heel, his view was blocked by a shaggy, bloody behemoth, panting raggedly. He heard a few of the gasps and exclamations, but all he could see were pectorals like cinder blocks made of fur. The tiefling bit back the urge to stab Edd in the face, his brows coming together and his eyes screaming promises of all manner of unpleasantness.

"You better 'ave a pikin' gem of a reason to interrupt me, cutter," he warned, one slender finger jabbing at the matted chest hair of the Salvaran.

"Boss, sorry boss but Cadin toldmetocomege--"

The swift slap turned Edd's head, ringing out even over the usual background sounds of the brothel. Edd turned back to face the half-breed, who was easily half a foot shorter than him, and several hundred pounds lighter. Aurelius' eyes shone up, daring the man to retaliate.

Edd knew better.

"Boss," he started again, slowing his breathing, "Cadin needs you. Trouble down the Hole. Don't know what we found, but.. it was ugly, boss. It was bad."

It was true. The clammy sheen on the brute's forehead, and his fish-belly white face told it all. Aurelius' men were getting used to what went on under his roof.

If somethin's put the shits up 'em this bad...

The warlock's sudden bark of laughter worried Edd more than almost anything he had seen in the House of Sin. He almost shit himself when the white-skinned horror grabbed the sides of his head and planted a loud, wet kiss on his bearded mouth.

"Edd, you ugly-as-arseholes sod," he beamed, blood-red quills quivering with excitement, "that's the best pikin' news I've 'ad today!"

The plane-touched snapped his fingers at a pair of passing veteran workers.

"Val', take the new girls upstairs. Sod the usual routine. I want 'em in circulation now," he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. "Ryck, you take the lads, same thing. Downstairs, main room. Simeon, you pick your scrawny arse up and spread the word - everyone redoubles their efforts. More sex, more drugs, more everythin'."

Startled faces were the only reaction at first, until the warlock sent roaring plumes of black Hellfire from every brazier in the room. Faces reared up in those flames, mouths wide in soundless screams before he willed them away. The warm glow returned to the room.

"DID I STUTTER!? MOVE. YOUR. ARSES!!"

The foyer burst into action all at once, indentured men and women scampering in every direction to fulfill the command of the Master of The House.

Finally, golden-yellow eyes shining lambently in the ruddy orange light, the tiefling turned to the shocked patrons.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a gift. For the next full day, everythin' in the House of Sin is free of charge."

Without waiting for a response to his bombshell, Aurelius took off for his upstairs office. He needed to gather his tools. He needed to get himself ready. There was a lot to do.

The fun was about to begin.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

His office was thrown into disarray in a matter of moments.

The tiefling tore through the shelves, tossing books and priceless tomes aside without thought, muttering to himself all the while. He was unable to wipe the Cheshire-grin from his inhuman features. His mind was whirling, a maelstrom of dark, twisted thoughts that would have damned a normal human to the Hells. He had been looking forward to this moment for so long that he didn't quite know what to do now that it was here.

Nah, sod that! he scoffed. He knew exactly what to do. All he had to do now was focus, and gather up the necessary materiel. Everything would fall into place soon.

He emerged from raiding a small chest in the corner of his office with a curved knife of archaic design, the bronze blade still gleaming as bright as the day it was forged. It was tossed onto the carpet before the marble fire-place. Before it even hit the floor, the warlock was moving to another part of the office, his ashen-skinned body darting here and there, all the time the muttering continued.

Four slender candles joined the bronze blade, all of them formed of tallow rendered from human fat. Their wicks were made of interwoven hair, and cuneiform runes were delicately inscribed upon them. After that, two tomes bound in.. Aurelius spared them a second glance and smirked.. "leather", landed on the pile. The tiefling rose from behind his desk with the curved, wicked sliver of steel dubbed Herzaa's knife - it was hung from his belt with care, compared to the rest of the magickal sundries.

With each passing minute the small pile of artifacts grew; each of them had cost a small fortune in jink and effort to obtain. But, Aurelius mused, it wasn't his money that had gone into getting them. Perks of "loyal servitude", he chuckled. He went back to gathering up his tool kit for the occasion, his body never silent as the profusion of piercings, charms and talismans rattled and clinked together.

A small black fetish was produced from the back of one of the bookcases lining Aurelianus' office, carved from jet. As it caught the light, the features on it seemed to shift and move. The tiefling deliberately and expertly kept his eyes away from the totem, placing it down in the pile as if it was a serpent about to strike. None of the items in his little den were particularly safe, but there were a select few that gave even him pause. As an afterthought, he took a patch of cloth from his scratched and scarred desk and covered the malevolent object.

He was just about to go back and collect the last few things he'd need for what came next when the door to his office burst open.

A man entered, his lean body wrapped in expensively tailored silks of crimson and sable. His icy blue eyes glared out from beneath ash-blonde hair.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Aurelius?" the human demanded, storming across the slightly stained and threadbare carpet.

Aurelianus, his face deliberately free of expression, glanced at the open door of his office over Styr Oakheart's shoulder.

"Come in," he called deadpan, "it's open."

"I asked you a question," the man barked, his deceptively slim-looking arms crossing over his chest.

"And what can I do for you today, Styr?" the half-demon sneered, slit-pupils narrowing further on the uppity little prick before him.

"What kind of stupid game do you think you're playing? 'Everything is free'!? How dare you even consider such a stupid bloody thing! That's not your money you're pissing away the-- I'm talking to you!"

Aurelius glanced over his shoulder from where he'd turned his back, continuing to rummage through the contents of his sanctum.

"I 'eard you, cutter. I'm choosin' to ignore your little outburst. Don't push your luck." The lack of anger in the fiend's voice would have given a smarter man pause.

Styr, instead, picked up a glass from the table and hurled it against the wall next to Aurelianus' head. Shards of glass and the remnants of the whisky it had contained landed in the half-breed's quills. Aurelius scratched at the back of his head idly with a long finger.

"You are only in this place because the Crimson Hand apparently still finds you useful," Styr spat venomously.

"It's their money you're throwing into your little hobbies. All of this," he spread his arms to encompass the curios, the office and the building itself, "is only entrusted to you so long as you fulfill your obligations to the Order. But you constantly flout the rules, and show nothing but disdain for our ways. Why Master Lichensith tolerated your loathsome presence i--"

His tirade continued on in the same vane for another minute. A long minute.

Aurelius closed his serpentine eyes and ran his forked tongue across his teeth, feeling his temper coiling deep inside his chest. These little tantrums were becoming more regular. And less private. As of late, the Salvaran saboteur had taken to starting these rants in front of other Crimson Hands, even in front of the customers once. His deep-seeded dislike of the Master of The House was no secret - what Madison and Aurelianus had done to the Order had hit the assassin hard. Struck a nerve.

