View Full Version : To Trump a Bluff..
(Closed)
" Haw! Four ovah kind! Lady luck is sleepin' with me tonight!", a burly sell-sword exclaimed as he laid his hand proudly across the table. Taking a partly chewed cigar from the ashtray the headstrong mercenary dabbed it into the yellow glow of the lantern seated directly above the table.
Watching his opponent stuff the cigar in his mouth the middle-aged, rugged Fibonacchi stared down with a sober look at the cards in his hand and panicked silently. Five separate cards, an assortment of numbers in no particular order or suit stared back at him. The thick, leatheresque feeling of his burden gave the storyteller no comfort as he glanced at the mound of a suspicious copper, silver, and golden hew. Everything I have is in that pot and I'm about to lose it all, Fibonacchi weighed carefully.
It became harder and harder to focus as the chatter of various patrons coalesced with the sound of mugs clinking against the varnished oaken tables and the sound of various boots pounding against the floor. A stoic expression never left the storyteller's face as he witnessed his competitors reveal, fold, or groan at the greasy Mugov's triumph. Everybody knew the mercenary cheated them out of their money, but were hesitant to call it without any proof.
Casting a worried eye over his failure his opponent jeered," What’s wrong, Nachi'? Ya' look as if yer about to lose da shirt right offayer back!".
Tossing the cards face down in reply to the meaty Mugov's taunts he stared blankly at the laughter around him. If it was one thing Fibonacchi knew, it was that a fortune kept changing hands. Two can play at this game, the storyteller speculated.
The other various opponents decided to cut their losses and abandoned their lost fortune as the portly sell-sword began to gather his spoils greedily with fingers akin to sausages. Fibonacchi placed his hand on the deck of cards and swallowed hard," One last game, Mugov, you and me."
Freezing in his place, the mercenary began to shake with laughter and sat back in his rickety seat," Yer kiddin' right? Ya knew the stakes were high and we both know ya' have nothing left to bet! Besides, why should I give yew a chance?"
The storyteller stroked affectionately at the golden vow upon his finger and slowly pulled it from his bony, pale finger gulping," I will bet my wedding ring, it should provide a nice sum if you decide to hawk it".
"What good would it do me to take this ring from ya', eh?" Mugov scoffed as he eyed the ring with keen interest.
Got him now, Fibonacci, now just reel him in, the storyteller thought with reason. Taking the deck in hand the entrepreneur shuffled with a display of finesse and expertise. Mugov watched in awe as his opponent distracted him from the blinding truth.
Setting the deck of cards face down on the table Fibonacchi shrugged," Sometimes there is more then meets the eye. Do you think you can take me on again for my ring? Or are you a coward?".
Becoming flustered, Mugov stared past his opponent's ragged features, even ignored the suspicious jacket that hung tight around his wrists. All the mercenary could see was the hatred in front of him. Staring dead-on at the storyteller he growled," What did ya' say?"
Fibonacchi looked up gingerly from the ring in front of him and spoke with confidence," I called you a coward, Mugov."
Placing his meaty arms on the bobbing oaken table, the sell-sword took the bait and pointed with his chin," Deal the cards and keep yer hands where I can see em'."
Taking the deck in his grasp, the pallid Fibonacchi tossed cards back and forth until the battle was set and ready. Holding his hand to his face the entrepreneur nodded," The rules are simple. Aces are high and the cards will keep coming until one side has nothing left to bet. Winner take all."
Mugov snarled," Agreed."
Lacing his thoughts into a weave of trickery and deception Fibonacchi nudged forward," Good, now that we're agreed let me tell you a tale to lighten the mood."
" What kinda tale?" The mercenary glowered.
Fibonacchi shrugged," A story about overcoming the darkness around you and thinking twice about what you decide to keep close."
Sighing Mugov looked from his hand, to the spoils, and back at his opponent," Fine. I'm listenin'."
~*~
Peeling from the darkness like chocolate from a wrapper, Saxon stepped from the frigid reaches of Tsep and into the slumbering city of Radasanth. The smell of burnt hickory mixed with that sweet feeling of isolation brought comfort to the eldritch as he sauntered from the cool alleyway that was abridged between realms into the well-lit streets of Corone's haven.
But as Saxon crossed the threshold between his domain and into Althanas he already knew something was amiss. Syvriak began to rattle forebodingly as a rush of warm summer air hit the weird full in the face, carrying several odors into the his nostrils.
Raw sweat wavered its scent in the air as the familiar coppery smell of blood embedded its metallic taste on the eldritch's tongue. The rustle of fabric of crude linen drenched religiously in an unknown wine caused the eldritch's nose to twitch. When the click of hilt against crude steel made its way to Saxon's ears time seemed to take a step back.
Sending the coiling staff backwards with a loud snap a stifled scream filled the air. Darkness was bent forward at Saxon's will as several robed figures took a step into the crude torchlight.
The sound of booted feet against the ground caused Syvriak to fly back again, its owner spinning on his heel and taking a step backwards.
" Get im'! Make sure he doesn't get away!" A figure bellowed in a gruff voice.
Shadows of the fanatics moved in the direction of the eldritch defying both logic and reason. Despite its position in Althanas, Radasanth seemed to be completely void of the strange and odd. The very idea that normalcy ran supreme in any part of Althanas was laughable, but it wasn't the time or place for Saxon to debate semantics when the feeling of cold steel became warm with the weird's crimson blood.
~*~
" I see your one hundred gold with my wedding ring and I raise you this pocket watch," Fibonacchi declared as he laid a brass antique onto the varnished table.
Dangling the watch in front of his pudgy face, the sell-sword was oblivious to the storyteller's sleight of hand and keen art of deception. Dropping the antique into the pile of spoils Mugov growled," I see your watch. Show em'."
Spreading the leathery cards against the table Fibonacci looked up to his opponent and spoke with an air of confidence," Straight flush."
Mugov's jaw dropped and onlooker's gasped in astonishment as the mercenary laid down a meager pair of pocket sevens and a random assortment of other cards.
" Looks like I win this hand," Fibonacchi smiled as he began to pull his plunder in his direction when a crude, steel knife hit the side of the table and Mugov shot into the air.
" Ya' cheated! I know yew did!" The mercenary roared, stopping the storyteller in motion.
" Prove it!" A voice spoke coolly over the now bustling group of spectators around them. Shouts of agreement and threats caused the mercenary to studder and slowly sit back in his seat.
Pulling his knife from the table Mugov gestured it at his enemy," I'll be watchin ya'!"
Fibonacchi shrugged and began to slide cards to the deck when Mugov wrenched the deck free and shook his head," Nuh-uh.. This time I shuffle, an' trust me.. yew aren't gonna pull the same tricks twice, whatever dey are."
Leaning back in his chair, the storyteller's newly awarded spoils sat at his side. Cards flew from meaty fingers until like before, the stage had been set. Pulling the cards to his face Mugov began to giggle," Yew aren't squirmin' yer way oudda this one!"
Peering over his cards Fibonacci arched an eyebrow," We'll see about that."
Tossing coins into the pot the storyteller wasn't as confident as he had been a moment ago. The lantern light bounced off the cool sheen of the varnished table and made the scene between the rivals all the more eerie. If he wants to cheat, that’s fine. But com'n Fibonacchi, you can bluff your way out of anything. Remember the time in Fallien with the talking lions? Hm?.
As Fibonacchi tried to reason with himself all Mugov could see was the calm, unbreakable stoic look of one who played poker far more often then he. Being the mercenary he was, the pudgy sell-sword was often employed to muscle people out of their money, and this wasn't any different. All the mercenary needed was a little momentum to knock his opponent off balance and the game would be his.
Moving half of his plunder into the pot Mugov raised a Neanderthal-like eyebrow and grinned," I see yer fifty and I raise ya' four hundred."
Panic began to churn in the con-artist's stomach as he came to realize the brute's tactics. It wasn't enough that he'd have to go all in and hope for a miracle, it was that he'd have to rely on Lady Luck to bail him out.
Drawing in a deep breath Fibonacchi sighed, I'm screwed.
Mugov growled," Well?"
Pushing his newly won fortune into the pile of spoils, Fibonacchi smiled," All in."
Plucking a cigar from the ashtray, Mugov tapped it briefly against the safety of the tray and shoved it into his mouth. Smoking like a chimney, the mercenary didn't even realize what he had done. The cool, stone-chiseled face of his opponent crumbled into a smile as he shoved his entire fortune into the pot and announced his play.
The confidence that oozed from the sell-sword moments ago evaporated like steam from a pot of boiling water. The black, half-burnt cigar dropped from his mouth onto the table as he stared into the eyes of the storyteller. Thoughts spun out of control as the fat henchman tried to rationalize what had happened the only way he could; he panicked.
Any sense of cruelty or anger vanished from Mugov's face while he wrestled with his demons. Meanwhile Fibonacchi smiled on, his eyes dancing with glee. The audience divided, they watched on at the struggle between the two gambling behemoths. The fat cheeks of the balding, middle-aged Mugov snapped taut as the brute attempted to say something but fell short with an unintelligible moan.
Still ripe with age, the bearded storyteller appeared to be at the pique of his game. The tight wristed cuffs, the faded, watermarked teal coat wrapping the man in a blanket of safety that not even the cruelest of slurs could penetrate.
Not one soul dared to utter a breath as Mugov picked up the cigar from the table and snuffed it out in the ash tray, his beer-stained tunic growing tighter around his pot belly. Scratching the back of his head the mercenary sighed and with a groan managed to utter the words," I fold."
Tension broke like a tide as cheers and roars of astonishment broke the silence, the audience playing on Mugov's fears just as Fibonacchi would have hoped. Releasing a sigh of relief himself, the storyteller tossed the cards face down back into the center of the table and pulled his winnings back to the safety of his side of the battlefield.
Curiosity overwhelming the mercenary, Mugov took advantage of the commotion by picking his opponent's cards from the table, considered taboo by most card players and stared at Fibonacchi's deception.
"A three, a pair of twos, a six, and a jack?!" the mercenary whispered under his breath. Quickly placing the cards back onto the table before anybody could notice Mugov became flustered. A sea of anger bubbling inside of the sell-sword’s gut washed fear away like his confidence moments ago. Grasping the mug beside him, the mercenary began to formulate a plan for revenge as his hatred burned anew.
Slurping the last of the ale, every drop, Mugov wrestled with an idea when the now quiet audience interrupted his train of thought. A thought that had been tugging at the mercenary himself," Ey' Whaddever appened' to that Eldritch fella?"
Stacking his plunder in a neat pile at his side, the storyteller smiled and looked up," I'm glad you asked. Get me an ale and I'll continue."
As a member of the audience rushed off to do Fibonacchi's bidding, the lonely Mugov began to shuffle the deck, listening intently. One way or another the mercenary would get his revenge, even if it meant shedding blood.
~*~
Blazing torchlight dwindled as Saxon stumbled forward into the alley with a yelp, the robed strangers following suit. Warm, sticky blood oozed from his wound and onto his clothing. The same brackish taste hung heavy on the eldritch's tongue as he moved further and further into the darkness.
Maniacal laughter came from every direction behind the weird as the strangers pursuing their prey. Disoriented from the blow, Saxon staggered forward until he met the same wall he had just traveled through only minutes ago. Syvriak writhed in the pale eldritch's hand as it felt the pulse of its master slow.
A leathery boot met Saxon's wound resulting in a wail of pain. It had been years since the weird had been stabbed with a blade, if ever. The safety of Tsep had made him as weak as it made him powerful.
Azure eyes met beady brown ones in a drunken haze as the eldritch was pulled close to the figure, the rancid stench of mead heavy on his breath," Where is it?"
Saxon tried to mouth words as sweat beaded in his forehead, his eyes widening as the pain in his wound kept him conscious. Speaking for the first time in weeks the weird managed to whisper," What? Where is what?"
