Wanted: Maggot Eye

[Osato]

“Zombies…”

The words were merely mutters. The person the voice belonged to was fuming. Each foot fall issued a small click in the tome like confines of the Scourge Base. The man, Underlord Grac’, was given the responsibility of dealing with the… problem at hand. He sighed as he turned again, preparing to pace. Thoughts were interspersed between whispers and idle threats.

“Maggot Eye, of all the damned bloody undead… and I have to deal with him? Why me? Oh sure, give Grac’ the responsibility, give Grac’ the fall when things go wrong.” The Underlord sighed again as he stopped. Around him the depths of darkness seemed much deeper then anywhere else in Scara Brae. There were no people about. None to hear his ranting. “I’ll find other people to do it. I’ll find people that don’t know of Maggot Eye… let them deal with the problem and I’ll just give ‘em a little pay.”

The idea seemed perfect in theory. There were already weapons set aside for any of the Scourge that wanted to go on the mission. The weapons were simple, steel weapons but the shimmering rune on the base of the blades whispered of power. Things were not what they seemed. The runes were holy, could deal a small additional amount of damage to weaker undead creatures. It would be enough to aggravate Maggot Eye, but enough to probably kill his loyal followers.

“Rick! Eric!” Grac’ screamed as he threw the door to the hallway open. It was hardly any time before the two appeared. “Take a good variety of these weapons and load them up. We’re going to the slums. We have business to deal with.”

The two exchanged knowing glances. It was not the first time the Scourge had bought mercenaries to do their dirty work. They both knew that none wanted to go after the powerful zombie, why not get someone else?
~*~
The G lde Cu

Letters were missing from the tavern’s sign, no surprise. There was very little expectation for taverns in the slums of Scara Brae to have all the letters anyway. The Golden Cup was what the sign was supposed to read. It was the ‘recruitment tavern’ for the Scourge. It was one of the few places that rather seedy work, or any work for that matter, could be found by anyone willing to roll up their sleeves.

“You two wander around and make small talk. Get at least two people that could join this. I’m staying with the wagon out here and the other two guards will wait with me. I want people that will be able to contend with this Maggot Eye… either that or stupid enough to believe they can.” Underlord Grac’ looked away, but suddenly turned back to the two men. They jumped as if startled. “Better yet. Find people that don’t even know who he is, but are looking for some good money.”

((Bunny the two as you wish… have them talk to you or whatever and lead you outside for the job… I’ll only provide another post or two to begin you on your way. After that you’re on your own unless you want to report back at the very end…))

[Walter]

It was business as usual at the Golden Cup. A miserable-looking lush lay near the entrance, reeking of the tavern. Glass was in his hair and the sounds of a recent bar fight were just beginning to die down as Rick and Eric arrived. As soon as they were in reach, the drunk immediately latched onto Rick's leg.

"Gimme s'm go'd." Jon muttered, before being kicked in the head.
"You want some gold, beggar?" Rick sneered disdainfully, "Then go work for it!" He was about to kick Jon again when Eric stepped between them.
"Come on, mate, it's not worth your time." Eric explained. "We'd better get in there and find some good marks before the boss gets impatient!"

This was exactly what the drunk man was waiting for. "Y'needa jorb done?" he asked, lifting his head off the ground, "I c'n do't." Rick groaned in frustration.
"There's no job here for a drunkard. Beat it before you get yerself killed - we're here on Scourge business." he said, spinning on his heel and heading into the bar without another word, followed by Eric.

Jon muttered at their fleeing heels, "Ey... Ah aynt a-shcared a nuthin... gibback here..." Usually, the scoundrel had more pride than to beg for money. But when he started to drink, he'd do anything to keep drinking. And trying to steal had just ended with him getting his ass kicked out of the tavern. So the lush lay in the dirt, shaking the glass out of his hair, as a fire started to spark in his head.

Just who were they to turn down an able worksman? He'd sober up for a job! And he wasn't a-scared of nothin' the Scourge could throw at him. Buh they gotster lookit me l'k m'the bottorm of the freakin' barrel! I'll show'm! I'll follow'm alld'way t'ther job'n... show'm... Jon's head hit the ground again, feeling like a lead weight as his thoughts dulled. He planned to wait until those jerks came back out again and then follow them... so long as he didn't pass out first. And then... then he'd show em. Thoroughly plastered, Jon closed his eyes and waited.

He didn't even notice when the sound of shattering glass and raucous hollers grew to a pitch in the Golden Cup.

[Asherac]

Iris found himself before a grubby looking tavern in the slums of Scara Brea and he could not but begin to doubt himself. He’d walked countless miles and ridden a ferry to reach this place, and he was more than a bit disappointed. He’d intuitively sensed that he should come here, that there was something to be gained. Moreover he’d gone against logic and followed his instincts to the slums. There were surpassingly wealthy neighborhoods the closer you got to the palace, nobles and court workers mansions side by side with wealthy merchants, all flowing with spare change and luxuries. The slums held ran down houses, little more than shacks, beggars and criminals slept in the street and in the alleyways, and they all stared at Iris who was clearly out of place.