If he wasn't so damned good at what he did, then the warlock might have just made an example of him already. The plane-touched murderer had restrained himself well so far. But this.. this was a step too far.

He turned, as slowly and calmly as he could, a benevolent smile curling his pale lips.

He held a scrimshawed femur loosely in his fist and he dropped it into the pile by the fire as he paced closer to the upstart human. To his credit, the Salvaran kept his cool, his face still twisted in anger. He was a few inches taller than the tiefling and he glared down the bridge of his aquiline nose at his employer.

He was a trained assassin, the human. His specialist skills lay in making deaths look accidental, or in bringing ruination on a target financially, softening them up for some suitably dark end. Any form of sabotage, really. Still, his hand-to-hand skills were trained to the heights of lethality as any member of the Crimson Hand. Aurelius could easily mark the subtle tells that Styr was resisting the urge to hit him. The guttersnipe's relaxed posture screamed try it.

But, even in his fury, Styr was not a complete fool. He had seen Aurelius fight. Even unarmed, the abomination was more than a match for him. Some of the wind seemed to go out of Styr's sails as he admitted this to himself. He stepped back from Aurelianus, bringing his hand up to wave a finger accusingly at the smirking bastard as he made his way back to the heavy iron door of the room.

"This isn't over, Aurelius," he promised.

"One thing, before you go cutter," Aurelius called.

Styr turned, fingers wrapped round the handle of the door.

"What do y--"

It was at this moment, mid-sentence, that his voice devolved into a shriek of shocked agony. His right arm, from the forearm down, was wrapped in writhing serpents of void-black Hellfire. The man, eyes stinging from the smoke of burning silk and seared flesh, dropped to his knees. He watched in disbelief as the sorcerous snakes entwined around his skin for another heartbeat before simply dissipating. The pain did not leave with them. He was still screaming, he knew - but he could not stop. Dimly he was aware of Aurelianus kneeling next to him on the floor.

"Let's just call that a wee reminder, mate," the voice hissed close by his ear.

He couldn't bring himself to look at the hideous burns on his arm, but he could smell cooked meat. Bile rose in the back of Styr's throat, barely held back by gritted teeth.

"A red right 'and from your Red Right Hand," the sadistic bastard sniggered.

Styr finally managed to get control of himself, restraining the would-be screams to mere groans of pain. His head was swimming with every pulse of blood through the ruined flesh of his forearm.

Aurelianus, still keeping his temper in check, reached for the wounded limb, batting away the feeble attempts to stop him. His hand, like a marble claw, closed around the raw, weeping fingers and started to squeeze. He pulsed a command to the ring around his finger and felt the ever-so-slight pinprick of metal forming a slender needle into his flesh. The same happened to Styr's hand, but it was the barest drop in a bucket of pain he was feeling at that moment, gone almost unnoticed.

"I'll make a deal with you, cutter," came the voice with a creeping amusement hidden in its velvety tones.

Styr's blood ran cold as he realised what was coming. He redoubled his efforts to escape the warlock's grip, but another squeeze of his maimed hand left him barely able to resist curling into a ball on the carpet.

"You're goin' to leave that pretty 'and on show from now on - a reminder to yourself and the other bodies workin' 'ere. In return, because I'm such a generous soul, I won't flay you alive in the foyer for everyone to see."

He leaned in close and Styr could smell the tobacco faintly on his breath, intimately close to the assassin's ear with those scissors he called teeth.

"And you know I'd bloody delight in doin' it, cutter."

For emphasis, he exerted a portion of his will and Styr was introduced to new realms of pain as the bastard tiefling's finger-tips started to slide through his flesh. He could feel fingernails touching bone as the flesh parted around them like wax.

Styr must have blacked out, because when he regained his senses, Aurelius was standing over him and grinning down with all the grace of a true predator.

The human staggered to his feet weakly, cradling his arm to his chest like a mother with an infant. He was about to wrap his tunic around it when he heard a faint tutting.

Aurelius smiled wolfishly, cocking his horned head. "Wouldn't do that if I were you, cutter. Remember our deal?"

Soul bound.

The thought lanced through Styr Oakheart's mind, almost taking the legs out from under him again. That was the final insult; the salt in his wounds. Aurelius had branded him, had shackled him to the tenets of the agreement. Violating it.. the thought finally brought Styr's stomach contents up in a violent purge. He managed one final hateful glare, so potent with abhorrence that it sent a shiver of delight up the half-demon's spine, before he stormed down the stairs.

Aurelius stared at the open door for a moment more, not sure whether he had been too generous with the rebellious assassin. But, he cast the notion aside as inconsequential for now. With a sudden clap of his hands, he reminded himself what he was supposed to be doing, and returned to the pile of mystical and arcane gear he required. It was swept up into his satchel, and the plane-touched devil flew from the room, his heavy boots barely even touching the wrought-iron staircase on the way down.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The men were still standing in the grounds behind the House when Aurelianus emerged, satchel slung over his shoulder. His hobnailed boots crunched through the frost that coated the ground, barely restraining himself from running.

Cadin turned at the sound of his approaching employer, and ran a hand through his thick hair. He was still sweating, still not quite over what he had seen down below.

"Aurelius," he nodded, genuinely glad he could now hand this nightmare over to the tiefling to handle. Aurelius returned the nod, his quills scraping against each other, fangs displayed in a beaming grin.

"'lo cutter," he smiled, eyes darting around excitedly. "What's the chant?"

"Not sure what in the hells you were looking for down there, boss, but I think.. I think we found it. We've got a chamber opened on tunnel three; Torrin and Ander are dead. Willem, Ezekyle and Rark are down, but I haven't the foggiest what's wrong with them."

He tried to suppress the images of them in his mind's eye.

The warlock, on the other hand, was devouring every word and quivering with child-like glee. He showed no concern about his dead workers, but that came as no surprise to anyone present. The men all added in their own snippets of information, telling the half-demon what they'd seen and quickly devolving into chattering about 'curses' and 'ill omens'. A cold breeze caressed the half-demon's alabaster skin as he looked around Cadin to the Hole entrance. The satchel was handed to the human, who held it gingerly in outstretched arms - he was all too familiar with the unpleasant things Aurelianus Drak'shal was likely to carry with him, and he had no desire to know what was in his grasp.

"We're going down," the tiefling announced, glancing back at his underling. Cadin, already pale due to his pure-bred Salvaran heritage, somehow managed to go paler.

"Aurelius, not being funny, but are you out of your mind?"

Seemingly mulling over this question, the plane-touched warlock tapped a finger to his chin thoughtfully, cold eyes narrowing on Cadin.