Another boot met the eldritch square in the chest, pushing him further against the wall and resulting in another scream of agony. Holding the eldritch by the collar the figure whispered angrily," Don' be coy with me! Where is it? Where is the beacon?!"
" B-beacon? Wh-what beacon?" Saxon whispered in a delirious voice. But as the interrogation grew on the robed strangers jeered and cheered on their companion, failing to notice that the light behind them became snuffed out.
Still holding Syvriak the eldritch listened as best he could as he tightened his grip. The description of this 'beacon' was strange and became familiar in an instant. " A watch, you fool, a watch. The beacon cold as darkness afraid of daylight hides itself in the twisting nether only to appear in the keeper's pocket the next day!" The stranger preached.
The more the eldritch heard, the angrier he got. All this for a watch?, his thoughts whispered to him. The statement had caught the weird more off guard then he had been when he had been stabbed in the back.
The idea that a group of attackers would come out of the blue and strike merely for the only trinket he carried with him from his own world was insane. Feeling Syvriak writhe in his hand, Saxon felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck whenever the darkness around him took on a life of its own.
Blood continued to seep from the wound and soak the shadow-laced clothing that Saxon became so familiar with. The pallid moon was eclipsed with a churning darkness, planning its ambush upon the unsuspecting figures. Whispering under his breath the eldritch managed to mutter," W-why a watch?".
The figure stopped mid-kick and growled in thick foreign accent," Huh?".
Feeling the wall behind him the Eldritch took a deep breath and gritted his teeth against the wincing pain as he pulled himself into a sitting position. Breathing as deep as his wound would allow Saxon whispered," Why would a beacon be in a watch?".
" Incompetent fool!" the figure said with a growl, backhanding the weird with such ferocity that it had almost made Saxon forget about the growing pain his side.
" He's stallin', Krabek! Waitin' for somethi--", one of the strangers managed to mutter before he vanished with a violent cry. Without a trace.
" Wha-what's goin' on?! Whos there?!" Another cried into the darkness only to receive a quiet silence as the intruder's answer.
Unable to see the Eldritch's face, Saxon would have been willing to wager he'd recieve another blow for the smug smile upon his face. They never realize it until its too late.
" Keeper! What did ya' conjure? Whats huntin' us!" The now nervous cultist managed to blurt out.
A chuckle sounded through the silence as a response, dancing around them as footsteps in all directions echoed off the cobbled walls. A stranger turned to meet his attacker only to feel the cold, tasteless nothing smother his lungs and congeal in his throat. Darkness burst from every orifice of the attacker only resulting in a muffled cry and then there was nothing.
Looking back into the darkness and into the azure eyes of the eldritch the figure whispered," Whose there?! Who’s killin' us?!"
Another cry resounded through the alley in response as a cultist was cut down in their prime, only the crumpled cloth against the stony path gave an answer to the culprit. Turning away from his captive the cultist barked," Get out get out now! The alley isn't safe!".
Maniacal laughter echoed in response as the cultist followed their leader's order. Tripping over bodies of their former comrades the cultists stumbled into the streets, leaving only the leader and weird alone. Sifting through his pockets the cultist growled," Where is it? Where?!".
With a smile Saxon whispered," Gone, Krabek, gone".
Twisting and winding towards him the assailant nearly made it to the leader of the cultists when a bright, shining glow from a lantern cut through the flimsy membrane of the darkness. A voice now distorted by the loss of blood the eldritch suffered called into the alley. Spared from a horrible fate, the brawny cultist rose to his feet and cursed under his breath.
The last image the eldritch saw before falling into the dwindling unconscious realm was the image branded on the cultist's hand. Burning the image into his brain Saxon watched as 'Krabek' stepped over the bodies of his comrades and into the blinding light.
Hours passed like ale from a barrel, it was morning when Saxon awoke with a sharp pain in his side. Lying on his chest the eldritch groaned as the grainy side of reality rubbed against his wound. The familiar sterilized smell of medicine drew itself into Saxon's nose as another sharp pain caused the weird's eyes to snap open," Agh!".
A voice thick with the same foreign accent of the cultists rang out," Easy! Easy! Don't move unless you want me to skewer one of your kidneys!".
It was about mid-sentence that the eldritch realized the voice had a feminine touch, although a dark look cast about his face and he wanted to wrestle the information from his captor, he was trapped between a cold metal slab and a sharp object.
Staring at his surroundings Saxon noticed a giant medicine cabinet at the far side of the room. A desk riffled with papers and models of bodily organs not far off from his. The cherry wood floor that gave that sweet smell was nauseating combined with the sterility of the owner's practice. It'd been a long time since the weird had visited a doctor, but with the current circumstances Saxon was glad to have the opportunity.
" What are you doing to me?" The eldritch questioned as thoughts buzzed around in his mind under the threat of pain.
Another jolt caused the weird to grip the metal slab and grit his teeth only to hear the familiar comforting voice," You took a heavy blow to the back, sir. You were a hair away from needing a new kidney. You’re incredibly lucky. . Mister?”
" Saxon. Call me Saxon,” the eldritch groaned from his position on the table. The thought of being lucky made the weird's stomach churn. It was luck that got him in this position in the first place, and it would be luck to keep him there. If luck were a person, I would've laughed in his face if he told me this would be my lot in life.
A pale hand draped in a white sleeve appeared with a long piece of rubber in front of the eldritch's face," Alright, Saxon. I'm going to need you to bite down on this. The last barb of this knife is caught in a rather odd place and I'm going to need to pull it out if you ever want to walk again."
Accepting the burden with a groan the weird bit down on the piece of rubber and sighed," Ready."
" Hold yourself steady, Saxon, this is going to hurt," The voice ordered from behind his body.
" I'm sorry, but I'm out of a numbing agent," The doctor added to both give warning and comfort.
Grabbing either side of the table the eldritch squeezed in every sense of the word as he felt a thorn in his side wedge itself free and be replaced with writhing agony and warm, sticky blood. Just my luck.
Still lying upon that cool metal slab, Saxon felt the pinpricks of the benevolent doctor at work. Lying there like a hunk of meat, the weird could do nothing but wonder about that fateful night in the alley. Everything seemed to be set up like a row of evenly spaced bricks that were toppled over in unison.
The angle of the watch just didn't seem right, and the idea of drunken cultists finding him in some backwater alley in a very cluttered city would be like taking a needle out of a haystack the size of a mountain. How could they have known where I was? Or better yet, how do they even know I have a watch?, the eldritch inquired.
It was unfortunate, however, that Saxon had more questions then he had answers. It'd be a long time before the eldritch would pop in an alley again unannounced, but he had to find out how they found him. It couldn't have just been a coincidence, irony, as Saxon thought of it was a man-made product to make reality all the more bearable. Something was playing with the weird like a chess piece, and that would never sit well with him.
Coming back to reality something hit the eldritch like a stone. Looking up from the particular floorboard he had been concentrating on for the last few minutes Saxon spoke," Say something."
" Huh?” the doctor said with that familiar twang of an accent. The smell of the cultist's rancid breath caught the weird full in the face as if on queue.
It wasn't much to go on, but he had been in even stranger situations. Feeling another gouge of the needle against his flesh Saxon grimaced as he attempted to word his next question," That accent of yours.. Where do you hail from?".
" I came from Salvar when I came of age to escape the frigid climate. Why?" said the physician, finally accomplishing to sew his flesh together.
Not knowing whether or not he could trust the Salvic surgeon, Saxon decided to put her knowledge to the test. Sitting up a little too quick the eldritch felt a pang of agony in his side and was about to reach around to feel his stitching when a slender hand grabbed the weird by the arm and slowly pushed it away.
Looking up in confusion, Saxon was taken aback by a lush blonde woman draped in a long, snowy white coat. Staring dumbfounded into the emerald pools of eyes, the weird whispered," W-what is your name?”
The thin lips of the Salvarian creased into a smile and she gently let go of her charge," Selva Jupthrk. And keep your hands away from your stitches unless you want to pull them out!".
Nodding the eldritch regained his momentum and gingerly stepped off the slab and guided his way to the physician's desk. Sitting on a stool a little too tall for him, the weird took a piece of blank parchment and a piece of charcoal and began to draw. Keeping it away from the eyes of the doctor, Saxon began his interrogation," Selva, tell me. What is the beverage of choice from Salvar?".
" Ale of course. Again, why do you ask?" The now confused doctor said with a perplexed look on her face.
With a smile the eldritch briefly looked up from his work and shook his head," I'm getting to it; just answer my questions, would you?
" Ale is too strong. What about a wine?" The weird spoke without losing a beat. The scratching sound of charcoal against parchment seemed to distract the surgeon from thinking clearly as she tried her hardest to sneak a peek over her patient's shoulder.
" Err.. I haven't a clue. Wine isn't very common in Salvar, its too cold to brew it there anyway. Now what are you getting at, Saxon?" Selva insisted, the curiosity beginning to well up the green orbs of hers.
Keeping up the pace the eldritch examined his work and continued to scribble at the same breakneck pace," Good! You’re doing just fine. What I need now is a winery, some place close to where I was found that they brew the stuff. I don't care what type it is, just name the first thing that comes to mind."
" The Tangled Vine is in the area, but it’s been out of business for decades! Now Saxon, what on Althanas are you talking about?!" Selva whispered in frustration as she took cautious steps towards her patient.
Putting the finishing touches on his drawing, Saxon snapped his head in different angles to get a better look at his work when the parchment was snatched out his hands and the interrogation was over.
Turning to see his informant gaze at his work, the weird half-expected to see shock and a dramatic fire of even more questions. Gazing into the alluring green eyes of Selva, Saxon's blood ran cold when the Salvic doctor collapsed onto the cherry wood floor.
~*~
Mugov listened with interest as the storyteller weaved the tale together with aid of tension and discount ale provided by various patrons. The mercenary was in the middle of the plot for his revenge when Fibonacchi finally trailed off. Gazing into the eyes of his hated enemy for the first time in a long while, the sell-sword felt the anger bubbling inside of him.
The more the mercenary tried to piece his revenge together, the harder it became to concentrate. His opponent's voice was like a drug, one that couldn't be resisted. The more Fibonacchi talked, the more Mugov lost himself in his hatred. The balding brute couldn't stand what the peddler was doing, nor was he aware of his steady loss of plunder since the last hand.
The mercenary seemed to be on a losing streak that he could neither break nor fix. The sea of faces that watched the game served as a double-edged sword for both of the players. While they knew it would be next to impossible for their opponent to cheat, they too couldn't devise a way to mask their trickery.
Although Mugov tried his best to counter every move, bet, and standoff with every trick in the book, none seemed to come to avail. Could it be true that Fibonacchi was just a better player when other people were about? Could it be that sitting at this well-lit varnished table the mercenary was about to meet his match?
Second thoughts began to stew in Mugov's chubby head until he heard it. It was like a magician had revealed his trick for the whole world to see. Fibonacchi shuffled the deck with the same stoic look on his face, gazing into the crowd. Mugov watched in interest as the same snap came from the deck of cards. It was faint, but if one played cards enough they could easily tell the difference between the sounds a card makes.
So thats how he’s doing it!, the mercenary thought carefully to himself. Anger washed over the brute as he sat and watched his opponent cheat in front of his very eyes. The snap came again, and again, and again like the ringing of a bell. Taking the cards he was dealt Mugov carefully looked at his hand and wasn't surprised to see a group of cards that would make even the gurus of poker cringe with dismay.
Holding the cards carefully, the sell-sword refused outright to lose more of his money. The idea that he would lose to deck stacking without even realizing it made Mugov growl under his breath," Yer mine now."
Watching his opponent gaze into his eyes, the mercenary's face broke into a savage grin. There was more then one way to skin a cat, but with Fibonacchi, Mugov would choose the most painful of them all. Placing his cards face down and sliding them in the storyteller's direction the brute declared," I fold."
Collecting the mandatory offering of spoils, Fibonacchi accepted the cards with a smile," I suppose it's just not your luck tonight, eh?"