I’ve come all this way, might as well check it out.

The inside of the tavern was equal to if not worse than the exterior. The wooden bar had deep gashes and dents in it from wear, several of the gashes were stained with what Iris correctly assumed to be blood, the furniture was cheap and wobbly, the mugs dirty and discolored, and the people, they were the worst of all. Their clothes were horrible, most didn’t have shoes, dinner stains abundant, and the distinctive odor of humans choked the air. The thick scent of alcohol and burnt tobacco hovered about the room in a dark haze, faintly spiced with the scent of cooking fowl, lacking proper seasonings most notably garlic, and despite the vulgar visual to the room, Iris wasn’t uncomfortable. He knew better than to try food at a place such as this, the dragon’s urgings often lacked good sense and would have him ill, but he wasn’t entirely sure why he was there.

That sound. He knew that sound anywhere, the faint chime of metallic objects striking each other. Someone somewhere in the room was searching through their purse to pay a tab. Listening a little closer, he could hear the sound all around him. It seemed to him that more money than barfare passed through this place quite often, soon that money would pass to him one way or another. It came to his attention that he was still standing close to the doorway so he moved to a booth against the back wall and almost took a seat. The sight of crumbs and puddles of spilt drinks made him reconsider instead opting to lean coolly against the wall, hopefully somewhat cleaner.

On closer examination the people in the tavern were indeed making transactions, of what nature it was unknown. Three people seated at shadowed table on the other side of the room cast suspicious glares about before passing a dripping sack to a fourth man seated apart from them, who cast a quick glance inside and then placed a bulging sack on the table. The clinking sound it created and its size made Iris’s hands twitch and he quickly attempted to memorize each of their faces, for later transactions.

His attention was then drawn to two figures that entered the tavern together, looking slightly annoyed, and he watched as they searched the tavern, their eyes combing over everything and most especially everyone. He noted how their eyes momentarily stopped on him before passing on, but he was not the only one they stopped on. They wasted no time moving to the bar but they didn’t order drinks. From what he’d seen of humans they loved their drinks dearly, these clearly had other business. Watching from afar as they chatted with other patrons, Iris couldn’t make out what they were saying though their tone and manner were conspiratol.

Watching from afar was getting him nowhere and he wasn’t patient enough to wait for a seat to open up, instead determining the drunkest humans and knocked him from his stool to the floor with a great thud, before he’d even contacted the dusty oaken floorboards his stool was occupied and Iris sat seemingly transfixed on the various bottles of dark fluids. A man with reddish brown hair turned to address him first, his partner halting to listen as well.

“You’re quite the tough guy, am I right? The name’s Rick and I believe we have a common interest, you and I.” Rick had a cocky smirk on his face and his tone showed the smugness of a slick tongued negotiator.

The appeal to Iris’s ego was enough to keep his attention, besides the fact they already piqued his interest. “Indeed it seems that way. That is assuming that our mutual interest ends with monetary gain.”

At this point the smirk faded from Rick’s face, the conversation had passed a bit beyond the knowledge of a thug. “You mean gold right? Well, the deal is you do a little special work for us and you leave with some gold.” Despite the lack of wit shown previously, he felt he had this gold vested man hooked.

Iris nodded slightly in agreement, “So it is. After you,” gesturing towards the exit, Iris grimaced as his elbow touched the bar and promptly jerked his arm away, rising from his stool and proceeding out the door, in front of the two men. It wasn’t in him to wait for others.

Blinking quickly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of day, especially in comparison to the dim tavern, Iris stepped lightly over a slumbering man next to the door and walked towards a wagon and three men that he assumed to be acquainted with Rick. Turning back to look at the two men he could see them looming in the door way squinting out into the bright day.

In good lighting that was absent inside the tavern, Iris was not as appealing a prospect as they had originally believed. While his clothes may have been fine in appearance and make, the man was not. He had tremendous scabs running the length of his arms as well as most of his chest that could be seen through the open vest. Something they also noticed was the gleam in his eyes, they almost glowed in the way metal does and there was something off about them, but they just couldn’t place it.

Given they were only able to find one person willing to help inside of the tavern, they had little choice but to fall onto their backup. Rick turned and looked with loathing at the drunk sleeping nearby and approached him and gave him a swift kick. “Get up. You’re going to work after all. Lot of good it’ll do you.” Once they got the drunk up they could get in the wagon and get going. Even though they didn’t like the prospects it was infinitely better than them facing Maggot Eye themselves. Infinitely better. Besides, if these didn’t work out there were always more people in the slums.

[Modrue]

“Modrue,” the voice was timid.

It was human of course, it was always a human. They filled the halls, the barracks, and the taverns. Every once in a while there would be the relief of another race, though even those were the often one of the three ‘staple races’. Humans came before all on Scara Brae, then elves, and finally dwarves. It did not differ in the hidden halls of the Scara Scourge.