"Y'know, you're the second cutter to ask me that today. Must be going too soft on you lads if you think you can get away with that kind of back-chat."

Every muscle on the Salvaran's body locked up in that moment and his brain screamed at him that he had made a grievous error in opening his mouth.. but then he saw the mischievous smirk at the corners of Aurelius' mouth and he let out an audible sigh of relief. The boss had a wicked sense of humour.

Finally turning his attention to the rest of the small crowd, Aurelianus looked them up and down. Most of them looked a hair's breadth away from shitting themselves and the rest looked no better.

"Alright, you boys get inside 'fore you freeze your bollocks off. Go dip your wicks, cutters. Cadin, Edd, Harl, you're with me. Show me."

Those not named let out a collective breath and it was all they could do to not bolt for the doors instantly. Trying to compose themselves, the men entered the House of Sin and shut the doors behind them with a resounding clang. That left just the three men and the half-breed. They looked to each other and back to their so-called master before finally, wearily making their way back down the ladder into the Stygian darkness.

The antechamber looked no different but as soon as they were all down Aurelius heard the screaming. It was still going on, though admittedly it had lessened in the last few minutes. Cadin guiltily hoped that meant the men were finally dying - he didn't like to think of what their lives would be like should they survive whatever had afflicted them. The cloying, sickly sweet reek of blood permeated the stifling air.

"There," he pointed to the tunnel entrance, allowing the warlock devil to take point. Harl, a scarred ex-soldier built like the proverbial brick-shit-house, struck his flint to the wick of one of the hooded lanterns piled by the base of the ladder. Lifting the shining beacon to light the way for those not gifted with fiend blood running through their veins, he wrinkled his nose and tried not to let his discomfort show too openly. Cadin gently laid the leather satchel down next to the lanterns, reaching for his dirk before realising it wasn't there. He must have dropped it in the original scrum to get out.

Needing no other invitation, Aurelius stalked into the narrow confines of tunnel three, his inhuman eyes cutting through the blackness with no difficulty. He was hiding it from the others but even he was slightly apprehensive. If they had really stumbled upon what he was seeking... well, the tiefling's delight at that prospect was easily matched by his nagging concern that he would be unable to control the forces unleashed.

Bar that, cutter, he chastised himself mentally. Suck it up, and you get your pikin' arse movin'!

There was no room in his mind for doubt; in fact, if there was anything ever likely to get him killed in what was to come, it was just that.

Taking a slow, deep breath, the horned spellslinger clambered through the cramped stone gullet. After a few seconds his not-all-human vision was able to mark the bodies clogging the shattered opening. He focused on the bodies, not quite letting his serpentine eyes wander to what lay beyond the cracked maw. Two of the men were, as Cadin had said, quite dead. The blood was still seeping sluggishly from their myriad wounds, but there was no life left within the shells. The three beyond them, though, were still very much alive. Their shrieks of insane rage and agony thundered in the tiefling's eardrums, almost making him cover his ears. In such an enclosed area the screams rebounded disturbingly, blending and rolling over themselves - it was like a chorus of the damned.

"Pike me," Aurelius muttered, shaking his head to try and clear the tinnitus ringing behind his eyes.

Centering himself, not as easy as he might have wished given the circumstances, he opened his eyes to the witch-sight. The world around him, already blank, bare stone, should have been muted of all other colour. The demonic vision allowed him to look upon a body's soul, reading it like a book laid bare before him. Instead, he barely had time to register the shifting, mesmerising hues of the three mutilated men before he unconsciously flicked his gaze up to the yawning hole before him.

Aurelius barked out a bitter curse, falling back into the three men he had entirely forgotten were there. Cadin decided, upon seeing the tears of jet-black blood streaming down Aurelianus' face and the smoke coiling from his eyes, that it was time to panic.

"Shit!" he yelped, trying to back up and only succeeding in smashing his elbow into Edd's nose, the hirsute hulk cracking the back of his head off the low ceiling. The tight space turned an already clumsy attempt to retreat into, in Cadin's vernacular, what could only be described as a clusterfuck. Harl, also on the verge of panic, dropped the lamp at the groups' feet. A brief moment of lunatic shadows flickering over the walls as the lantern shattered, and the four were cast into sudden and complete darkness. Luckily, the flame went out before the oil could catch. Blind, the humans scarpered back through the rough excavation, shouting, swearing and smashing into the walls and each other.

None of them made it back out of the tunnel without numerous bruises, scrapes and cuts, but eventually, they were out of the Hole.

They threw themselves out of the well-shaft, embracing the icy touch of the frost on their bare skin. Cadin came last, hauling Aurelius practically by the collar - the half-breed was still swearing, his eyes clamped shut and his palms pressed tight against them. His cheeks were smeared with what looked like ink. His own blood, still dribbling from his tear ducts.

For a full minute, there was no sound save their laboured, ragged breathing and the multilingual swearing of the their plane-touched patron.

Harl dragged himself to his knees. Cadin sat up, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow now that it was starting to cool on his goose-pimpled flesh. Edd was muttering to himself and clawing at his arms again. Suddenly, they remembered about Aurelianus, and all three of the men staggered over to see if he was alright; to know what the hell had just happened. Seeing the warlock laid low so easily.. that was something they had come to regard as generally not possible.

Cadin shook his head, wondering just wha--

The sound of throaty chuckling stopped them all in their tracks.

They shared a momentary look of unease.

Aurelius, still lying where Cadin had dropped him, rolled onto his back and took his palms away from his eyes. The ashen-white skin was marred by blood-stains streaking eyes to chin. His chest hiked as laughter shook his wolf-lean frame. The tiefling propped himself up on an elbow, blinking rapidly to clear stinging eyes of the vitae they had produced. He couldn't help himself, the laughter just kept coming.

The three men worried that whatever insanity had gripped Willem, Rark and Ezekyle had taken Aurelianus as well. He was never exactly sane at the best of times, granted; but if he lost his mind, with the powers he commanded... Cadin's hand drifted again to the empty sheath at his belt.

"We--" another short burst of hideous laughter. Harl and Edd backed away a pace.

"We pikin' found it," Aurelianus Drak'shal chuckled, looking up through bloody eyes at his three companions. No-one seemed to share his amusement, only making him break down into another fit of cackling. The tiefling rolled onto his back again, grinning through serrated fangs as he shook. His smile was like a knife-wound.

The side-splitting laughter echoing around the small yard chilled them more than the Salvaran wind.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Minutes went by and, eventually, the laughter subsided.