Watching the storyteller stack the odds in his favor, Mugov shook his head with a grin," Nah, I think my luck's about ta' change."
Unaware of his blunder, the storyteller nodded with approval," Good, good. Frankly, I'm getting tired of winning."
Mugov gave the same toothy grin as he accepted his cards," Continue with yer yarn, Nachi'."
With a veil of surprise Fibonacchi raised an eyebrow and gazed at his cards," All right.. now where was I?"
~*~
Kneeling over the doctor, Saxon's mind coalesced with questions and black panic. The same blonde salvarian who had cared for him lay cascaded onto the floor at the sight of something sinister. Picking her head gently off the ground, pale fingers felt the dry wooden floor with relief. No blood, Saxon reminded himself. Still puzzled with questions the eldritch wrenched a cushion from a nearby chair and let it accept his burden.
Albeit Saxon was frequently sick as a child due to his crippled nature, the weird only dabbled in medicine. Anything past puncture wounds was a complete mystery to him. Luckily Selva was in the realm of his medical expertise, or so Saxon thought as he stumbled to the sink of water and brought back a rather large basin.
Just about the time the weird was dabbing a water-soaked cloth on the forehead of the fallen Selva, the same tingling feeling that had alerted him in the alley made itself known once more. Amalarj and Syvriak came into view for the first time since he had last needed their aid. Time slowed to a snail's pace as Saxon enlisted the aid of his only companions.
Resting against a corner Syvriak writhed as it came to life with at its master's whim. Slithering from its post, the staff met the weird head on as he abandoned his caretaker for the ever-watchful Amalarj. Staff in hand Saxon's fingers grazed the tip of the thick, almost flesh-like hat. Feeling it upon his brow, the numb skills of observation that served the eldritch in the past seemed to almost expand and open in new ways as Amalarj sat upon his scalp.
The strong stench of old wine-soaked linen drifted into the weird's nostrils while the sound of boot against wood thundered in his ears. Moving slowly into the darkened corner that served as Syvriak's perch shadows bent with the aid of Amalarj and Saxon vanished without a trace.
Far too many paces away, under the glint of sunlight the heavy oaken door that met Selva's patients at one time or another fell loudly to the ground. Robed cultists poured through the opening like water from a faucet. A sea of black linen turned over tables, furniture, everything in search of the weird.
Saxon's chest rose and fell rhythmically until a familiar giant of a man ducked under the threshold of the door and made himself known to the world. Orders were barked and the room became loud with activity as Krabek talked over the commotion with a subordinate, standing only paces away from his prey.
"We must find the keeper before midnight tomorrow. The seer is afraid we'll miss our chance as the final omen approaches," Krabek growled to his aide.
"You don't mean.." the lithe, female figure inquired nervously, her back to the eldritch.
"Yes. Bejalrok will be here. We must not waste more time, the beacon is needed to complete the ritual!" said the brawny brute from under his cowl, his face shadowed.
Pulling a silvery dagger from under her robes, the cultist let her finger slide down the blade and it disappeared into the darkness of the hood," We'll find him, Krabek. Or else the Sjarrg will."
Krabek's voice seemed to lose its cool at the mention of the mysterious 'Sjarrg' and spoke with a hurried whisper," It was released?!".
The hood bobbed in response," This morning. The ritual was quick, but it broke from the jar like the seer said it would. It was even more bloodthirsty then I had expected."
Krabek cursed under his breath and the same gnawing feeling in Saxon's stomach began to worry him," Damn. We're on his trail and we don't need that thing screwing it up!"
"Blasphemy!" The woman whispered with venom in her voice.
Krabek rose a meaty fist and rumbled with fury," Don't tell me what is sacred and what's not, woman! I serve the same God as you, and we know the price we both must pay!"
The woman's blade disappeared under her robes as she passed Krabek, stopping to whisper something in his ear. The cultist stared into the darkness for a moment and became alert. Drawing a heavy blade from his robes the salvic fanatic slowly approached the darkness, jabbing his sword a hair away from Saxon's face.
A squeal erupted in the eldritch's ears that he almost lost his grip on reality. A bloodied blade returned from the darkness to show a creature alien in nature writhing to get free from its impalement. Examining it closely, the creature disappeared under Krabek's cowl with a crunch.
Queasy at what he had just witnessed, Saxon felt the sweat bead upon his brow as the many faces and people seemed to click with his other weakness. Tsep made an eldritch sacrifice many things in order to tame it. Lovers, friends, even health. But the weird suspected he was the first eldritch to ever lose his mind.
The presence of the cultists seemed to take a toll on Saxon as he became woozy and delirious when Krabek barked even more orders. Like clockwork the sea of black linen poured out the way they came until only the eldritch and Krabek remained.
Calming down and the tunnel vision receding in his eyes, Saxon's breath became heavy as Krabek's footsteps died away. Falling to the ground out of the safety of the shadows, the eldritch felt Syvriak writhe with anger as the weird slowly glanced into the direction of his caretaker only to find the floor bare.
Saxon needed answers, and he needed them fast. By midnight tomorrow the world could end for all the weird knew, and he was ashamed Selva had been dragged into it. But as Saxon walked the back streets gathering his thoughts something finally hit him.. Literally. A pebble struck the eldritch square in the forehead with such force it knocked him flat on his backside with a yelp.
Surprised that even Amalarj didn't see it coming, Saxon rubbed his forehead and looked to the darkened rooftops for the infiltrator. Silence was the only culprit to be found in the narrowing, abandoned streets. It had finally occurred to the weird that he hadn't encountered any of the strange and unusual he was used to.
Since he crossed over from Tsep, Saxon had not seen anything that would merit his special attention. Nothing. The cult chasing him had occupied much of his time in the last day, but it was bizarre that there was nothing bizarre. The eldritch had always been able to sense or see the unnatural as it distorted reality, and had made it his duty to distort it in a way that everything appeared to be normal.
Standing up in the darkness of the streets, Saxon grabbed at his now bandaged chest as it struggled to hold his insides together. Walking a couple of paces, now alert to something present upon his streets the weird still wasn't ready when another pebble struck the lobe of his ear. Knocked off balance, the eldritch stumbled against the wall of a building.
Holding the side of his head as blood thumped loudly inside of his ear the weird caught glimpse of his assailant. Fumes that resembled air being vaporized always gave Saxon a hint that the strange were about. A stony head disappeared behind the wall of another street out of the corner of the eldritch's eye.
" Hey! Stop, you little bastard!” Saxon shouted as he regained his balance and walked at a quickened pace down the street. Warm, sticky blood began to drip down the side of the eldritch's head as he turned the corner of a street. Hearing loud clacks of stone against stone, the weird picked up the pace as he turned another corner into an abandoned market.
Tents and goods were left untouched, only a few days old. The aroma of rotten fruit almost made Saxon wretch as he darted and weaved past crates and booths. Why would someone leave their profits to rot and their goods to waste away?, the weird wondered as he staggered past a booth with jewelry attached to the upholstery blowing in the wind.
Fruit, jewels, weapons, armor, horseshoes, remedies... anything Saxon could think of was left to waste as he too abandoned it for bigger prey. Stumbling loudly over trash piled up in the cobbled streets the bizarre steps stopped as quickly as they started. The prickling feeling on the back of the eldritch's neck probably saved his life as he turned around and was knocked to the ground by his attacker.
Molten salvia dribbled off the creature's rock-like chin as it stared deep into the weird's eyes. Caught completely off guard Saxon had also forgotten that the unusual take on the appearance of their prey's territory. Pulpous spheres of bloody fat bulged out of its stony eye sockets, the other holes in its face dripping with a embery goo.
Made from cobbled stone the creature looked to be a primate as it pulled back to draw another breath. His hands pinned on either side of him Saxon wrestled to get free as the beast straddled him. The eldritch felt its rock-like tail grow tight around his legs, tangling him entirely.
" STAY PUT!", the strange monkey belched into Saxon's face with a putrid, smoggy breath.
The weird lost all fight in him as he heard those otherworldly words seeped into his mind. Turning his nostril away from the rancid breath, Saxon's voice was barely above a whisper," What do you want?!”
Again the beast loosened its grip to draw another breath and belched its answer in a way the eldritch almost could taste it," KEEPER MUST SAVE US!"
Bewildered by the title given to him by the very people who hunted him, Saxon laid there trying to formulate his retort when he saw the beast glance over his shoulder with a worried look in his bulbous eyes. Feeling the grip loosen once more the weird spoke quickly," Whats hunting you?!".
" THE BUTCHER HUNTS US! SEARCHING FOR YOU!", it burped with a hint of worry in its voice. The sound of something approaching caused the creature to jump off its captive and stand him on his feet. Standing up to Saxon's waist the creature bit at its stony nails nervously at the sound of thundering footsteps.
" Why is he after me?!", the weird asked, his hands now gripping the warm stony shoulders of the creature.
" BEACON FRE-- ANSWERS YOU SEEK IN ILLUMI!", the creature belched loudly, its face contorted in fear.
" Illumi? Wha-- OOF!", Saxon managed to get out before he was wedged inside an alley not fit for a child. The strange primate backed up, a finger to his mouth when a long shadow dwarfed the creature.
Slowly backing out of the eldritch's line of sight, the weird could hear the creature draw its last breath as a white fleshy blur met and left the weird's vision in an instant. Watching the shadows tell the tale, a large clawed hand hung back at full extent as the beast was hoisted into the air against its will. Feeling a tense moment of silence all around him Saxon saw to his horror molten blood paint the walls.
Hearing a creature Saxon thought only he knew to exist being devoured shook him in a way few things would. Shaking uncontrollably the weird stifled a breath as the alleged butcher ravaged the ape, the darkness revealing every grizzly detail. Saxon knew long ago that a job hazard would be death by being ravaged, but not like this. Stepping into the shadows, the eldritch could tell he had only minutes before this creature ripped him to pieces.
Having only one option, Saxon decided to take it. Syvriak still in hand, the weird felt his entire being begin to twitch. Muscle fibers, organs, everything that was the eldritch began to blur and become distorted. Testing his ability the only way he could, Saxon waved his hand in front of his face only to see a pale haze.
Invisibility is a relative term to most of the magically inclined, but few could only imagine the constant muscle movement needed for such an act. As the eldritch's walk slowed to a crawl, he felt his breath draw short as he abandoned the safety of the claustrophobic nook and into the world around him. Feeling his innards still inside of his body, Saxon began to walk towards the way he came, the sound of his boots drowned out by the slaughter.
The gnashing of teeth against juicy meat is really what got the weird. How any of the strange creatures possessed any true corporeal sense of being sickened Saxon at a level that could only be guessed. The churning of his stomach against the pleading cries of the poor wretch was his only defense against making him known.
Only a couple more paces, your almost there, Saxon. Just ignore what is going all around you.. ignore it!, the weird pleaded to himself while he slowly escaped a horrifying fate. But at the most inopportune time Fate can be mischievous. On average a normal man can balance his emotions, his thoughts, even his desires. But feeling the cold crunch of metal under his footstep, Saxon could barely control his bowels. Snapping out of his invisibility, only steps from salvation the weird felt the same prickly sensation on his neck. That was when he ran.
Running down the market, darting and weaving with a prowess he didn't even know he had, the weird didn't even notice his stitches beginning to pull apart.
Wooden splinters flew past the eldritch as a noisy crash thundered in his ears. Pit man against nature, and man usually won.. but with the supernatural it was always a coin toss. Feeling blood pump into parts of his body he didn't even know he had, Saxon ignored the growing pain in his side. Exhaustion encumbered him and he still ran, the weird felt warm sticky blood mat the Brameg to his flesh, but he still ran.
Saxon again didn't even see the wall of dark linen standing ahead of him when he wasn't hindered or slowed. He was stopped. The eldritch saw a familiar face contorted in a grimace when Syvriak decided to intervene. A meaty hand caught the writhing staff in motion and wrenched it free from the weird's grip. Saxon didn't get to hear the words in his mouth begin to form aloud before Syvriak and he came together with a thud.