The demon’s head lolled around to look at the person at his door. He was young, no doubt one of the newer inductees within the Scourge, a messenger. To be given the honor—as the demon saw it—of carrying a message to the newest Underboss of the Scourge he must have proven himself quickly. Deep crimson eyes caught the poor child’s shifting brown eyes, yet no pity registered for him. His hair was a mess, obviously hassled on his way. Modrue would hope that the other Underbosses and Overlords would not allow their messengers to look so sloppy.

“What is it child?” The voice of the demon was an eerily deep, guttural tone that could feel as if it was piercing bone and chilling the marrow. Slowly he turned his body away from the small desk, which faced the opposite wall. There was no much that the demon feared, and if anyone that looked as if they were threatening was to approach his personal guards would have stopped them long before.

“Underlord Grac’ has requested your… assistance. I… I am to give you this.” The boy extended a shaky hand; in it was a firmly clutched piece of paper. Modrue stood, towering over not only the boy but the doorframe too. His heavy coat shifted with his movement, moving like a shadow around his medium frame. With caution his thin nails tapped together with the paper between them. “You are supposed to report to… The Golden Cup…”

“You believe me unable to read your pathetic scrawl? Do you think I am an idiot as your master? Be gone before I tear your head from your shoulders…” The demon had all but forgotten about the paper in his hands. Leave it to humans to always mess something up, it never failed. With the boy fleeing on heavy feet, his boots no doubt too large for his feet, the demon nodded to one of his two personal guards.

“What was that about?” The voice was coming from the other way. It was as sweet and succulent as it was demanding. Modrue turned with a toothy grin as he looked into the violet eyes of the only woman that he could possibly put trust in, or so he thought. Her sharp, half-elven features had always struck the demon. “He was really nervous, and stood at the door for a while before entering.”

“Tha’ an’ ‘ee wasaa mess.” Modrue turned to the strong-arm dwarf, Rimmery. On his back was his dwarven made battleaxe, and as always enough smaller throwing axes lined his body to supply a gnome army. “I ain’ ‘ever seen sucha slopp’ mess’ner.”

“Terrisa,” Modrue said ignoring their questioning looks, they knew better than to expect much from the demon. “I want you to scour the base. I want to know what is happening. When I return I wish for an updated list of new recruits, current undertakings, who has gone where, and what the other bosses and lords are currently doing. You know how to” —he looked at her supple breasts and tight fitting pants—“get the information necessary.”

“Rimmery, I want you to buy a few drinks for the new recruits that appear promising. If you find any that are willing to work for an Underboss that has other agenda’s than his own pocket… you have them wait for me.” Modrue slipped a hand into the shadow along the wall. The two guards where his only followers in the Scara Scourge, but little more was expected of an independent Underboss. However, it also had quite a number of positives. “I am needed to clean up for the Scourge, again. I will be with Underlord Grac’ if either of you need to find me for any reason.”

((I’ll introduce myself to you two in the next post. You can bunny the Underlord and his men as you see fit. Just get the basics or whatever you want…))

[Walter]

Eric and Rick returned to the wagon with two men in their company. One of these was a man who looked especially suited to the task at-hand, with an impressive look to him, almost a sheer golden aura. The other simply looked like a sloppy beggar who had nothing to show for himself aside from a spot of vomit on his chin and a horrible stench. As Lutz the guard observed these two prospects, he noticed Underboss Grac wrinkling his nose and considering how useful the two marks would be.

The Underboss approached Eric and Rick as they crested the hill where the wagon stood, as though assessing horses.
"Is this all you managed to drag out of there?" Grac sneered. He eyed the beggar in particular, before pointing to him and shouting, "Sober him up!" That was the cue for the other guard to draw one of the pails of water they had and completely dousing the tavernweed in the coldest liquid this side of the Windlacers. While the lush writhed in his wet clothing, Grac cleared his throat and addressed the two selections, moving to the wagon.

Lutz reckoned that all Grac was going to do was show them the weapons. The Underboss was favoring a position of giving away as little information as possible. The guard considered this an interesting, if irresponsible method of throwing mercenaries into the thicket of things. If any other Underboss was in charge of this operation, would they handle it any differently? Not that it mattered now... Lutz was in Maggot Eye's pocket, and intended to do his job as well as possible. He hadn't been sent to think in tangents, his job was merely to observe and consider.

The first ambush should work well to gauge exactly how serious these men are. We don't want to draw too much attention, however... the Scourge may decide to send somebody more... competent to deal with the issue. We can't have that just yet.

It was just a matter of time now. Grac continued to give the new hires, Iris and Jon, their crash course. Lutz hoped that they all enjoyed their time breathing while it still lasted.

[Asherac]

Walking over towards the wagon with a guard and another man, Iris caught a distinct smell that caused his nose to wrinkle up and to hold his breath. At first he thought he might have stepped in something coming out of the tavern, but then he realized it was actually something that Rick had stepped into, something that was apparently going with them to the wagon.