Aurelius sat himself up, blinking rapidly to try and clear the blood and sweat from his eyes. He glanced at his sticky palms before wiping them on his trousers. A deep breath stung his nose with the crisp, cold air. Cadin knelt nearby, one hand rubbing the sand-paper stubble across his jaw and breath misting in the air. Edd was wandering back and forth still scratching at his arms, while Harl, keeping as far away from the Hole as he could, produced a long-stemmed pipe and lit up. Focussing on making smoke rings seemed to calm the veteran down.

"Boss," Cadin started, chewing a thumbnail, "just what the hell is down there? I.. we've never seen nothin' like that. Your eyes.."

He trailed off, not sure what to say, his mind a mish-mash of thoughts and barely-constrained panic. Aurelius grinned, lighting up one of his cigarettes and holding the case out to the Salvaran. With a muttered thanks, the mousy-haired cutthroat slid one free. Leaning back on his arms, the tiefling lit both of the roll-ups with a flicker of his willpower. Cadin sucked greedily on the coffin-nail, and Aurelianus marked the ever-so-slight tremor in his hands.

"You ever 'eard of transcendental traumatism?" the warlock started, smoke slithering from the corners of his mouth.

Blank stare.

"Right, fair 'nuff," Aurelius chuckled, taking the cigarette between his fingers and scratching the base of his horns. His sweat was cooling now, prickling his skin. He ignored the itch starting under his leathers.

"Right, 'ow do I explain this? It's.." the half-breed's voice trailed off as his eyes wandered over the open area.

The grounds themselves were hardly expansive, walled in on three sides by tall walls of rough stone. Most of the business was conducted within the House-proper, but there were three sets of stocks set up on a small gibbet; handy for when an example had to be set. Exposure to the elements had rusted the hinges and the locks slightly. Absent-mindedly, Aurelius made a mental-note to have someone oil them. A small pile of shattered rocks near the centre of the yard marked where the original well had been, a layer of white already glittering over the top of them.

He glanced at the other two men occupying the garden, the obsidian rings in his eyebrow clinking together quietly as the brows furrowed.

"Edd," he called, the hairy brute turning his glazed eyes to the tiefling, "s'alright basher. Get yourself inside. Find Val, 'ave 'er take a look at those nicks. Harl, go with 'im. You done good, lads."

The ex-soldier and the hairy behemoth didn't bother to hide their relief, sparing a nod for Cadin as they passed. Harl was quietly muttering to Edd around the stem of his pipe, trying to calm the big man down. He gently laid a hand on the brute's forearm to stop him clawing them any more.

"And send out Gimmel an' 'is lot," the half-demon shouted as an after-thought.

The doors closed behind them - the brief second they were opened allowing Aurelius' preternatural senses to mark the mass-orgy going on within. The vague smell of raw sex drifted over on the cool breeze, laced with the sweet tang of incense; there, the half-scream of a girl in the grips of ecstasy; the gun-shot crack of a whip on bare skin.. all this and more, sending a shiver coursing up the half-breed's spine. He savoured it for a moment, drawing another lungful of smoke and again trying in vain to wipe the now-congealing blood from his cheeks.

Cadin sat in silence, a long column of ash showing he had forgotten all about his own smoke. He was still staring at the Hole, sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Cadin," the voice snapped him back to attention. "You with me, cutter?"

The man nodded, tearing his gaze back to his boss. It was a strange realisation that the sight of the quilled, tattooed monster was a more welcome sight than the images running through his head.

Aurelius got to his feet with the soft creak of leather and the rattle of his many charms and talismans. After tightening one of the straps on his jerkin, he offered Cadin a hand up. Letting the ashen-skinned devil lead him back towards the House, Cadin finally remembered the roll-up in his hand and flicked it away. He felt sick and the tobacco wasn't helping. Aurelius stopped outside the doors, the thick oak not managing to completely muffle the raucous noise from within. He cocked his head curiously, serpentine eyes dancing over the shaken man. He drew again on his own cigarette, dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"Look, cutter, I can see your brain-box is buggered," he said, breathing out a cloud of smoke to join his condensing breath.

"You found what I asked you to, so get inside. Take the day. You don't need to see the rest of what I'm goin' to do. Fact is, s'probably better for you if you don't."

Cadin looked up at Aurelius. There was something close to concern in the tone of Aurelianus' voice. Contrary to popular belief, Cadin knew, Aurelius looked out for his trusted workers and soldiers. Most people viewed him as a purely evil little shit, and for the most part they were right. But he had seen himself that there was more to the tiefling than that. The human genuinely didn't know if it was real concern for his people, or if the tiefling was just protecting what he considered useful tools for his own inscrutable ends. Frankly, he didn't care either way; the end result was the same.

He nodded slowly after a moment. If Aurelianus was telling him to walk away from this, it meant things were going to get a lot worse.

"I just hope you know what you're doing, boss," he said quietly, opening the door and taking his leave.

So do I, cutter, thought the tiefling.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Gimmel was not a man given to deep introspection.

He was, he reflected, what people called a sadist. But when his mind did turn to examining himself and the perceptions others held of him, he regarded this as a minor misnomer. It wasn't that he enjoyed simply inflicting pain on others. No. Nothing quite so banal.

He stood on a slightly raised stage, his body clad in tight, form-fitting leather armour. In emulation of his master the plates were strapped in place and glinted with a profusion of buckles. He lifted his hand before his face, curling it into a fist and feeling the curved blade of bone slide free from its sheath in the meat of his forearm. Blind since birth, Gimmel's hearing was sharp enough to pick up every gasp of delight and wonder as he displayed his new form for the crowd. He cocked his head toward them, letting his ears paint him a picture that his eyes could not. Well.. couldn't, even if they had still been there. Instead, the man's face was smooth, unblemished flesh from his hairline down to his slender-lipped mouth. No eyes. No eye-sockets. He had willingly allowed Aurelianus to use his protean Art on his body, reshaping it to the anatomical design Gimmel chose. The fleshcrafter did that for all who wished it; each was given total freedom to choose their own form, unbound by things as meaningless as nature or sanity and the half-breed would make it reality.

The room where this display was taking place was not the largest under the roof of the House of Sin but it was spacious enough to seat thirty and still leave Gimmel enough room up front, standing before the wrought-iron frame. The stone walls were covered in tapestries, displaying a dizzying array of lewd acts and unnatural creatures. Black-iron braziers perched in the corners of the room provided ample light and warmth - this room being below the ground-level, it had a tendency to absorb the chill from the hard Salvaran earth. The room was full today, everyone eager to see the now infamous pain-artist at work. Men and women reclined in various states of undress on the plush cushions, none of them restricted by colour or creed, social standing or monetary wealth. In their hedonistic pursuits, all were equal.