~*~
Fate seemed content with Fibonacchi's trickery and deception. After all, how could the peddler leave his money and trinkets in the hands of somebody who had no respect for his fellow man? Shuffling the cards before him, the storyteller felt his love for poker renew.
Not just because he was on the verge of winning, but the smaller things as well. Having piles of coins rise so high on his side of the table he could barely see over top of it. The sea of faces that gather around to watch the peddler in all of his glory as he played until the brink of daylight.
The life of a gambler, as Fibonacchi saw it, was provocative and teasing to the newcomers until they lose their shirts. Being in this position time and time again, the storyteller was forced to learn how to stack the odds in his favor. Hearing the familiar crack of cards snapping together, the peddler became nostalgic. Albeit Fibonacci could play the game fair, he was a notch above novice without the sleight of hand.
Feeling the cards leave his hands as they glided to their destination across the varnished table, something interrupted the storyteller's stroll down memory lane. Under the poor lantern light and the shade of his rain-stained hat, Fibonacchi's saw Mugov's strange behavior from his side of the table.
The look of his opponent's jeering double chinned face was as frightening as it was priceless. Whats he so pleased about?, the peddler wondered with intrigue. Lost behind rolls of fat, the slivers of plush brown eyes grew with glee. The mercenary's once slack jaw was now drawn tight as his face stretched into a very uncomfortable smile.
Picking up the cards he dealt to himself, Fibonacchi gazed at another victory before him. The storyteller figured Mugov would be trying anything to him outside where he could stick him like a frog with that rusty dagger. But he wasn't. On the contrary, the sell-sword seemed to be appeased with his steady but inevitable losing streak.
Fibonacchi wasn't stupid, he knew despite whatever ploy Mugov was using, once the storyteller left the pub he had might as well paint a bulls eye on his back. Is that what he is so happy about?, the peddler wondered, A chance to kill me and take my money anyway?. Conspiracy theories buzzed about but were immediately dismissed when Fibonacchi began to piece it together.
Something was definitely off, that was what Fibonacchi was sure of. But there was one piece of the puzzle missing that the storyteller couldn't put his finger on. No matter how hard he tried. The opportunity to pry information from Mugov was too lucrative for the peddler's silver tongue not to intervene.
" Tell me, Mugov, what is someone like you doing in a place like this?" Fibonacchi asked with a twang of eloquence.
Losing the scary grin plastered upon his face, Mugov's beady eyes moved in the storyteller's direction," Jus' playin' cards. Gettin' shipped off to Salvar in the morn', won't be seein' green for months in that forsaken tundra."
Hes toying with me.. Fibonacchi thought carefully. Poising his next question carefully, the storyteller spoke with an air of confidence," Salvar eh? What would a mercenary like you be doing there?"
A dark look cast about the plump brute as the question stung in his ears. Dropping a stack of his coins in the pot Mugov dismissed the question," Quit stallin' and play, Nachi."
Damn, Fibonacchi thought as he felt the interrogation end before it even began. The mercenary seemed to be smarter then he looked, but he still fell short of the scholarly knowledge needed to be competent. Regaining his smile, Mugov taunted the storyteller like that of a cat toying with a mouse. He knows something I don't and he's showing it!. Fibonacchi’s cool brow began to moisten under the pressure. What more could he do? Tossing in a sizeable stack of coins in order to ensure another victory, the peddler began to brood.
If it was one thing Mugov knew, it was how to pry information. In his line of work, the sell-sword was often employed to do his master's dirty work. Often that required the mercenary to get creative when it came to interrogating other henchmen of his targets. But one tactic held true above all others, and it was brutal.
Mugov had to play on the fears of his victims, slowly but surely he'd draw them out of their sphere of comfort then the mercenary would strike. Knocking his victim off balance, the sell-sword would keep pushing until his prey's spirit had been broken and the words poured from their lips.
Who’s the smart one now?, the brute taunted with his ugly smile spread clear across his face. Watching his coins slowly become the possession of his elusive enemy, Mugov was growing more and more satisfied. Because of the information he now knew, not only could he turn the game in his favor, the brute could use it to give him the leeway he needed to break Fibonacci's nimble fingers.
Perverted pleasure seeped into the mercenary's small brain as he watched the storyteller finally catch onto the game. That’s what Mugov always enjoyed, when his prey knew they were being played with, but couldn't quite figure out the how or why. It was the look a murderer sought after when his victim's eyes begged for innocence as a last ditch effort to stave off death. It was the hesitation a merchant impeded on a potential client in order to secure a sale and feed their wanton greed.
It was business.
The mercenary could feel the irony swelling around him. The scene of a wild animal unknowingly walking into a pointy, pronged trap while the hunter lay in wait played over and over in Mugov's pudgy head. Just a little bit more, he needs to think his victory is secure and then he’s mine, the sell-sword thought quietly to himself.
Watching his opponent secure another victory with his deception made Mugov squirm with joy. Tossing his cards back into the pile the mercenary decided to spring his trap," Let me shuffle this time, eh, Nachi'?"
The peddler was reaching for a card on the far side of the table when he heard the news and froze. Knowing Fibonacchi would have to comply unless he wished to blow his cover, Mugov waited for the answer to come with the patience of a fruit fly.
"Yah.. sure, better luck to you. Eh?" Fibonacchi spoke in a calm manner.
Accepting the cards, the brute knew his prey was shaken and he rubbed his hands together diligently, unwittingly letting his sleeves hang low around his wrists. Shuffling the cards again and again in a very calm manner. Each card felt like a burden off the mercenary's shoulders. Each felt like another nail in Fibonacci's coffin as they were placed in the position Mugov was far too familiar with.
The position of a scorned wife sprinkling powdered poison into her husband's soup. The decision of a leader as he toyed with the possibilities of dispatching traitors attempting to assassinate him. The brute felt in control for the first time since the game began, and he never wanted to give up that feeling. It was far too sweet to be in the hands of a scoundrel like Fibonacchi.
I hold your very fate in my hands and I'm lobbing it over to you. How does that feel?, Mugov questioned as he continued to shuffle and stack the deck in a subtle manner. Whether the peddler could see the brute lay his trap in plain sight was unknown by Mugov. But as he sat there shuffling the mercenary could feel the power shifting over to his part of the table.
Laying five cards on each side of the table Mugov felt his luck changing. Picking up the cards given to him by the eldged hand of fate, the sell-sword felt like a God. A deity who could crush his enemies with a mere thought, one that could grant life through death.
Mugov became drunk with power and didn’t even realize it. The mercenary felt like a snake poised to strike with venom dripping from its fangs. He was going to let the storyteller know just what it felt like to be played with.
~*~
Darkness. With the rest of the eldritch's mind slumbering away, a small primal part of him stayed wide-awake. Saxon often thought his mind was like one of his father's prestigious engines that worked with a singular purpose. If one were to throw a wrench into the buzzing conveyer belts of that particular machine the results could be catastrophic.
The gears whirled as the belts grinded against the wrench, causing smoke to spew at random. Cracks would form upon the iron shell of the engine as the insides radiated with anger. Bolted to the table, it would rattle savagely as the machine felt itself in its death throes. The pistons would pump aimlessly until the engine's eggshell of a consciousness shattered under the weight of agony.
Fortunately, this wasn't so. The power lines of his mind continued to spark randomly with diligence. Cracks that were etched into the bundle of nerves still held sway, guarding the weird's deepest secrets. Attached to the stem of his spinal cord, the entire brain continued to function despite the blow. Thoughts, dreams, and desires continued to flow with the notion nothing had happened at all. The eggshell only stressed to the brink of shattering.
Realizing this, the primal consciousness felt the ripple of this mere observation. The brink. Saxon had been to the edge of a knife once before. To be brought to the end of muddled darkness against his will for choices the eldritch regretted deeply for making. His father, deep in poverty, had once given the weird a piece of earthly wisdom for this very same situation that made him laugh until now.
Slowly his thoughts began to take order as the phrase spun again and again inside of his mind. Ache and pain met as the purple bruise upon Saxon's forehead pulsed with life. Fleshy lids parted to reveal confused azure eyes, brought back to the world. A dull ringing in Saxon's ears caused him to wonder where the shrill scream was that he couldn't place.
Plush opaque liquid drizzled down the weird's face as the scream grew louder and louder. Who's voice is that?, he thought crudely. A voice so familiar, so rough and hoarse with thirst he knew it in moments.
He was.
The groggy sensation Saxon felt evaporated as his side ached with new pain. Stitches once torn were criss-crossed again, in the most excruciating way. Dripping down his face, the strange goo felt cold and warm at the same time. Eyes finally in focus, lidless black orbs screwed into a shadowed face stared back at Saxon.
Hanging inches above the ground, the pale weird felt an irony fill him. A question echoed from far away met his ears," Where is the beacon?”
The eldritch began wheezed with laughter but ceased as a heavy object grazed his ribs. Spitting blood into the dark face of his interrogator, Saxon grinned in defiance. Another blow forced the words from him," Sometimes you have to jump off a cliff. No matter how shocking being on the brink is, the only choice you get to make is whether or not to put on boo--
~*~
"Boo what?” an audience member shouted from the back of the crowd.
Sitting there, unable to phrase his next word Fibonacchi looked fate in the eye. Holding those cards, the storyteller's smoke and mirrors had finally come to an end. Five sets of orbs stared slyly at the peddler as five ridiculous grins gleamed. Leathereqsue red and yellow-checkered caps sat atop five gaunt, hook-nosed faces.
Jokers..., the mind of Fibonacchi retorted as the entire comical image came together. Slapping his hand back onto the table as quickly as it had surfaced, the peddler's mouth hung slack. It was too much for him, but the message was clear.
I'm on to you.
A quick grin from across the table caused Fibonacchi to regain his composure. The moments it took him to realize the message left him open, and it was shocking. How Mugov found out the storyteller didn't know, and found his thoughts sputtering with answers.
He felt like Saxon in the scene he depicted with no way out. But, Fibonacchi was far too clever to get caught in a trap like that. Ego-stroking aside, the peddler watched the warning disappear back into the leather stack, knowing it wouldn't be there in the next hand.
Giving a small sigh and plucking his kerchief from his breast pocket, the storyteller wiped his brow. Whether or not Mugov got his message, he was oblivious to it. But this lackluster card game, and twisted tale were far from over. As if on autopilot, Fibonacchi felt himself and the audience slip back into Saxon's plight.
~*~
Pale sunlight caught Saxon in the eyes as he slipped from his nightmare, the scene before him completely alien. About the eldritch various people dressed in suits fit for aristocrats, going about their business in a room that flourished in a sort of choking luxury that the weird loathed ever since he was a child. Men in black suits, in short cropped hair stood and sat by the paneled walls all staring at him as he came to. His mind swooning as he tried to take it all in, Saxon wondered if it was this that was the dream. The haze was slung into a hard grip on reality as he looked up and saw the same cat-like, green eyes smiling at him as thin lips parted into a whisper, a hand pressing down on his naked chest," Easy, Saxon. This is the second time I've had to patch you up this week, and this time it's going to stick," Selva said with an air of skepticism.
A chortle of gentle laughter filled the room as the eldritch continued to stared in a bewildered manner at the people before him. The airry look of merchants caught Saxon full in the face as he took in the subtle details of ivory cuff-links, fine porcelin tea cups and short, stocky servants catering to their every desire. It was as if the eldritch could only witness and not speak nor touch the scene before him, a feeling of tranquility overtaking him as his horror seemed to subside and he felt a dull prick in his shoulder.
"That was quite the stunt ya' pulled, Keeper," A gruff, familiar voice spoke over the sudden acrid smell of tobacco filling the air. Glancing over to his right a balding man donning a black silken vest covering a tough, white over-shirt and ashen trousers stared down at him with a smug smile on his face. A cigar in one hand, and a syringe in the other the man gave a low laugh," Yah, its me, Keeper. Y'know I have never seen a man run that fast, but then again when yer running from a horror like that, ya' tend to find a way to move a little bit faster."