Once the arrived, the man at the wagon addressed Rick and Eric with disgust, especially as he eyed the man that was previously sleeping in a drunken stupor at the doorway to the tavern, apparently unpleased with the men contracted to work for them. As they tossed a bucket of water onto the drunk, Iris silently prayed that the water would help relieve the stench, at least a little. At that point, the Underboss Grac introduced himself to the Iris and his partner, and told them their basic assignment.

“You are going to go after this guy Maggot Eye. We’ve brought a good amount of ready made weapons that should aid you in this, but that is as far as we go. Once we get there, you’re on your own. Once Maggot Eye is no more, you’ll get your reward and have the Scourge’s thanks.”

It just then occurred to Iris that humans were decidedly untrustworthy, “How do we know we’re not going to go in after this guy and then your going to stiff us? I say we get half the reward now, and half when we’re finished. That way we know you’re good for it.”

The Underboss’s eye twitched slightly, “And I say you get the reward when you’re finished.” His tone was definite to broker no argument and warned against any more doubt.

Although he didn’t like the idea of waiting to get his gold, since it was practically his already, Iris began selecting the weapons he wanted to bring with him. Sprawled across inside the wagon the steel blades gleamed and near their hilts symbols of power shimmered softly. Going with the mentality that the heavier armed you were the better, Iris grabbed as much as he thought he could hold. Four long throwing knives, each a hand’s length, six smaller throwing knives, about half as long, three half-swords, two longswords, a five foot bastard sword, an exotic curved katana, a flail, and broke the steel arrowheads off a dozen arrows. Luckily the wagon also held several sword belts of which he took three, tucking all the knives meticulously into the belt so that they could easily be reached from the left, placed the longswords in their respective scabbards as well as a curved katana scabbard, dumped the arrowheads into a small pocket he strapped onto one of the belts, and placing the three half swords into the belts scabbardless, tying the bastard sword onto his back, and choosing to hold the flail, Iris looked every bit the warrior armed to the teeth. He wasn’t able to sit down whatsoever and the sheer weight caused him to move much slower, but he felt like he could kill anything with so much weaponry. The fact that he couldn’t hold even close to half of it at one time was irrelevant.

Turning slowly with much clanging of weaponry, Iris looked to see what his partner wasn’t going to use. If he could he intended to take every one of the weapons in the wagon with him. Be as well armed and prepared as possible and there was no chance that he could lose, that was his current philosophy on seek and destroy and he was rather smug with himself. He was even cocky enough he felt he should give some weaponry advice to his partner.

“Make sure to grab that huge waraxe right there. Look at it, its got barbs, that’s gotta do some damage. Heh, that Maggot Eye isn’t gonna have a chance, just look how well armed we are.”

[Modrue]

“Pathetic,” the word was spit from the lips of the demon as he emerged from the shadows. His hands came first, still clutching the note in them, quickly followed by his head and the rest of his body. The cool peace offered by the loving embrace of the darkness subsided as quickly as he stepped away from the alleyway. However, the longing and tantalizing desire to remain within the shadows followed him with every step through the fresh night air.

Overhead a soft moon, newly waning, hung in the air. It was a clear night; cool by comparison to the horrible summer day. The stars were outshined by the bright lights of the city, even in the slummier parts of Scara Brae. There was even a gentle, yet detectably fresh breeze that shifted through the curved streets and twisted alleyways. It was a perfect night to begin a hunt, especially for a criminal wanted as much as Maggot Eye.

“Modrue!” the voice exclaimed, putting emphases on pointing the demon out. “We are so glad you could make it. The Scourge is always in your debt, and this situation requires someone of your… caliber all the same.”

The demon gave little more then a casual nod towards the Underlord Grac’, he was not particularly fond of the man to say the least. Grins and chuckles followed him as he passed the Underlords lackey’s, little more then grubby henchmen. Modrue gave no attention to them. Instead he was focused on the two men who were rummaging through the open wagon. One had already given himself over to greed. He was ridiculously laden with swords and blades of all sorts, carrying with him enough of the rubbish weapons to prove a match for any situation. It seemed as if he, a demon by the looks of it, was using the weapons for a new form of versatile armor as well.

The other was pathetic. He looked to be no more then a drowned rat, obviously a drunkard who had undergone the ‘sobering up’ that most assumed worked. Modrue knew better, it would take time before he would be sober enough… and time was currently the most precious of commodities.

“You know the deal, and I am sure that once down there you’ll know exactly where to go…” the man’s voice faded as he watched the demon look at the two recruits. They were easily smaller than Modrue, though they both looked able to hold their own. That was all that the Underlord really cared about. If they did not get the mission accomplished then others could be sent in, they were expendable. And to get rid of the independent Underboss Modrue, it would be a blessing from the Thayne themselves. Many of the other bosses and lords were not liking his attitude towards them, and especially his egotistical and often harsh words. “The demon’s name is Iris, the drunkards Jon. Boy’s, meet your third member… Modrue.”