His mind turned inwards again as he faced the man bound on the frame - a beautiful specimen, his skin like caramel, his body sculpted to near-physical-perfection. Gimmel could not see the man's face, couldn't see the flush in his cheeks or the dilation of his pupils to mark his arousal. But the blind man could sense it regardless; the sharp, shallow breaths hiking the bound man's chest; the slight sweetness added to his scent; the crowd's murmuring about the captive's impressive manhood. A dozen subtle cues spoke volumes to the former-human. Gimmel knew what the man felt, could sense his anticipation and this was what he took pleasure in.

The gift of pain was a wondrous thing. But it was tantamount to blasphemy to waste it on those who would not appreciate every subtle nuance. Gimmel wanted-- no, Gimmel needed to share it with those who longed for the razored caress; who would shudder and salivate as their flesh parted under cold steel or the sharp kiss of braided leather. It was not enough that they experienced the agony - they must also use it as a gateway to the greatest pleasures. This was something the flesh-crafted once-human had long understood, but Aurelius had been the first to put it into words for him.

"S'all about contrast," the warlock had told the assembled Sinners (as he had taken to calling those working under his roof) one night, when he had gathered them all in the main foyer. Unknown to them at the time, this had marked the start of the House's metamorphosis from dark, depraved brothel to something much more pure.

"Your average body will shy away from gettin' 'urt, they'll avoid it at all costs and off they pop to find something that'll make 'em feel good instead. Quick shag, new drug, piss-up down the pub with all the other cutters. Hollow little flickers of pleasure to fill their empty wee lives."

"But those poor sods are missin' the Truth of it," he had said, serpent eyes shining with something bordering fanaticism.

"That delicious little sting, that feelin' when the whip kisses your back for the first time.. they're a contrast. The more little torments you 'eap on your flesh, the more you come to know gratification."

The ashen-skinned devil had silenced some of the mutterings in the room was a wag of his finger, Gimmel recalled.

"I can 'ear you thinkin' it - 'but Aurelius me old son, 'ow can pain feel good? It's the opposite of feelin' good'. Bollocks to that, cutters. Ask yourself this; 'ow d'you know what darkness is?"

He had waited for an answer until finally a new girl, Natalia, had spoken up from beneath a curtain of shimmering red hair.

"Because we have the sun to show us light."

The tiefling had purred with delight.

"Exactly, luv. Spot on. We don't know light 'til we've sat in the dark. Same thing with what we're goin' to do 'ere. We're goin' to teach these folks they don't know what true ecstasy is, 'til they've plumbed the depths of agony."

Gimmel remembered each word the half-demon had uttered that night. It had opened his eyes (figuratively), and expressed what he had felt for as long as he could remember. The tiefling was a patron to those of Gimmel's.. proclivities. He found each Sinner's niche, and he nurtured them, trained them. To what end, well.. that was the source of much speculation from many people who visited the House. But Aurelius wasn't one for sharing his end-goals with the masses.

Wondering why his mind had wandered and turned inward, Gimmel went back to the task at hand. The people seated behind him had come for a show and he was going to give it to them. With his free hand he grabbed a crank next to the frame and hauled it into a new setting. Instantly, the frame rotated where it stood and tilted forward, slender steel armatures keeping it steady. Just one of many such engineering marvels throughout the establishment, it allowed the pain-artist complete control of his canvas - where the blood would flow, ease of access for harder to reach areas.. the possibilities were virtually endless.

With a hungry lick of his lips, Gimmel ran one hand over the smooth skin of the other man's back. His right hand, sickle-blade exposed, came down slowly, carving a narrow strip of flesh away from the meat beneath. Crimson flowed down over Gimmel's hands, but he continued working. The masochist shackled to the frame moaned in delight, his body shivering beneath Gimmel's not-so-tender ministrations. The eyeless man worked silently, his unnaturally sharp hearing telling him how much the crowd approved. By touch alone he worked, carving and cutting the most elegant designs into the dusky skin. He did not need to see to appreciate his own work. The aesthetic side of things was a secondary concern compared to the bounty of savoured-suffering he was gifting his canvas.

He worked with utter focus, using control and precision to create a symphony of excruciation. Not just the visual beauty was offered up for the assembly of voyeurs to devour; by digging his bone-blade deeper here, Gimmel changed the tone of the man's moans; slicing low under the ribs there brought a bark of pleasure-pain like a beaten drum. This was why Gimmel was heralded as an artist, and not just a torturer. He could create an entire symphony from those who went under his blades, laying out a feast of experiences for the gathered people to soak up. The myriad drugs on offer for the patrons helped enhance their sensory intake for the display.

Everyone in the room watched with awe as he worked, some of them unable to contain their lusts deciding to writhe together on the floor, adding more sights and sounds and scents to the experience.

It took nearly an hour for the artist to finish his latest masterpiece, turning to the crowd and offering a shallow bow to signal the end of the demonstration.

Those who had witnessed it got up and left the room, whispering to each other excitedly about the performance. They parted absent-mindedly around the lean figure of Harl striding through their midst.

His pipe still clamped between his teeth, the ex-soldier entered the room and tried to hide his disgust. He didn't like Gimmel in the slightest. Harl had fought in bloody battles, seen the ravages of war and was no stranger to brutal violence in a fight. But there was something dark, some indefinable sinister aura to the leather-clad murderer that set the Salvaran's teeth on edge. What Gimmel did to people, like the poor sod currently shackled up and bleeding away.. it struck Harl as sick. But, he was careful never to let his opinions escape his lips in front of Aurelianus. Everyone in the House of Sin knew the devil actively encouraged practices like these and was none too fond of those who made the mistake of bringing morality into his domain.

Gimmel spun on his heel to regard Harl with that blank face of his. The veteran clamped his teeth down harder on the stem of his pipe, smoke drifting lazily from his mouth in irritated puffs. He hated when Gimmel did that; when he knew you were there no matter how damned sneaky you tried to be.

"Are you lost, brother?" Gimmel smirked, his mouth widening slightly too much to be normal. "A rare event indeed to have you down here with the perverts and sadists."

Harl didn't rise to the bait. He knew the blind bastard delighted in making him uncomfortable. But after what Harl had witnessed already that day, this no-eyed freak-show paled in comparison.

"Boss wants you and your lot outside. Now."

Instantly, bone blades sliding home wetly, Gimmel's manner became entirely professional. A soldier, standing at attention and carrying out the orders of his master.

"It shall be done," he intoned, bowing his head toward Harl.

"The master's Faithful answer his summons."

Turning on the spot, Harl marched out of the room and headed upstairs. He was going to find himself a hard drink, a woman for his hard-on, and by tomorrow, be hardly conscious.

He had done what the boss had asked of him; now it was time to kick back. He had no intention of being back near the Hole with the flesh-crafted menagerie of horrors Aurelius chose to keep court with.