Saxon struggled to mouth words amid the laughter but all he could come out with was," K-Krabek." Something about the fanatic seemed different, the mad look in his eyes from when the weird had seen. It was if the ashen, wine-drenched robes lured Krabek into his dark, unpredictable psychosis. Glancing at the man's sloping shoulders and his graying, orange locks, the eldritch whispered," Y-you look bigger without the robe."
The powerful cultist shushed him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as he held the syringe in front of the eldritch's face," Now now, Keeper, I realize ya' have a lot of questions, but I've given you a powerful sedative. I don't know whether or not ya' know it, but you are quite restless when ya' sleep. Almost broke Selva's nose until we could restrain ya'," Krabek said with a grin, his cigar bobbing on the fat lips fit for a two-timing merchant.
Sitting at the eldritch's side, Saxon felt helpless as the merchant looked down upon him with caring eyes," Now I know this'll be more ova one-sided conversation, but I suppose its for the best," pulling the coveted ebony watch from his vest pocket, the business-man dangled it in front of the eldritch, his old face crinkling with a sense of victory," As much as I've enjoyed this game of cat and mouse, all things must come to an end. I have to say that ya' almost ran us through a loop trying to get this beacon of yours, but we've gotten it and we're using it tonight."
The gentle voice began to contort into a calm, delusional sort of malice as Krabek's personality came into full view," Now here is what is going to happen, Keeper. We only need the watch, after that its yours--," patting the waning weird on his bearded face the cultist smiled," Now Now, don't ya' go to sleep on me now, stay with me, because this last bit is important."
Standing the salvic business man plucked the cigar from his mouth and put the watch safely back in his vest, slowly beginning to pace," Tonight is going to go off without any kind of mishap. It is very important to the Dadghaal that our little ritual is completed. Now I won't bore ya' with the details, but suffice it to say, we're in a tight spot and this Beacon will solve a lot of problems. So if there are any notions swimming in your head about stopping our little.. party, drown it. If there is any sort of idea of getting this watch back before it serves its purpose, squash it."
Unable to respond, Saxon listened to the tall, robust Salvarian droll on and on about his cursed ritual, but all that filled the eldritch's mind was his father's pocket watch. The fine brass covering that had once kept the machine's guts in place, the broken hand, let alone the personal value it had to the weird. There was nothing the eldritch desired more then that stupid watch, but it was a slap to the face by the sinister Selva that brought him back to reality.
Turning around the cultist smiled once more as he faced the eldritch, savoring his victory as any man with an ounce of power would," Saxon, I understand your angry with your personal loss and what ya' have been put through, but rest assured that should we not complete our little ritual, if even that dim hope is dancing in your eyes, I will take out every mistake on you," pointing at the eldritch carefully with his cigar to place emphasis of the last word. Walking to the ebony door, Krabek gripped the silver handle and stopped at the threshold, turning one last time," Keeper, that sedative will last until tomorrow, just in case there is some sort of conspiracy you are concoctin'. My attendents will escort you out when you gain full control of your limbs, and I will have a messenger put that watch back in your possession once this is all over. Now, sleep tight."
Krabek left without another word, the other cultists save Selva slowly ushered out of the room, chattering excitedly about the coming event. It was the strangest position the eldritch had ever been put in, but for some reason he felt an air of confidence about him. Perhaps it was false, but the sound of the strange Salvic accent made him bitter with pride, if it was the last thing the weird did, he would bring this cult to its knees.
It shocked the eldritch to the core with what he had been put through, but his ample mind continued to hatch a scheme, his total concentration focusing on the wiggling his big toe. As sweat beaded from his face and Selva stepping away he saw his large pale foot at the other end of the bed stubbornly obey. Good, the eldritch thought carefully. Pushing the strong desire to close his heavy eye lids, Saxon continued to wake every muscle in his body, rousing it for the fight to come.
~*~
A cold, bitter twilight blanketed the city of Radasanth as the fiery vanguard sank into the mountains in the deep horizon. A strange, otherworldly moon began to rise in the dull, calm purple sky. Its strange crimson appearance was what many farmers on Althanas label as the 'Harvest Moon', often led by a small festival to some fertility God, but in this Coronian city something strange was afoot. All of the big-wig merchants who usually occupied their stalls throughout the city were oddly missing, even though it was a few hours before closing. A strange calm-before-the-storm feeling engulfed the citizens as something lurked just over the shadowy horizon.
A loud metal clang followed by a thud fell upon deaf ears as all of the guests were conversing loudly in an entirely different part of the lush mansion. The heavy black door to Saxon's room slowly opened, a flood of dull light engulfing the far end of the proceeding hallway. Slowly a pale head poked out of the room as nervous blue eyes studied the darkness ahead with a trained eye. Carefully tiptoeing out of the room, the door closing shut behind him, the pool of sticky blood that slowly trailed behind the eldritch stopping at the threshold held testament to Selva's current condition.
It had occurred to the weird that hitting a woman who cared for him was strictly taboo, but when that woman has been playing with his insides and gently cooing despicable threats in his ear, Saxon some how found the moral license to dispatch of her. Staggering with a concentrated aim, the powerful sedative far from subsiding threatened to bring the eldritch to his knees at any moment. The dark hallway led into a poorly lit solarium that was four times as big as the house the eldritch remembered growing up in. The only light source for the room were blazing torches posted at its four corners and a wide, glass domed ceiling that seemed to seep with an ugly, red light.
The weird was devoid of ideas as he heard his quiet footstep on the fine, prismatic marble under his feet. The wide, expansive room was empty of life, except for the wiry eldritch. Scanning for some sort of exit, the weird stayed close to the wall, his hand feeling the cool stone graze over his palm. Saxon felt a familiar creep on his leg that caused him to stop dead, slowly his faithful serpent of a staff writhed up his leg and into his outstretched hand, the curved wooden tip baring the odd, leather Amalarj. Placing the broad rimmed hat upon his head, Saxon felt his senses quickly attune to the darkness, his sight suddenly viewing the solarium as if it were cast in afternoon light.
Slowly walking along the wall and gripping a silver knob, the weird felt himself panic as it slowly turned in his hand. Backing away from the door like a panther, the eldritch stood with his back to the wall, his hands ready on Syvriak, ready to deal a fatal blow if he had to. Loud footsteps echoed in the solarium as a pair of cultists walked carrying a heavy burden between them, draped in a dark green tarp. The first one, a woman growled as she struggled to keep her grip on the load," Easy, Yaani, if you drop her Krabek will have your head!".
The one called Yaani snorted," Just keep up with your end. Anyway, what do we need this wench for? She ain't pure, and I eard' the seer distinctly say that we need a virgin who is pure, shes one of them sand-wretches from Fallien, she's too tainted with that sand blood to give Sjaarg a fit meal before the ceremony!".
The second cultist followed Yaani into the pool of red light, her movement becoming agitated," Yaani, why do I even bother with ya'? Its always being the 'pure' with you! We all know we need a Salvarian for this ritual, but we're running low on time, and the damn authorities are huntin' for us for pulling dumb whores off the street unfit to bear the salvic lineage!".
Slowly they gently released the load on the floor, Yaani began to unroll the olive tarp to reveal a bound ebony woman, her naked dark flesh dripping with perspiration. She was covered in wounds, and bit down on her gag with a vengeance. Saxon noticed for the first time that a long link of chains was staked in the center of the room, the iron shackles loudly clamped to the woman's legs, and her gag was savagely pulled out by the male cultist, who spat at the Fallien prostitute with a deep-seeded hatred. Standing the two repeatedly kicked the prostitute back to the ground when a sharp, savage roar echoed throughout the solarium, a shadow slowly blotting out most of the red moonlight that beamed from the glass dome.
Saxon looked up horror to see the white, ugly horror bathed in unholy red light stare down at the trio with hungry, beady black eyes. Long jagged, black claws cut at the thick crystal with un-sated hunger. Large muscular jaws clacking with rows of bloody sharp teeth. It was unlike the eldritch had ever seen since he had encountered the strange imp earlier that week. The cultists made a hurried pace towards Saxon, unaware of his presence. The eldritch stealthily jumped aside, circling behind the pair as they encounter the lever he had been standing by and pulled down on it with dedication worthy of a fanatic.
A loud grating sound came from the ceiling as the glass dome began to part, the creature of slaughter scurrying into the darkness, its eyes beginning to glow an alarming red. Saxon, completely caught by the majestic, horrifying the sight of the creature, rushed too late to the door to be left with a foreboding slam and the sound of a lock clinking loudly. A high pitched scream suddenly caught the eldritch off-guard as he looked from the scrabbling creature to the whore, only to see an unsteady silence. Snapping his attention back to the hallway he saw Selva nursing a head wound, pointing at the Sjaarg with terror.
Quickly she scrambled to the door, Saxon again slipping out of the way to witness with a cool satisfaction as she frantically turned the door knob, the mechanism catching on the lock. Kicking at the door she screamed," Let me in! Let me in! The Sjaarg an-!"
Anticipating the next words to pour out of the maid's lips, Saxon rushed and placed a muffling hand over Selva's mouth. The weird felt savage teeth bite into his white hand as he stuttered to explain, howling in pain he pushed her into the door, unaware that the creature with its new demonic vision watched the scene with a savage desire to feed. A loud thud upon the ground and ungodly roar ringing in his ears caused the eldritch to instinctively whirl around, only to be knocked aside by a strong savage hand.
Falling onto the marble with an agonizing crack, Saxon skidded across the floor, watching the ugly butcher slowly engulf the sobbing Selva. The weird turned away as the sound of slaughter and spilling of blood welled up in his ears, catching sight of the petrified Fallien concubine. Pulled down by the sedative, the weird struggled to get up, staggering hurriedly to the whore, his form being bathed in crimson light. Pulling at her shackles, Saxon felt hot limbs cling to him in fear and an exotic accent meeting his ears," P-please don't let that thing eat me! I'll give you anything you want! Just don't let it near me". The voluptuous, bare breasted Fallienite clinged to the weird, her hazel eyes darting in desperation.
The eldritch gently pushed the frantic prostitute off him, wrestling with the shackle as he suddenly felt the beast's eyes upon him," Stay behind me, and whatever you do, do not scream!" Saxon said carefully. Pulling on the heavy, iron chains he knew they were far too strong for especially him to break. Standing the eldritch faced the Sjaarg who slowly crept towards them, intent on filling its gullet with more then one meal. Ignoring the expected scream erupting from the prostitute, Saxon knew he was out of time and felt his grip on Syvriak grow stronger. As death slowly approached the weird, stretching to its full height, the Sjaarg clacked its claws and its teeth in anticipation. Slowly Saxon began to doubt that all of this was worth his father's watch and the revenge that would follow after all.
As the Sjaarg was but a few startling feet from the pair, Saxon's mind racked for ideas. His thoughts drew towards bringing the surrounding darkness to life and engulfing his enemy, but it was far from being possible. The blood-red radiance that bathed the pair rendered the eldritch's abilities useless. In combination with the sedative that pooled the urge to sleep in his mind, the weird was left with but one option. The Sjaarg's white, ugly scalp became a light, foreboding pink as Saxon noticed for the first time what exactly it was. A raised forehead covered the malignant, black pools for eyes, its porkish nose squashed against its face, and its blood-stained, flesh-flecked lips contorted into a leer fit for a predator corning its prey. The word demon instantly sprang in Saxon's mind as he retreated a step and suddenly found himself obsessed with the rows of yellow, gnashing teeth sitting upon a spindly, ghostly neck. Raising its claws in an awkward manner, the creature prepared to charge with a bloodthirsty roar. The prostitute whimpered in response, while Syvriak suddenly sprang into action, coiling its entire body on the eldritch's left, meaty forearm, it raised its head like that of a cobra preparing to strike.