“What do you plan to do with that much weaponry, son of Haidia? With the added weight to your light frame you could potentially crush your own spinal column.” The demon did not wait for the two to introduce themselves. What they had to say meant little to him anyway. Modrue was a fighter, an assassin, and generally enjoyed working alone. However, if they were working for the Scourge and proved themselves… perhaps they could be persuaded to employment. “And you, Rat. Hurry and take the weapons that you feel necessary to hold. I will wait but little longer.”

Grac’ cleared his throat rather loudly, his eyes rolling as he did so. It was impossible to work with the demon. “Well, yes… I suppose you all know where you are headed? Into the sewers a block from here, take a left and—“

“Yes, Grac’, I know the way.”

“That’s Underlord Grac’. Don’t forget your not an Underlord yet, just a boss… and I still have power over you…” With that he turned and allowed the three to finish rummaging through the wagon. He had had enough of Modrue, as he often did, and wanted to be gone. Modrue, however, stood away from the cart and crossed his arms. The titanium gloves fists tapped against plates in the sleeves of his coat. He had all the weapons and armor he needed already at his command.

[Walter]

After being splashed with water, everything that Jon heard registered on some level that was far deeper than he normally perceived. On the surface, everything was just noise. Jon even had difficulty moving without stumbling, the water had done nothing to wash away the disorientation. Nonetheless the drunkard managed to flop over to the wagon, somehow aware he was supposed to do that.

The wagon was basically a box on wheels, covered by a sheet of material. Inside were a variety of items and materials, most notably the enchanted weapons. The horse that this wagon was attached to had been ignored for some time now, and complacently huffed while out of view. Jon rummaged through the back of the wagon for a while as people talked at one another, not making a lick of sense to the man, especially when some big fella showed up. It barely even occurred to Jon Walter that some of these weapons could be sold for money later; most of them were so big and heavy, he didn't know if lugging them would be worth the reward.

Nonetheless, he picked out the big axe that Iris had pointed out to him, though he never intended in his drunken state to use it. Jon heaved at the handle, trying to haul the blade part out of the wagon. Grunting and sweating, Jon soon came tumbling out of the wagon, axe in hand... only the blade had become lodged in a nearby tree. The pole that Jon held was now an enchanted staff.
"Thashmer lahkit!" Jon proudly declared, before groaning, bending over and vomiting the rest of his stomach's contents. He wasn't ready for physical action yet.

Heaving in lungfuls of sour air, Jon went back to the wagon again. He was only good with knives anyhow, and he knew it. Fumbling in the wagon, he found two of these and pocketed them, ready now for the world. And afterward, an extended profit. Was he really as drunk as he'd thought when he was drinking on the... drink... Jon's thoughts became muddled once more.

*****

The slob had managed to finish his selection; a... "staff," and two knives. Grac gave a brisk nod and grunted, causing Eric and Rick to jump.
"Sir!" they quickly responded. Grac jerked a thumb at the wagon.
"Get in, it's time we took off."
The guards and the flunkies started loading into the wagon when Grac turned to the three appointed mercs for the job.

"I'll leave these two with you, Modrue. When you finish the job, you know where to find me." He spun around to load himself into the cart, and with the crack of a whip, the wagon started back the way it came. Jon, Iris and Modrue were alone.

[Asherac]

The sudden appearance of the Boss Modrue was somewhat startling, but Iris felt a little more comfortable around demons than he did among humans and surface-dwellers. He was still getting used to the sun and the difference between day and night, Haidia the sky was red all day long and that never changed.

Modrue wasn’t one of the demon types that Iris typically associated himself with, but then he had held a very closer inner circle during his time. Obviously the demon was powerful, he inspired a small amount of fear in Grac just by presence. He seemed to have a higher and mightier than thou attitude that Iris didn’t really care for, but he could live with for a short time, given that Maggot Eye had not just one but two demons after him it would indeed be a very short time.

As the wagon road away with its wheels grinding on the pebble stone street, something that Underlord Grac said stuck with him. Sewer. They were going into the sewers. Had he not already committed and had he not thought himself almost broke, it would have been enough to quit the job. His clothes were so clean, so nice looking, he couldn’t go into the sewer, there were all kinds of grimy and disgusting things down there, the very purpose of a sewer made his face scowl with distaste. Briefly he considered what if he left his clothes above ground, even at the risk of them being stolen at least they wouldn’t be dirty, but he also remembered rumors of things living in the sewers and thus it was best he keep his clothes despite the grime.

Finding the sewer grate and lifting the hatch, he hesitated for just a moment and took a deep breath before plunging in. Why he took the breath when he couldn’t possibly hold it long enough to get in and out, he had no idea. The air inside the sewer was foul, the place was humid and hot, things moved out at the corner of your vision, and Iris was miserable.