Ten minutes later, the doors of the House opened onto the back yard and Gimmel led out the master's flock. The procession was a true horror to behold, no two nightmares the same. Gimmel was almost normal compared to some of the downright bizarre creatures stalking across the grounds beside him. But, each and every one had picked their new bodies. Each and every one had been re-shaped to match their innermost desires. And they all owed their new existence to Aurelianus Drak'shal. Gimmel, chosen as their leader, stopped before the tiefling, dropping to a knee and lowering his head in respect.

"We have come, master. What would you have of your Faithful?"

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius sighed internally, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

He always hated it when Gimmel and the rest of his group abased themselves in front of him like this. Narcissist though he was, he disliked being treated like he was anyone's owner. His entire approach to managing the House was supposed to show people that metaphorical chains, even those chosen by themselves, were a stupid concept. Something unnecessary to be cast off. Like the forms his Faithful had been born with. But, for the most part it was taking longer for his lessons of self-governance to take root. Old habits died hard, he mused.

He hid his irritation at the subservient manners and took one last draw on his cigarette before flicking it away into one of the snow-drifts building up at the base of the walls.

"Got some work to do, cutter," the tiefling began, reaching down to drag the pain-artist to his feet and exhaling the thick smoke from his lungs.

He spared a nod of his horned brow to the rest of the flock, ignoring the hushed whispers and gestures of devotion. Natalia, clad in shimmering scales across her bare skin, gifted him a sultry wink from beneath her curtain of silky red hair and a teasing run of her tongue around her scarlet lips, eliciting a chuckle from the quilled horror. The rest fell in step with him as he started back across the yard, Gimmel taking his usual place at the half-demon's right hand. The torturer could smell the excitement coming off of the warlock, and could just make out the exotic spicy scent of his master's blood over the crisp sharpness of the frigid air. Something had hurt the Master?

Aurelianus marked the bone-blades starting to slide free from Gimmel's forearms, but paid them no mind. There was no-one among the flock that would dare lift a hand, claw, or any other appendage to harm him. Loathe as he was to admit it, Aurelius knew they venerated him in their own strange ways. One of the bouncers on the doors had once made the mistake of jokingly telling Aurelius he might as well be a god, the way they acted around him. That silly sod had spent the next fortnight dwelling on the depths of his folly, while screaming himself bloody in the pain chambers.

Stirring himself from the irksome memory, a sneer curling his scarred lips, Aurelianus stalked to the edge of the Hole.

"You remember what we talked about when I gave you that body, Gimmel?" he asked, breath misting in front of him as he knelt by the opening.

"Yes, Master, I do. You told me that we," he gestured at the rest of the flock, "were the start of something monumental. That this was the beautiful side of your Art."

Nodding, the tiefling glanced at the gathering of freaks.

"Well, tonight we get to see the ugly side. C'mon," he chuckled, hopping into the Hole.

Without question, the Faithful followed him down into the blood-reeking pit.

With more than a dozen of them crouching at the base of the entrance-ladder the mined out tunnels were cramped, and stiflingly hot. Leading the way, Aurelianus grabbed his satchel from beside the ladder and made his way back down the corridor to where he had left the mutilated workers. Gimmel followed, as did the rest. Lanterns were lit and passed around, casting a ruddy glow on the macabre little tableau. The three men who had been afflicted with murderous rage were still lying there, thankfully for them, now unconscious. They were still bleeding hideously from their self-inflicted wounds; if they didn't get medical attention soon, they would die.

Gimmel, even without his eyes, could tell all of this from the reactions of the others close enough to see. He crawled closer, loosing one blade from his arm and raising it to end their misery - without consciousness, their suffering was simply a waste.

Aurelius stopped him short with a barked command.

"Leave 'em," he growled, cowing the once-human back.

"Gimmel, Natalia, Luc, with me. Sarky, Baru, take the deaders up topside, and burn 'em. The rest of you, get Willem, Ezekyle and Rark up to the saw-bones. Stay with them, make sure Val's safe to patch them up, then stash them..." he paused, trying to think of where they could be kept out of sight of the rest of the workers.

"Take 'em to the storage room on the second-basement level. Shackles, wrists and ankles. But they stay alive, jig?"

"Why?" one of the Faithful asked from near the back of the group. He spoke from a mouth in the centre of his chest, piercings riddling the lips all the way around.

"Because I pikin' said so," the warlock smiled, holding the man's gaze and silently challenging him to ask another pointless question.

He wasn't going to sit and try and explain the concept of chresmomancy to the mundane-minded. Suffice it to say, the three men still had use to the wily plane-touched. He clapped his hands to get the Faithful moving and scampered back to the opening that had started this horrorshow day to allow them room - instantly, he could feel something running across his back, like static. It felt like the close, sticky feeling in the air before a storm. He ignored it for the moment, watching his coterie hop to obey his requests.

It was not graceful and the heat made any sort of exertion a sweaty, uncomfortable ordeal but the fleshcrafted delights performed their tasks without further question. The insensate workers were dragged, moaning and thrashing feebly, back towards the exit. Aurelius marked the sticky red-black smears marring the condensation-soaked walls as they went. The smell of blood saturated the air.

Like tryin' to breathe treacle, he thought, scratching at the edges of his high collar. Aurelius wasn't a fan of enclosed spaces; felt too much like being caged for the guttersnipe.

Ignoring the casualties now that the Faithful were enacting his will, Aurelianus jerked his head towards the new cavern and with his three favourite sybarites in tow, finally crossed through the arch of shattered stone. The rocks, in the dim light of the lanterns, looked like the remains of broken teeth in rotting gums.

As soon as his boot touched the stone on the other side, Aurelius was seized by a wave of raw pain. Even with his inhuman resistance to physical discomfort he was knocked to a knee, eyes squeezed tight shut and fangs gritted against the shuddering fire roaring through his mind. He swore through his teeth as the pressure inside his skull built up more with every heartbeat.

Gimmel and Natalia made to come to his aid, but he threw a hand up to hold them off.

"Stay. On that. Side," he snarled, drool stringing between his fangs. Sweat started to bead on his brow.

They obeyed, though the tiefling barely noticed. He was entirely focussed on the inferno currently attempting to flay his mind. He could feel tendrils of something malevolent but aimless caressing the bastions of his mental defences. Everywhere they moved, roiling paroxysms of agony assailed him. His eyes started slowly seeping blood once again.

Powers Below, it felt like someone was slowly dragging molten metal over the inside of his skull.