Before the Sjaarg to rush them, Saxon caught onto the game and hurled the serpentine staff at the beast, its body wrapping tight around the frail and pale neck. Driven into a frenzy, the mythical butcher reared back, gasping for air as it desperately clawed at Syvriak's vice-like grip. Astounded at his staff's refusal to let go, the eldritch almost lost his head to a wayward claw, his body jerking down on pure instinct. The dizzy feeling that the weird experienced was in part to the blow to the head he received only a day before, was replaced by pure adrenaline. Pulling awkwardly for the surgical knife hidden in his boot, Saxon couldn't feel more relieved that he had plucked it from Selva's belongings before he had left.
The Sjaarg clumsily leaned overhead as it continued to fight for air, when the prostitute sprang up as a clawed hand bared down upon her and cloved her head like a knife to garlic. Rage churning within the eldritch as he saw his charge fall to the ground, he thrusted the knife forward as the Sjaarg turned his back on him, the blade plunging with a wet thud into the monster's spined back. With a jerk, Saxon turned the blade and pulled it up at an angle, severing the butcher's spine and spraying black ichor over the entire front of the eldritch. Jumping frantically out of the way as the Sjaarg, who couldn't control its limbs sagged wildly backwards, its head meeting the marble with a loud crack.
Syvriak, finding its mission fulfilled, tightened the coils of ancient, mystic wood and snapped the beast's head sickly to the right, it's neck broken like a crushed twig. Slowly the staff uncoiled itself and followed its master like a slithering shadow. Saxon wiped the stinging ichor from his eyes and looked back at the Fallien whore who laid in a crumpled heap upon the ground, something about the room catching the weird's eye for the first time. Slowly the woman's blood pooled and fell into the line engraved at the center of the solarium. The life-blood rushed on to complete its duty as the engraving cleverly ran deeper and deeper into the ground, causing Saxon to step back to see it in full view.
The same blood-stained image that had been on Krabek's hand, that had caused Selva to faint, leered at him with a sinister grin. The cult's mark was that of a horned demon's face, its teeth pulled forcefully into a jeer with barbaric barbed wire. The symbol took up a better part of the room, and it would be something to haunt the weird's dreams for many a year when the doctor's reaction to the cult icon sprang into his mind. Selva.. , Saxon thought sympathetically as he looked back at the ravaged corpse whose beautiful, lush face had been eaten off by the phantom ravager. Thoughts of the doctor's unwilling participation in the weird's care caused him to be flooded with a sea of blinding, red anger. In defiance Saxon took up his staff and moved forward, thrusting it to the ground and jamming it into the symbol that sat in the center of the leering demon's forehead.
Perhaps it was by a stroke of luck, or the amorphous Syvriak that caused the symbol to sink loudly into the ground. Steps starting from each side of the curved horns were crudely falling into place like dominoes, spiraling into a double helix, it plunged into the empty abyss below. Standing upon the pillar fixed to the ground, Saxon stepped off onto the conjoining platform and turned sharp to hear the whore's corpse slip from the world above, her limbs flailed about like a rag-doll until she met the marble stairs with a thud. Quickly the eldritch ignored the dulling pain mounting in his shins as he stepped onto the marble stairs leading to the unimaginable Hell below. When he was again stopped by the sound of the rush of human voices behind the ebony paneled door, and the lock cracking open.
Unwilling to be caught at this juncture in his journey, Saxon stepped over the Fallienite's body and rushed into the underworld. The eldritch would not be stopped until he delivered his full wrath upon the cult that had plagued him for so many days that seemed to have spiraled into one wicked undertaking after another, and he was ready and foolish enough to pay his life to see Krabek and his cronies spilled blood.
~*~
Fibonacchi sat back with a stony look painted upon his face, one hand gripped a cool, sweaty mug of forgotten ale and the other wrapped around the crown of the chair. There had been many changes in the game that startlingly resembled the story the peddler had been recanting. Somehow, some way, the fates had smiled upon the ill-dressed Fibonacchi for the last few hours, and it seemed to be growing strong. With a treasure trove of coppers, silvers, and gold pieces sitting at the side of the table, the storyteller was more worried about the large, circular oaken table tipping over then the dark, malignant look that cast over Mugov's face for the last two hands, the peddler thought wryly to himself.
I don't like the way hes playing with that frog sticker of his, Fibonacchi confessed to himself as he watched the sell-sword poke and prod the wood at the table, seemingly searching for an excuse to gut his hated nemesis like a pig. The crowd on both sides had swelled up at an alarming rate when the tale had reached its piquing point, making it impossible for either side to openly cheat without getting caught. That is if they had been using the common methods most veteran gamblers testify too.
Again Fibonacchi sipped his salty brew with a face contorted by thought and theory. Frankly, the storyteller was impressed with what he had seen the mercenary do with the cards and even catch up with some of the techniques the storyteller had used himself that a novice would sell the proverbial arm and leg for. He even caught the Hangman's Noose, the peddler silently mulled over. Staring from the mercenary to the cards on the table that had been abandoned for a good hour, an idea struck the storyteller like lightning. As I see it, if I win now, that chubby bastard is going to find away to get me lynched. But what happens if I decide to let him have my fortune and win it all in one hand? Hm? What'll Mugov be able to prove if I win then? Nothing!, plotted the storyteller with a touch of glee in his inner monologue.
Uncrossing his legs and sitting straight in his chair for the first time in a good ten minutes, Fibonacchi stroked his graying, black beard with last thoughts," Alright, Mugov, lets get moving, I have a missus to get back to and I'd like to finish this story before sunrise," he said having made up his mind. Slowly Mugov sat up amid the chuckles, his posture rivaling carpenter's wood, and tossed his brown, tarnished cards back into the pile. Something about the mercenary had changed after awhile, he had gotten more quiet, and more conservative with his card moves. Gathering the cards carefully, Fibonacchi knew this was the most dangerous part of the game, and it was where most gamblers were found cheating, but one way or another the storyteller was going to end this game with a restrained, angry mercenary grasping for his throat.
Tossing honest cards for the first time in hours, there was a sort of calm that sailed over the storyteller, as he looked at the sea of faces before him and felt the light at the end of the tunnel. Just two more hands, and I'll be set, but as the peddler gazed at his hand, he knew something was off. cross the splay of leather five royal, esteemed kings looked up at Fibonacchi diligently while an ace of spades stalwartly squatted at the right end of the hand. Mugov tossed in a few coins and grumbled as he lost all composure and finesse with his poker face, and it seemed all a bit too well played on the storyteller's part as he sensed the trap as a hungry mouse sniffs the piece of cheese placed upon the iron spring.
Hes tanking it!, Fibonacchi cried out in his intricate mind, his thoughts abuzz and panicking as they searched for away out. There was no way the peddler could pretend to lose without Mugov catching onto him without discovering how he had been rigging the deck while he, Fibonacchi, had been shuffling the cards! As Mugov looked up, a small grin cracked in his sad demeanor for only a moment before he looked down, the mercenary already a step ahead of the storyteller. Tossing coins into the pile the peddler coolly replied," I call, and raise you fifty."
Placing the rest of his meager winnings into the pot, Mugov sighed and slowly uttered," Goin' all in, 'Nachi. I'd like ta' visit a brothel fore' I get shipped out tomorra". The idea was ingenius, and it was too bad the storyteller had thought of it a couple hands too late, he had been too caught up in Saxon's plight with the cultists to pay attention to the money the mercenary had slowly been feeding him. There was no way now that the peddler could ease the burden off of him without drawing attention to himself, and he knew that the only thing to do is to play along. In several shoves, the table began to wobble as the storyteller pushed every last red cent of his plunder into the center of the table, his eyes gleaming with a sense of purpose," I suppose I'll go all in too, Mugov. I want my wedding ring you've been managing to hold on too," he said coyly.
The sell-sword chuckled softly as he watched Fibonacchi dangerously step into his trap and stared at his hand," Alwight, lets call em'," he said innocently.
Pouring his cards onto the table, Fibonacchi smiled," Four of a kind, and an ace of spades to boot!". Staring for some sort of tell on Mugov, the peddler scratched his head as nothing seemed but steely silence came from the mercenary's side of the table. Slowly growing red, the sell-sword slapped his cards down upon the table and bolted up from his chair, nearly knocking the wavering table to the ground. Coins of all kinds spilled from either side as the mercenary leaned low on the table, jutted a finger at his opponent and uttered words that Fibonacchi knew would seal his fate. Slowly, the peddler's thoughts began to drift back to his silent obsession, wondering if Saxon too would share a similar bitter end.
~*~
As Saxon stepped down the stairs two at a time into the basement of the mansion, the eldritch felt his side suddenly crackle with pain. Coming to a sudden stop, the weird lifted his spotted shirt to see the stitches gnawing at his flesh as his lungs struggled to gasp for air," Damn," said Saxon with a sort of finality to it. The sedative was wearing off, and that meant dawn was only hours away. Tearing a piece of cloth from his shirt, the only part of his clothing not made from the depths of Tsep, he wrapped it around his abdomen tightly. Checking himself for other wounds he gathered from the fight with the Sjaarg, the weird heard the echoes of voices from above, causing him to hobble down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
A foreboding, inky darkness overtook the eldritch, the Amalarj unable to adjust to the strange, murky shadows that had overtaken them. Magic!, the weird hissed within his head, a glimmer of hope that it would be over soon snuffed away. Not stopping to see the effects of the sinister smog, Saxon damned his wound and bolted down the stairs, when some cold, wicked tendril wrapped around his feet and caused the eldritch to topple over the edge, and gasped with surprise as he plunged end over end into the darkness below. Down and down he fell into the cultist's pit, his eyes trying desperately to adjust to his surroundings when suddenly he broke from the wicked haze into a singe of noontide light. Seeing the stony, dungeon floor rushing to meet him, Saxon felt the Fates' cutting his life-thread and tossing him to the creatures of the Underworld.
A spark of inspiration crackled in the eldritch's mind, and he struggled to focus while death was leering at him straight in the face. A burst of darkness from the stairwell above and below burst into action, gushing ahead the shadows weaved and caught the weird in a double bounce, his body falling through the darkness and hitting the cold, cracked ground with a loud smack.
" Arragh! Couldn't even do me the courtesy of lofting me to the ground!" Saxon groaned as he summoned all of his remaining strength to pull himself to his feet, swaying to his unusual height, the eldritch heard a whistling in the air above him and narrowly dodged the sporatic Syvriak as it clattered noisily to the ground. Well, whatever the hell is down here has probably damn well heard me by now!, the annoyed weird thought plaintively. Bending low to the ground to grab at his staff when it slithered disobediently ahead and a waft of rotten eggs caught the eldritch in the nostrils, causing him to crinkle his face in disgust. Rising his head forward, an antechamber bled into another humongous, suspiciously empty room. A long, thread-like pole extended to a golden demonic idol that sat at the end of the room, either hand raised to bear cursed, green flames. A withered figure squatted in a lotus position at the altar, facing the effigy of its God in divine fervor.
Saxon stood and began to amble hypnotically ahead, ignoring the shimmer of the floor in the ritual chamber. A feeling of foreboding sadness followed by rage welled up in the weird's ample heart, his eyes gazing at the shadowy walls in suspicion, his sixth sense picking something foreboding ahead. It wasn't until the eldritch stepped into the room that the cold, murky splash caused him to look down, his reflection rippling throughout the black, foreboding pool. The eldritch cursed as he heard the figure rush to stand, his stealthy approach ended with a frosty glare. The robed figure ahead of him pulled off his cowl, revealing a ghastly face bearing absurdly thick glasses reflecting in the strange water below. The cultist seemed to have withered from some sort of religious fasting, his face gaunt with hunger and pale as snow. The man slowly pointed to him, his rasping voice carrying atop to the vaulted ceiling," You do not bear Bahkthaal's grace, heretic!".