Not waiting for the others to follow, Iris pressed his way through navigating purely by random, whenever the path split he took the smellier option believing the worse stench would be the best place to hide. Turning a corner, something moved down by his foot and he swung the flail with all his might and the ball smashed into the stone and three of the spikes on it broke clean off. The rat, as it turned out to be much to his chagrin, was completely unharmed and nearly a foot from being contacted by the weapon. Vocally blaming the weapon for missing, Iris tossed it to the side and let it sink into the liquid-like muck that they were forced to trudge through. Drawing out two of the scabbardless half-swords, holding one in an upside-down dagger-like position and the other as a sword, he continued quickly on his way.

The scent of the bowels of a collective city of humans was overpowering, matched only by the dually residing organic decay, the place stank of the wastes of society and the fumes messed with a man’s head, made him dizzy and disoriented. Iris was in a hurry to find this Maggot Eye and get out, to wash his hands of this experience, he missed certain clues that he should have seen as he pushed stubbornly through the sewer. The rats were less and less frequent, the place was steadily becoming cleaner yet the smell only got worse, and there were sounds echoing through the sewer tunnels, sounds that weren’t created by the marching of the three mercenaries. Normally he would have perceived these, but his impatience made him rush and he was single-mindedly focused on speed over caution.

[Modrue]

The drunkard was far too much for the demon. He grunted angrily as the man’s chosen ‘weapon’ – far too large and heavy for the man – sunk into the small tree outside of the tavern. Modrue waited as he hurled, holding in a white knuckled grip the handle that belonged in the axe head. It would have been a humorous sight had the demon harbored a sense of humor. But he did not. Instead he harbored a steadily increasing distaste for the human culture.

However, the other demon he was beginning to take a liking too. He was quick, wanted little to do with talking, and was moving before the beggar had even situated himself. Modrue did not understand his choice of weaponry though. The demon followed Iris without complaint, ready to interject should he choose the wrong path or do something idiotic.

When it came time to join with the sewer rats the demon selected a different path. Instead of jumping through the iron hole he ‘shifted’ into the shadows around. The darkness was cooling, soothing. It called for him and longed for his presence, as he did for it. The comforting arms of the shadows embrace held him tightly as he followed, slinking sideways or at times upside-down within the sewers without touching humanities refuge.

Beneath him the vagabond and the demon continued to move, attacking unwary rats in surprise. It was a pathetic sight, but it was more then Modrue could have hoped for. He had quickly come to realize that mercenaries hired by the Scourge were something special. If the common humanity’s downfalls had surprised him, they were only outdone by the riffraff that Scara Brae could dredge up. These two were at least stronger looking, startlingly enough, then most the demon dealt with on any particular day.

Up ahead the stench increased, only to give way to a slight moan. The shambling dead were somewhere close, waiting. Modrue knew they would have guards posted at odd intervals, because the undead kind rarely followed any specific protocols or order. The first would be at any time.

Unfortunately, for the demon and the party, the way of escape had closed. Behind them a small group of zombies had turned out from a separate tunnel to block them in.

[Walter]

"Blegh!" Jon grimaced, loudly expressing his disgust. The sewers reeked, plainly spoken. If the bum hadn't already emptied his stomach, he would certainly have finished the job as soon as the three-man team had set foot in the ankle-deep sludge. The stuff was cold as ice, but the vermin and their fleas didn't seem to have any trouble living down there. Drunk as he was, Jon thought that the rats scurrying to get out of their way was one of the funniest things he'd seen in a while. His raucous giggles echoed through the sewer, until a stern glance from the big demon guy shut Jon up quick-like.

As the sewer stench became ranker and the sludge-halls grew more desolate, Jon didn't even notice the shuffling of undead feet sloughing through the muck behind them. But when their escape had been completely blocked off, each of the three were immediately aware of it. Standing where they had been only a moment ago were five, six rotting figures, with peeling flesh and wearing shoddy mock-uniforms. Across the chest of each was a symbol depicting maggots squirming in an empty eye socket. The undead began slowly lurching their way toward the three-man team.

That was when Jon knew it was time act. "Ahloldemarf!" he shouted as he drew one of his two enchanted knives, stumbling headlong into the zombie squadron. The panel of undead seemed to fold into Jon, as though encasing him in a zombie box. The drunkard was stabbing, writhing and flailing in the midst of the undead. One or two of the beasts felt the sting of the enchantment, but Jon never really stood a chance. He started screaming as the zombies fell on him, biting chunks of flesh off and tearing him apart. The screaming didn't last very long.

Satisfied, the undead left their prey after a moment of feast, and the body of Jon fell into the sludge. The undead might have been mindless, but they were nonetheless aware that they had a job to do, and there were two others to deal with.

*****

Jon blurred into and out of consciousness several times, while his half-dead body wallowed in the muck. The wounds had mostly been superficial, but the touch of the undead kills far more quickly than a normal man's. Jon could feel his heart slowing... slowing... coming to a stop before his mind blanked-out and he passed away. Under normal circumstances, he would have quickly passed away and risen again as an undead. Or perhaps the touch of those particular zombies only drained life.