From their vantage, still struggling with the urge to help their Master, Natalia and Luc shivered involuntarily when Aurelius' alabaster skin started to.. shift. It writhed, softly at first, and then with disgusting peristaltic motions. The sensation tore a scream from the lungs of the half-devil, who beat a fist against the floor to try and centre his mind. His thoughts were torn apart and tossed aside like debris in a whirlwind for entirely too long.

But he had a feel for it now.

Aurelianus Drak'shal was in no doubt he had found exactly what he had been seeking. He knew what was attacking his psyche and that meant he knew how to defend against it.

Struggling to make his body do what his brain wanted it to, he managed to force a hand inside the leather satchel at his hip. His other arm shook violently, before a sharp jerk whip-lashed through it. Aurelius didn't scream this time, but even if he had, it wouldn't have masked the wet popping crunch from his elbow. He bit his tongue, serrated enamel puncturing the black forked flesh. Blood ran down his chin in watery rivulets as the fleshcrafter continued to rake around in his bag, fighting against the convulsions wracking his body.

It felt like a lifetime for the warlock, but eventually his hand closed around something unbearably cold.

With a triumphant and feral bark, his fist emerged from the satchel, clutching the jet fetish. His skin was turning blue-black where the foul totem touched it, bringing new sensations of torment to accompany his mental-flensing. But, finally, he managed to raise his arm and hurl the object into the darkness of the cavern. It took the skin of his palm with it.

He just had time to see the fetish stop suddenly in the air like it had hit something solid, turning lazily on the spot once, before an enormous explosion of raw force tore from the nexus of the cave and smashed him, like a rag-doll, against the wall.

Everything went black.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Consciousness returned in fits and starts.

Painfully, bloody-drool trailing from his cheek to the rough cavern floor, Aurelius forced himself to his knees. He grimaced as his skinned palm ground against the stone, a vicious migraine pulsing at his temples. A hiss escaped clenched fangs as the tiefling tried to bring his right hand to his face - his vision, fuzzy at the edges, swam as he looked down at his arm and the elbow bending the wrong way.

His ears rang, pulsing with what he assumed were words he couldn't focus on.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his wrist with his good hand, breathing deeply through his nose before wrenching his arm back into its proper shape.

A harsh bark of profanity wormed through his hearing and it took the half-devil a moment to realise the words had come from his own mouth. He almost blacked out again, the pain shooting through his abused limb with no intention of being ignored. Rolling on to his back, blinking the blood from his eyes, Aurelius slowly returned to the room. He could hear voices shouting his name.

I'm fine.

After a few seconds they were still calling to him; it was then he realised he hadn't actually spoken aloud.

"I'm fine," he managed, voice wet with blood and saliva. Spitting to clear his mouth, Aurelius forced himself upright. Blood ran down him from a number of small wounds, gumming between leather plates and spreading taut against his ashen skin as it dried. He ignored that for the moment, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was harder to ignore the agony through his entire body from muscles that had been forced out of shape by the psychic tempest, and from bones that felt molten.

He staggered away from his Faithful, temples throbbing with a blanket of discomfort, like sheet lightning across his senses. Slowly, carefully, he made his way to the hovering fetish in the middle of the natural cave.

Absently, he slurred over his shoulder, "'s fine. Get your arses in 'ere. We've got a lot to do."

Gimmel, like a hound loosed from his leash, darted to his master's side. His head bobbed this way and that, slit-nostrils quivering and Aurelius vaguely marked the tip of a too-long tongue probing the air like a serpent tasting heat.

"Are you al--" he started, before the warlock cut him off.

"Fine and pikin' dandy, cutter," he growled, wiping his mouth clean with his forearm. It only served to spread the black blood across his face.

"You don't look it, sweetling," Natalia purred from his other side, running a curved talon down his wounded arm.

Aurelius couldn't tell if it was concern that coloured her words, or if it was the tone of a predator smelling weakness. Either way, he swatted their hands away from him and powered on to the center of the room. His temper was lashing angrily back and forth, caged in his chest and it took him longer than he cared to admit to realise why; he had shown weakness in front of them. Though they were his soldiers, heart and soul, the tiefling was far too peery to ever bare his throat in front of anyone.

He forced himself to calm, wiping the sweat from his shorn scalp with his injured arm. Using it was the only way to become accustomed to the pain it brought - once he did that, it became ignorable. It was just.. taking longer than usual. Rarely, he admitted to himself, had he ever felt anything quite like that. But as his hungry eyes alighted on the slowly rotating jet carving, he instantly knew it was worth every second.

The arcane object hummed with power and Aurelius had to quickly turn Natalia's head away when he caught her staring into the swirling reflections deep in its surface. The fleshcrafted vixen instantly reacted, her hand lashing out at the half-demon's face, fingers curled into rending claws.

The blow never connected and before the woman could figure out the reason, the breath left her lungs in a painful explosion and she found herself on her back, staring up at Aurelianus and Gimmel. A look of dawning horror gripped her graceful features.

"I didn't mean to, I'm--"

"Not your fault, luv," Aurelius assured her, offering her a hand and dragging her back to her feet. "Don't look at it, not for the faint of 'eart."

His grin, while predatory and cold to most, warmed Natalia and she curled against his side gratefully.

"Gimmel, settle your arse down or I'll pikin' slot you m'self," Aurelius growled, marking the eyeless assassin still managing somehow to glare at the scarlet-haired harlot. She had struck his master, and for that Gimmel reasoned she should be bleeding out on the floor. But, muscles quivering with barely contained fury, he obeyed. His bone blades retreated back to the wet folds of musculature that housed them, though it galled him to do so.

"It was that," he nodded at the object, ignoring the absurdity of trying to point something out to a blind man.

Despite that, Gimmel's head turned to the curio and he edged closer. Aurelianus was about to stop him when the man moved back a step. Whatever he could sense of the fetish, it had him wary. Which, the warlock reasoned, made sense. He let his mind get lost for a spell, remembering the efforts he'd had to go to, the atrocities that went into obtaining the item. But those thoughts served no purpose so he banished them. What mattered was that it worked.

He could already sense the flood of questions bubbling up in his companions' minds, and decided to beat them to it and save time.

"The race that made that little trinket feed on thought, emotions. They're barmy for it. But, they piked themselves when they got too 'ungry. Started whittlin' down the food supply, jig?"

As he spoke, the warlock detached himself from Nat and started pacing a wide circle around the revolving arcana. He stared defiantly at it, knowing his own mind was fortified against its predations. It reeked of ozone, and tiny crackles of energy danced across the glossy surface.

"So, canny little buggers, they made these. Like little leeches, soak up all the psychic energy in the area. Just keep drinkin' and drinkin' 'til they're full, and finally when some sod wants to sate his nasty little appetite, 'e just 'as to grab one and there 'e 'as 'is meal, without 'avin' to kill his prey. Clever, eh?"