Saxon tilted his head as he looked back down into the strange liquid covering his boots as he contemplated the priest's words with caution. The weird was suddenly gripped with shock as a sucking noise sounded below him, his body being pulled into the murky nothing below. Saxon tried to turn to find some sort of ledge to lever himself steady with. But the void held a firm grasp upon its victim, refusing to let go. It felt as if hundreds of invisible hands clawed at his legs to bring him under, when a rasping laugh stopped his descent instantly, snapping his head up Saxon gazed in horror as the barefoot mystic hovered over the murky depths a few yards ahead of him, carrying himself with ease. It was now that the eldritch saw the gleaming sacrificial blade the priest carried in his hand, his malignant gaze freezing the eldritch in place.
" Heretic, you have come far, and I am sure my Bahkthaal would commend your efforts to desecrate this hallowed ground, and I am willing to bet in His fiery plane He will reward your efforts as He rends your flesh and crushes your blasphemous spirit!" the seer said with a sort of finality that fits a fanatic. Slowly strolling towards the weird, the priest gasped with laughter, only a few feet away, Saxon scrabbled to think of something, his left hand caught in the black, oily depths while the other hand hovered above the pools, emitting slight ripples as it tapped it gently.
Saxon watched his life-blood drip into the water, congealing into a solid mass instantaneously. Cackling the priest stopped, just out of his victim's reach," Ah, so you feel it already do you? Bahkthaal's death-grip drains the very soul out of the unbeliever," Raising his hands as if sensing the eldritch's forthcoming cry, his old cracked lips crinkled into a devilish smile, revealing rotten, pungent teeth," But not to worry, heretic. For the Shadow of The Pendulum may have use for you yet!"
As if on cue, the seer pulled the coveted pocket-watch from his robe and kneeled to dangle it in front of the eldritch tauntingly," The Beacon shall awaken our Lord and free Him from His prison, so that he may take His.. rightful place upon Althanas," pushing his knife attentively towards his victim, the weird was frozen in place as he watched the blade slip under the blood dripping from his side and let drops of living scarlet fall onto the blade hungrily until the priest pulled it away gingerly, opening the casing of the ebony watch and dabbing the blood onto its glossy face," Now this should be the Sjaarg's blood that should be freeing our Lord, but Bahkthaal knows that you must have slain the Ravager in order to get this far! So you're taint will have to do."
The paralyzed weird watched as the seer stood and began to turn as a familiar ancient, mystical wood shot down from the darkness and coiled around the priest's dainty neck and gave a crushing hold and lifted him off his feet, causing the seer to gasp for air. Saxon's hand snapped out, grasping the blade that fell from the seer's twitching lich-fingers. The serpent staff dutifully swung the fanatic in the eldritch's direction and released its hold. As the priest wretched as he fell, Saxon thrust the blade into the evil wretch's chest, puncturing his lungs, and silencing him forever. As the full weight of the priest fell upon the eldritch he felt himself sink further into the wet darkness, the realization shocking Saxon to the core as he was chest deep into the water.
With one last twitch, the priest's far hand let go of the precious watch and the eldritch cursed himself as he missed the watch and it plunged with a plop into the shadows below. Shrugging off the priest's body, Saxon roared in anguish. The watch was gone! As the weird gazed into the golden idol's leering face and conceded that the infernal creature called Bahkthaal was going to be free to roam Althanas.
The wet, slick surface began to bubble as the seer's corpse sank into the depths of the void. Jets of fiery ash burst from the bubbles as they popped and fizzed. Saxon's strength was being drained by the hungry, black nothing even as it seemed to eat away at itself. Frantically waving his hand in the air expecting Syvriak to wrap around his wrist and pull him from a cold, clammy death he felt a strong, familiar grip pull on his arm. Wrenched savagely from the pool, the eldritch falling to the ground, the sacrifical blade left his fingertips and skidded into the darkness of the antechamber. His eyes meeting the cruel, gray face of Krabek and the other cultists.
A fierce, fanatical look glimmered in Krabek's eyes," On your feet, Keeper!" he spat, the other cultists pulling the able bodied weird to his feet. The powerful scent of wine soaked linen played upon Saxon's emotions as he felt a rock-hard fist slam against his face, the other zealots holding him in place as Krabek dealt continuous blows until the eldritch lurched forward and spat scarlet spittle, retching. His face low to the ground, the weird gazed at the pool as it continued to churn," Saxon! Do you realize what you've done?! You've angered our God, you've ruined the ritual, and you killed the only seer in seven continents who is completely versed in Bejalrok!" bellowed Krabek as he kicked the weird savagely, his patience at the breaking point.
Gasping for air as his stitched wound came undone and threatened to spill his guts onto the cloth wrapping his chest, the weird gazed up at his hated enemy with calm azure eyes, rage dancing under the surface," You forgot one thing; I killed your jar-jockey!" and with that Saxon spat into Krabek's face, rewarded with a sharp right hook to the jaw.
The enraged cultist pulled the heavy blade from his robes, his savage, brown eyes dancing with madness," You've tainted this place long enough, Keeper. May your life-blood break the wrath that has surely befallen on each and everyon--"
An oily black tendril riddled with burning cinders burst from the void, wrapping itself around Krabek's chest and pulled the screaming cultist into the air, only to plunge back into the bubbling pit. Screaming prayers and oaths to their God, the cultists began to retreat, only to be snatched away by similar pseudopods, disappearing with loud sucking sounds into the void. Saxon, beaten and bruised was the only one to remain, those that escaped had their footsteps die off in the distance, wailing in terror. Slowly trying to stand at his feet, the eldritch fell to the ground with a smack, his wounds making movement impossible. Staring into the dark swirling pool as it ground and devoured its followers, the weird had given up hope when a sucking sound followed by a loud plop filled the air. Reaching the surface by impossible means, the watch floated inches from the weird's fingertips. Scraping for it, Saxon grasped its slick surface for a moment before it fell from his weak fingers and was pulled away by the swirling current.
Rolling his back onto the ground, the eldritch stared up into the darkness, his body failing, and his heart giving up all hope. Closing his eyes to give into the slumber with the satisfaction of witnessing Krabek's demise, it was interrupted by sudden, still silence. Opening his eyes the eldritch turned on his good side and gazed at the black, stagnant void as it sat still. Moments passed several bumps as large as a giant's thumb-print brushed the surface.
Something down there was alive.
Again it brushed the surface, first five bumps, then ten, sweeping the surface like a shark searching the water for prey. Unable to run, the weird could only watch in the curiosity shared by a man without fear as he watched death toy with him. Giving up interest as the void grew still again, Saxon nearly jumped out of his skin when orange dripping, molten fingers broke through the surface with a crash. Slapping each hand down upon the void as though it were ground, the hands pulled into wobbly, warped arms and into a twisted body. The head of the creature burst to the surface, an unspeakable horror. A gaping hole was all that was the creature's face, aside from nostrils and curved horns. The swelling hole produced real, jagged sharp teeth that snapped together horizontally. The hole devolved into a slit that soon cut into a better half of the creature's body. Faces of the devoured cultists were dotted throughout the body of the beast, screaming in some understandable torment, struggling to get free from their God.
Saxon thought of curses beyond the human dialect as he watched the creature slowly stop as it caught sight of the eldritch, something seemed amiss about the creature, it felt as if the God had formed inside-out, its swirling mass of a body dripping into the dark depths of the pool. Wading towards the weird with intent on vengeance. Out of the corner of Saxon's eye the gleam of the watch caught his attention. The object floating on the tide towards him, the eldritch caught it in the grip of both hands and howled in victory as he pulled it to safety.
The glossy black surface of the watch was drenched in the eldritch's scarlet blood. Feeling its soothing surface, Saxon stopped to look up at the creature, expecting it to flatten him, but on the contrary, the massive blob-thing stayed a safe distance away, its gaping mouth snapping loudly with hunger. In agony the eldritch brought himself to his knees and felt for Syvriak who slithered to its master and coiled in his grip. Picking himself up, the idea that caught Saxon by storm caused him to raise the closed watch to the face of the deformed God only to witness it roar and cover its face with its dripping hands.
As the eldritch moved his keepsake left, the creature moved right. Turning the watch in his hands, Saxon opened the cover only to see Bhakthaal rush him, hand in the air intent on wiping him from the surface of Althanas. In desperation the weird jutted the ward to face the creature, when the cold surface began to crackle with power. The front of the watch twisted and turned as the insides came to life, puncturing the glass a jagged metal spring expanding and uncoiling itself plunged into the beast. Radiating with power the watch's guts sprang out, wrenching, grabbing, and holding onto the limbs of the God. Roars echoing throughout the chamber grew as the creature struggled to get free to no avail. With a final motion the hand of the watch detaching itself and thrusting from the clockwork device, it grew to monumental proportions and impaled the abomination's chest, the arrow-like design catching hold.
Saxon was confused and unable to describe how his own keepsake, designed by his father, captured the creature! Suddenly the energy pulsing from the device seemed to implode on itself. The created vortex from the well of unspeakable power began to pull the howling beast and anything in front of the watch towards it. Teeming with resistance the heavy idol began to wobble as the vortex grabbed hold of it, unable to resist the gravity well it had been pulled into any longer, the idol fell forward and skidded across the mosaic floor, gaining ground the closer it got to the eye of the vortex. Picked off the stony ground it skimmed across the black, slick surface. Unable to see the idol behind it, the God tugged and pulled at his bindings when the golden effigy slammed into the back of the misshapen 'Bahkthaal' with a loud smack. It was the last push the watch needed to send the beast, idol, and all hurtling into the vortex.
Reinforcing his hand to stand up to the force the demon and idol pushed upon the watch. As it was sucked into the vortex, Saxon nearly fell over when the device's guts retreated back into itself and a stray molten hand sucked into the hungry ward. The clasp of the watch smacked shut and it wobbled and shook as it tried to quell the power of the God inside of it. Immediately the surrounding area began to rumble as the power that wrestled within the watch shook the entire mansion. Dust and dislodged stones fell from the ceiling, becoming engulfed into the black pool of the chamber with a loud sucking noise. Not sticking around to question his good fortune, Saxon turned and hobbled towards the antechamber. The wounds that ached and pained became the eldritch's last problem as the world around him began to crumble.
~*~
"Yew Listenin', Nachi?," the sell-sword roared at the despondent storyteller, his face turning a deep, flushed purple," I said I'm gonna kick yer teeth in, you cheatin' sonuva bitch!". Fibonacchi sat there, his glazed eyes wandering the crowd as he contemplated his inevitable demise. Slowly Mugov rose to his full height, and allowing the table to regain its balance. Jabbing a meaty finger at the peddler, the mercenary's pot belly quivered with movement," I'll see yew out in da alley, make sure to drink up, Nachi', yer gonna need the liquid courage!". With that Fibonacchi watched death slowly walk to the door, the crowd muttering to themselves as Mugov slapped the swinging saloon doors out of bitter rage.
Without warning the storyteller jumped to his feet, his hand sweeping over his corner of the table," Mugov, get back in here!" he hollered. Slowly, burning plush coals gazed from the other side of the saloon doors as the teal-coated trickster licked his lips," Cut of the deck, Mugov. Highest card wins."
Pushing the swinging doors cockily, the mercenary raised an eyebrow and strutted back into the room, grabbing his sweat-stained suspenders with a grin on his face," What are ya' willin' to wager, Nachi'?".
Casting his hand in the direction of the remaining plunder that had not been knocked onto the floor and pilfered by the hungry throng," All of it. Every last cent that I have," Fibonacchi smiled. His eyes glimmering with desperation.
Shaking his head, Mugov smiled, his puffy cheeks raising over his treacherous eyes," Ain't good enough, yew gotta sweeten the pot if ya' want me back to da table," the mercenary growled.
Holding his beloved wedding ring in his left hand and the copper chained watch in the other, the storyteller's gray-stained eyes danced," These too. Every last cent, Mugov. No tricks."