Either way, Jon's body was approached soon after death by a man wading through the muck in a delicate red robe. This man's name was Kareth and he'd been assigned a rather menial task (or so he considered it) as part of Maggot Eye's operations. He withdrew an ornate staff, about the length of his arm, and held it over the dead body. The flat disc at the end of the rod, like a branding iron, resembled the eye socket full of maggots. Kareth pressed this into the dead man's chest. It was his job to raise fallen humans into Maggot Eye's service, and he was fairly good at it.

The staff began to glow violet as Kareth sent energy coursing back into the body. The man's deceased frame shuddered violently, its eyes flying open as unlife began to take the place of life within the body. It was a most beautiful and fascinating practice and Kareth felt satisfied performing it, even if the task was so basic.

But... something seemed wrong. The cursed wounds that the lower-tier undead had left were beginning to heal. The eyes blinked, and although the void-like eyes of Jon Walter best resembled the sort of eyes a zombie would have, Kareth recognized cognition when he saw it. The man was not undead. He wasn't even fully dead. And while Kareth was stunned with surprise, Jon shook his head, grit his teeth and buried his other enchanted knife in the necromancer's throat. And then he did it again. And again. Jon hated dying.

The body was Kareth was unceremoniously stripped of all gear of importance. Jon shook his head, trying to shake off the headache as he collected the man's staff and robes for future use. It wasn't a hangover sort of headache; having been revived, Jon's system was free of alcohol. But that didn't mean he didn't want another drink, and finishing this job would net Jon the money to do just that. The only thing he wasn't aware of now, though... was how long he'd been dead for. Keeping a tight hold on his remaining enchanted knife (he'd dropped the axe pole somewhere during the trip), Jon hurried down the sewer in pursuit of his former three-man team.

[Asherac]

Before Iris could even process what had happened, Jon had plunged into the zombies that had clogged the escape path, and even faster he went down. A mass of flailing limbs for a second, and then the zombies returned their focus to the still living. The worst of it was a blood-curling scream that he emitted just before death, it made Iris’s heart jump to his throat, but the imminent threat of zombies suppressed any thoughts of panic he had.

Figuring such a powerful demon as himself could destroy his foes with ease, Iris gripped two of the shortest throwing knives and lazily tossed them at the zombies trusting them to impale themselves into rotting zombie flesh. Unfortunately, being the first time he’d ever attempted a ranged weapon, the knives bluntly hit the zombies in the mid-torso with no penetration whatsoever. It didn’t pass his notice that the spots where the runed weapons contacted the undeath seared and emitted a small amount of steam.

Looking sideways at the demon in embarrassment, “That was…uhh…practice. Was just warming up, ya’know?” Taking out the remaining four knives, two in each hand, he pointed them towards two different zombies and closed his eyes in a moment of concentration, feeling the gravity and moving it, focusing it just beyond the tip of the daggers, improving it until he could feel the flesh start to pull from his hands and released. The daggers shot forward almost instantaneously piercing the zombies and lodging deep in their chest cavities.

Even though he knew the weapons were specifically for the undead, the result caused his eyes to widen and air to escape him. From the zombies chest the hiss of steam whistled out and the area around the enchanted weapons was burned away like paper, strange fluids and gases bursting out of the holes as the zombies fell back, fully dead.

Seeing as he had taken out the first and closest zombies, Iris turned to Modrue with a smug grin on his face, “Your turn.”

[Modrue]

The man’s sacrifice was enough to alert the other two. When the throng of roving dead caught the human, pulling and tearing through his weak defense, Modrue’s attention was snapped back. From the shadows he plummeted, dropping heavily along the edge of the wall. His fists were clenched and his eyes were moving from Iris to the zombies. It was a gruesome sight, watching the human die, but one that had little impact on the cold killer.

Despite the intimidating visage of Iris, his aim was far from perfect. The first volley of daggers was embarrassingly blunt compared to the powerful second volley. Without warning an aura emitted from the man, touching Modrue’s shoulder as he waited. The second volley struck dead center of four zombies, destroying them. The smoke and burnt, undead flesh wafted through the air. It overpowered even the grime that ‘flowed’ through the sewers.

{“Impressive,”} the demon said in his guttural tone, speaking in the language of Haidia, abyssal. Modrue’s slight congratulations were quick, leaving a toothy grin on the demon’s mouth as he looked towards the pack of undead yet coming. {“Though, I think we should slowly work our way towards the epicenter of this disgusting hive of undead. This subterfuge is but a distraction…”}

Without waiting for the response from the other demon, Modrue snapped. At the end of his fingers a ball of fire, as black as night, appeared. The demon waved his hand, tossing it towards the pile. A second and then a third ball appeared, each aimed at a tactical piece of the group attacking.

The middle and farthest flanking zombies caught immediately in the slick, oily flames. It was spread just as quickly by the flailing, flaming undead to the others in the group. If there was anything that undead did not live through it was fire. Modrue flashed Iris a toothy grin as he turned from the flaming heap, knowing they would be slow to follow and would fall soon enough.