He turned his back on the fetish finally, content that it was holding up against the forces in the room, and took a cigarette from his case. Lighting it with a faint touch of Hellfire the half-demon took off his satchel and dropped it by his feet. Craning his neck released audible pops and once again the tiefling tried to clear his face a little of the grime and fluids covering it. His eyes stung like buggery, but with a self-satisfied puff of smoke, he looked over the rest of the room. The cavern itself was somewhere around fifty paces across, the ceiling hanging relatively low by half as much. The air was cold, bringing goosebumps along Natalia's exposed skin and misting the breath of the party.

Something pale flashed by overhead and Aurelius glanced up towards the pale figure of Luc, climbing along the ceiling like a malignant spider. The fleshcrafted voyeur resembled an arachnid in more than deed; multiple arms spread out from his shoulders and hips, each hand reinforced with strengthened tendons and muscles to better cling to vertical surfaces. He made a damn good spy, extra pairs of eyes swivelling in sockets that had no right to be there, but his look was a far cry from the subtle works done on the other two workers in the room. He explored the chamber from above, letting the eyes on his shoulders scan the room for danger.

Not that Luc would have known what the real danger in the room actually was. Aurelianus doubted any of them could appreciate what he'd found here.

He'd tried to explain to Cadin, but the human's mundane little mind wouldn't grasp the enormity of the discovery anyway. Reaching out gingerly with his witch sight again, Aurelius breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes didn't rupture. He could mark the swirling tides of energy pooling in the cavern, spinning languidly into the centre, flowing into the jet carving. As he let his eye flick to it the warlock saw clearly the vast amounts of power that were still pouring in to it with no signs of slowing. The entire chamber danced with eddies of metaphysical energy.

Transcendental traumatism - psychic scarring, in other words - was a rare occurrence. Akin to rain-water filling a plough-furrow in the field, there were areas of land where such heinous acts had taken place they had left a permanent scar on the psychic landscape of the world. Althanas was a treasure-trove of them from the texts Aurelius had managed to acquire, and he had known that there was one somewhere around Knife's Edge. It was half the reason he'd picked the city to found his House of Sin to begin with; but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it'd be so close to his domain.

It was a delicious little twist, and even as he let his witch-sight swim deeper, he could feel the taint saturating the air from his brothel above - years of torture, violence, hedonism and vice had all trickled down here. Every sin committed above was reflected in the build-up of mystical power below.

It was perfect.

"Out, all of you," he smiled suddenly, cigarette between his scarred lips as he snapped his fingers.

He'd wasted enough time already. There was much still to do and the fleshcrafter was eager to get to it.

Natalia inclined her head softly before padding back out of the cavern, her eyes never once going near the hovering leech-talisman. Luc followed suit, scurrying down the wall and out the broken opening into the cramped tunnels again. As Gimmel bowed stiffly, the tiefling picked up his satchel and checked the items he'd brought with him. Everything was ready, bar the final details. Lifting the small tome from his bag, he perused dog-eared pages he had almost committed to memory by this point, idly tracing ancient geomantic designs with his fingertip and muttering under his breath.

"Get topside and bring me some of the lads. Two groups of seven. No more, no less."

The blind sadist nodded, bowing again as he took his leave. As his foot crossed the threshold to the cave Aurelianus called back to him again.

"And find Gwen'. Tell 'er it's time."

Dismissing the former-human, Aurelianus finished his cigarette in silence. Flicking away the doubts in his mind as well as the cigarette end, he squared his shoulders and before he could give himself time to reconsider the ashen-skinned inhuman reached out and wrapped his hand around the effigy.

A corona of energy spread from the idol, staining the cavern with a sickly cyanotic glow. The force stored within began to pour into the now open vessel, filling the tiefling to bursting. His teeth creaked as he ground them together, veins on his brow pulsing with effort as he fought to control and direct what was now flooding into him. The raw power he felt was intoxicating, and with the barest effort of will the warlock unleashed Shahab's Lash on the cavern. He could control his invocations as easily as breathing, but it took genuine effort to release the psychic torrent he was tapping into in amounts his mind could handle. Too much, and he was as likely to aneurysm as to just burn himself out and be left a drooling wreck.

Spilling out from where his boots were planted, howling traceries of Hellfire spread through the stone of the room like necrotic tendrils. With the stolen power fuelling his magicks, the Hellfire screamed as it turned the stone molten, permanently scorching the same designs he had memorised across the walls and floor. They crept out further and further, starting to intersect and come together in dizzying combinations and patterns.

It was painstaking work and runnels of sweat carved through the grime on his face as Aurelius concentrated on getting every detail perfect; one mistake here could be disastrous further down the line. But he was supremely confident (some might say arrogant) and that self-assurance was driving him as much as the channelled force within the totem. He worked in silence, he wasn't sure how long for.

Finally though, with the temperature in the room almost painful and the smell of burnt rock clouding his nose, the tiefling finally pried his grip away from the unholy periapt.

Smoke drifted lightly up from the soles of his boots and he was aware of every buckle on his attire starting to burn his skin.

Ignoring that as inconsequential, he wandered the room with his satchel. The candles from his office were placed with precision, each fitting a preordained space in the warping designs throughout the chamber. The other items were emptied on the floor back before the floating icon, ready for what came next.

Voices drifted along the tunnels from the entrance, the echoes bouncing back on themselves as the denizens of the House of Sin entered the cavern. Gimmel had done as instructed, bringing fourteen other workers with him, all of them slightly nervous as they were any time their employer and leader asked them to do something. But they dutifully answered his call and filed into the cavern, casting wary glances this way and that. Some of them struggled to make anything out in the darkness, the few candles placed around like islands of light in an inky sea.

The final person to shuffle into the stone chamber, her arms wrapped protectively around a swaddled object, was a mousy little thing; a human girl of no more than twenty, her eyes red and raw from crying, face blotchy with a lack of sleep and an expression that could only be described as haunted. Aurelianus stalked closer to her, smiling soothingly as he reached out and took her under his arm.

"C'mon in, Gwen luv. We're nearly ready," he said.

"Can you really do it?" came the almost inaudible reply, Gwen's voice dry and raspy in her throat.

Aurelianus stopped walking, turning to meet her eye beneath a tangled snarl of hazel hair. She barely met it before her eyes once again dropped back to the cloth-wrapped parcel in her hands. Aurelius' gaze slid over it, marking a small exposed patch of blue-tinged skin beneath the swaddling.

"We 'ave a deal," he answered, as if that settled the matter. As far as he was concerned, it did.

"Come on, let's go make you a mother again," he purred, leading her closer to the centre of the cavern.