{“We need to continue. We have lost the pathetic human, waiting would only bring more and this tunnel will not be the easiest place to defend or fight our battle…”} In reality, Modrue knew that if they could destroy Maggot Eye than his followers would fall in line and follow the Scourge again. If they could tear out the heart of the problem then the problem would quickly resolve itself. Thoughts of Jon had left the demon’s mind almost as fast as the man had died.

[Asherac]

It had been a long, long time since Iris had heard true demonic spoken. There were some circles in Haidia that still used it, but the commercial areas commonly stuck to tradespeak. It was a bit more precise even if it lacked the smooth flow and sound of the true language. The demon beside him spoke it with a strange accent, making it sound deeper and closer to the Dwarven tongue.

Turned from the smoldering corpses, Iris pressed forward through the tunnel system. Avoiding rats and various protruding lumps, the demon managed to make his way through without gathering further filth on his clothes. After several minutes of traveling, a strange sight greeted the two mercenaries.

Coming to a merging area of sorts, Maggot Eye’s time was limited. Three separate tunnels came together where their contents poured into a river running a fourth direction, bones and various supplies lay scattered about in the square room but they only served to amplify the undead base’s smell. A single grate in the ceiling provided a spot light pouring into the center of the room.

Various undead milled about in the room, some completely skeletal, others in the mid stages of decay, while yet others appeared completely knew as often evidenced by slit throats or blood soaked shirts. In the middle of them all, an especially large half decayed figure stood tapping a large spiked club rhythmically against the ground. His hands were almost completely skeletal as were his legs, rags hung loosely off his torso, and one eye appeared completely rotted out.

“I think you should take the lead on this one, that big one looks like the target.” Iris whispered to his side not turned his eyes from the zombies, assuming Modrue had been following and close enough to hear. Quietly slipping a long dagger out and into his left hand, Iris tried to hold two of the shortsword simultaneously in the same hand, failing completely and dropping one.

The sound of metal scraping against stone was horrible enough, amplified and echoed in the cavernous room it was heart stopping. Iris’s teeth ground together and his heart jumped to his throat, embarrassment clearly showing on his face. The dozen plus zombie faces all staring at him boded ominously for his immediate future and well being.

[Walter]

"Fuck!" Jon shouted as he sloshed through the knee-deep shitgarbagepiss. The sewers were even worse when he was sober and alone. Every new scent made his eyes water and he kept hearing ghouls moan even though he hadn't seen a single damn zombie since he'd started his trek away from the necromancer's body. Something about that robed loser was bugging Jon now that he had the faculties to consider them. If the guy in robes was alive, and he had to be if Jon had killed him, how did he get through a sewer full of the freakin' undead? Jon thought about this for a moment, then threw the purple robes over his shoulders and turned the corner, hoping his hunch was a lucky one.

The sound of groans came to a pitch. There were zombies here, all right. Shambling bodies, half-rotted as they dotted the sewer hall, each emblazoned with their master's insignia. Jon darted for the other end, drawing his shiny enchanted knife from underneath his robes. Were they going to go after him?

One of the zombies turned to see Jon as he broke into a run. One of its eyes was dangling on a thin thread of sinew, and half its ribcage was exposed. It took one look at Jon before opening its toothless mouth and saying, "You're kidding, right?"

In a flash, the zombies of the sewer were turned to face Jon, whose feet were flying through the muck, sending the sewer water everywhere. He hadn't counted on those undead bastards being so damned smart. Jon knew he wouldn't last a second with them in a fair fight, and was determined to keep the fight from starting at all costs. Scabby hands, skeletal hands reached for Jon from all sides. He wasn't getting out of this easily.

And then Jon got another idea, as he fled through the tunnel for his life. They were blocking his escape in front, and had probably boxed him in from behind. So Jon threw his purple robe off, tossing it into the nearest shambler's face before he took a deep breath and dove into the putrid sewer bile. He couldn't see anything around him, but knew that the zombies were too close. He began creeping along the bottom of the pool, occasionally feeling tips of boots and hands that snatched through the water looking for him. On one occasion, Jon had to ram his knife into that hand to keep it from ripping him from his hiding place.

Jon didn't dare rise from the water; he would easily survive drowning, so he'd hold his breath as long as he could. And then he found a hole. Feeling along the ground, flat on his stomach, Jon felt a large panel in the floor. He poked his hand through and the square of material easily gave away. Jon was willing to bet that zombies weren't waiting for him directly below. A crazy bet, but Jon dove into the hole just as he felt more hands grope through the water in pursuit.

Jon sank slowly through the muck until he felt his shirt catch onto something. His lungs were beginning to ache and he could feel his face turn red, but he needed to rip himself free. With a quick tug, Jon felt rather than heard a sharp click coming from the wall. What had he pulled on? Some kind of lever... the muck around him began to vibrate with the churning of gears, and Jon continued to descend to wherever the muck ended at the bottom... if there even was a bottom to arrive at.