Smacking his porkish lips together, the sell-sword ambled slowly towards his hated enemy and stopped. He stood a head or two taller then the storyteller. Looking down on him, Mugov grazed the tip of the peddler's chin with his jagged knife," Still ain't good enough. I don't want yer damn money, I never did!".
Not blinking, Fibonacchi glared at his rival with a fire kindled anew," Alright then, Mugov, cut to the chase and tell me what it is exactly you want from me." The tension had begun to mount as the pair's fixed gaze was static with extreme prejudice. It had seemed like an eternity before the mercenary spoke.
"I want nothin' from you Nachi'. I've already got it," Mugov jutted a thumb to the doors to the pub and jeered," Once yew cross those doors, yer mine. No weaseling out of it, no where to run, and no where to hide. So quit yer grovelin', grow a pair, and step outside like a real man."
Dumbfounded, Fibonacchi was at a loss for words, his mind swimming in search for an answer. But, as the sell-sword lowered his wavering blade and started to turn away, the peddler laughed," What if I bet my life on this, Mugov? What would you do then?".
Freezing in place, the stunned mercenary slowly turning his head, his double chin wobbling as he considered the storyteller for a moment. Turning away, Mugov began to walk again," No way that'd happen. No one would be stupid enough to bet their life on a cut of the cards! Only a desperate, reckless fool with nothing left to lose would throw his life away!". The sell-sword's cuffed boots was the only sound in the room as he sauntered further away," Now com'n out and take yer lumps!".
Fibonacchi licked his parched lips once more, glowering in desperation," I am that desperate, reckless fool." like a broken record stuck on play, the sell-sword stopped again, turned and stormed up to the peddler his face a burning red as he dug his blade under his victim's bearded chin.
" I ain't fallin' fer your tricks again, Nachi'. I know what yer plannin' and it ain't gonna work. Now stop wastin' my time, before yew make me forget we're in a public place!" Mugov roared.
It felt like a play to the crowd as Fibonacchi stared dangerously into the mercenary's eyes. Pushing the blade away from his face, the storyteller stammered," L-look at this way, Mugov. You've already got me, but heres the thing. This pub is full of witnesses, and if I were to some how disappear, you would be rotting in a Coronian prison cell by the end of the month. I'm sure you've had your fair share of run-ins with the law, but I think you already know what Corone's government facilities can be like with the right conviction," Not letting the mercenary counter, Fibonacchi continued to speak in his sing-song, lulling voice," But! If I was willing to wager my life, in front of all these witnesses to a cut of a deck and I lost.. well.. it would be yours for the taking. Legal and all." Watching the mercenary turn the perverbial rock down the hill in his head, Fibonacchi watched with a keen, trained eye only one of his profession could develop. The crowd murmured loudly as they witnessed one man trying to bet his life on a mere cut of the cards.
Having mulled it over, the mercenary raised a wary eyebrow," No tricks?".
Swelling with pride the peddler feigned innocence," Why I'm hurt, Mugov. What do you take me for?!" But seeing his sarcasm lost upon the fat, portly sell-sword, Fibonacchi rolled his eyes and repeated," One cut of the deck. Highest card wins. No tricks."
Shoving his knife back in his belt, the mercenary plucked a cigar from his shirt pocket and pushed it into his fat lips, his tanned skin glistening in sweat as he jeered," Y'know, Nachi', I under estimated ya'. Yew are one crazy bastard".
Given the circumstances, Fibonacchi would've walked away when the card game was his. But knowing his life was on the line either way, he wanted at least a fighting chance. Cautiously extending his hand, the peddler's voice grew quiet," As a fox. Now do we have a deal?"
The mercenary looked about the sea of faces, their expressions varying from indifference to jittery. Catching the thin, pale hand in his meaty grasp Mugov nodded," We have a deal." But as the storyteller attempted to walk away, the mercenary held him fast," One last thing though. Yew ain't shufflin'."
In quiet alarm the storyteller nodded hesitantly and eyed his chubby pact-maker," Fine. But you aren't either". Nodding to each other in agreement the crowd released their pent up breath, the tension cut and the wager set. It took everything Fibonacchi had, but at the cut of a deck, he was going to see victory one way or another.
As Mugov took a different seat from a random table, and sat, the chair creaked as it gave a silent cry under its heavy burden," How are we gonna do this Nachi'?". Studying the talkative crowd, the peddler walked to a brunette girl barely out of puberty and put his back to the mercenary, their voices drowned out by the throng of spectators. Turning with the bewildered girl in his arm, she smiled weakly as the crowd cheered while she accepted the deck of cards.
Escorting the bystander to the table, Fibonacchi took his seat and smiled at her," All right miss, you know how to shuffle a deck of cards, right?". The teenager held the deck of cards to her heart and nodded timidly, wary that the sell-sword would make a grab at her. Seeing Mugov slowly stir at the proposal, Fibonacchi nodded," When your ready, lass".
Putting a clump of cards in each hand, she began to awkwardly shuffle the cards, laughing nervously she continued to cram the cards together when she felt a strong, meaty arm wrap itself around her slender hips and yank her to the other side of the table. As the crowd gasped at the display, Mugov grinned as he looked down at her," Do it over here, doll face. Where I can get a better view."
Nearly jumping out of the fat warrior's grasp, the girl resumed shuffling when she was again interrupted by the chubby interloper," Say, what's yer name, tootz?".
Slowly bubbling with teenage angst, the girl gazed down at the cards and whispered softly," Zoe". The men in the crowd hollered at the name, while Mugov sat with his eyes affixed upon the teenager, completely disregarding the peddler. Slowly the deck of cards came together loudly, the one called Zoe trying to inch away from the barley-breathed brute. Putting the cards on the table, she walked back hurriedly through the crowd and out the saloon doors in a mad rush.
The patrons, caught up in gossip were put into startled silence when Mugov slammed his blade loudly into the oaken table, spilling some more of the treasure trove into the crowd. Fibonacchi, silently watching the forced procession in a sort've tongue-in-cheek way. Beginning to reach for the cards, the mercenary slapped the peddler's hand away savagely," Naw. I'm not sittin' through one of yer tricks again, Nachi'. Yew picked the girl, I get the first cut!".
Fibonacchi's eyes grew dark as he gulped, his hand retreating back to safety. Proceeding with the ritual Mugov placed his hand on the deck and held his breath as he looked about the sea of faces. Gripping a half of the cards with plump, relentless fingers, the man broke the deck and placed it under the remainder. Face down the leathery, blue pattern seemed surreal in the storyteller's eyes as he watched the mercenary turn over the card gingerly. Grinning from ear to ear, Mugov smacked the table in hysteria," Ten of clubs! My ol'e favorite!". Regainning his composure, the mercenary glanced at the distraught peddler and nodded to the deck," Yer turn, Nachi'. I'm watching yer hands this time, and if I even hear a snap, that knife ovah yonder is going into a part of ya' yew like. Got me?".
The storyteller looked to be weighing the scales when he nodded, and carefully extended his arm over to the deck of cards, his pale, thin hand engulfing the mass of leather, each one like a part of the Fate's ample mind, waiting to be plucked. Following suit with Mugov, Fibonacchi cut the deck and stacked it under the rest of it. Taking a deep, long breath and trying on the warrior's thin patience, the peddler turned the card face up onto the varnished table.
Gasps of surprise and blank, silent faces exchanged looks as a single voice laughed until the person's face resembled a tomato as he gasped for air. Witnessing Luck bring his competitor to his knees, Mugov could barely hold his liquor. Holding the card high in the air, the mercenary giggled," Hehaha! That is rich, Nachi'! I felt a heart attack coming on, but a four of hearts? It just ain't yer lucky night, is it?". Harshly getting up from the table and knocking the chair across the floor, Fibonacchi backed away in a blind falter, his fate being sealed from the moment the card hit the table. Grasping his graying black locks poking out of his wide, cerulean hat, the peddler looked to be on the verge of a psychotic episode.
Mugov watched the peddler regain his composure with a loud, violent outburst and walk silently towards the table, the mercenary picked up a gold piece and flicked it in his direction with a powerful thumb and grinned candidly," Fer the drink yer gonna need. Yew go ahead and collect it while I scoop my winnings into a bag." Watching the quiet storyteller obey without question he added," And don' go runnin' away now. There ain't a God that can help yew if ya' try to welsh on this bet."
The crowd slowly began to file out, distraught by the coming end of a destroyed, beloved man. Sitting on the stool by the bar, Fibonacchi grappled with his demons over a shotglass of whiskey. Loudly the mercenary talked with individuals who had shared his point of view, brushing the loot gingerly into a giant sack used for flour. With the pub still near the brim, it felt like divine intervention when a small, stepping stool cracked against the back of a random patron's head. The arithmetic of doing such a thing in a bar cluttered with tense, angry drunks was mind boggling. The result sparked like wild fire, the patron knocked into another man who knocked into another. Pretty soon fists left their owners into random faces, and the brawl was on. Women and small children squeezed through the throng of brawlers like trapped rats.
Caught up in all the chaos, Mugov was knocked on his side by two wrestling drunks, and his bag of loot dropped with a loud, clinking thud. At the sound of money hitting the free-for-all part of the pub, the vindictive mob leaped over tables, hopped over chairs, and trampled others to the ground as they tore and wrestled an armed sell-sword for what appeared to be a bag full of plunder. Feeling his treasure lost anyway, Mugov grabbed the bag with both hands and wrenched it in the air, swinging like mad," Yew want my winnings? Then take em'!". Slamming the bag into the encroaching bland frenzy, the sell-sword watched one of the patron's fall to the ground, his skull cracking open like a melon upon a rock.
Pulling a lump of cold, useless pyrite littered ore in his hand, the brute grew purple with rage," Yew backwater, two-timing rat! Damn you, Fibonacchi!". As Mugov was engulfed by a vicious mob intent on seeking revenge, he looked to a bar that sat vacant except for the cursing bartender, a shot glass knocked over, dripping cold whisky onto the stained wooden floor below. Pulled under by the tide of angry spectators, the mercenary was in no state of mind to witness two vagrant shadows slip out the Silver Pub and leave the chaos behind to steal off into the slumbering city of Radasanth, a heavy clinking bag filled to the brim with hope, freedom, and especially treasure.
Hauling the loot upon his back and the girl called Zoe right behind him, Fibonacchi had never ran so hard in his entire life. Thoughts bubbled in his mind as he turned a corner about what would happen if Mugov caught him. Turning his mind's eye away from the possibility, the peddler huffed another block with Zoe following close before he encountered a winery called The Tangled Vine. Stopping to catch his breath, Fibonacchi noted that the door to the brewery had been ripped off its hinges, scuff marks on the wooden steps indicating barrels and crates had been shoved out recently.
Watching Fibonacchi slowly mount the stairs and gaze into the dark, ransacked building she whispered hurriedly," Wasn't this the hideout in your story?! The one with the cultists worshipping that Bahk-thing?". The storyteller ignored her and stepped over the door with loud, subtle creaks and gazed around him. The slow, silent dawn just off the horizon revealed two or three cloaked bodies crumpled on the floor with wounds obviously self-inflicted. The brewery, despite its recent pillaging, looked to have been out of business for years.
Pulling the sack further up, Fibonacchi tip-toed over the bodies and stopped, turning his calm, gray eyes gazed at the girl who stood at the threshold and sighed in frustration," Yes, yes it is the place. But these people are gone by now, take a good look at this place! See? Now lets get to the roof where its safe and I'll explain!". Turning and hearing light creaks on the heavy wooden door the peddler whispered," Good girl," and walked further into the dark, decadent winery into the storeroom.
Unable to see, the storyteller pulled a match out with his free hand and flicked it against the grain of a nearby column. Watching it catch fire, Fibonacchi looked about him, startled. More bodies littered the place, all with the same wound; a knife plunged into their abdomen. It must've been a slow, painful death, the peddler thought contently. The shelves that would have held the casks were bare, a feminine voice called out behind him," Why do they care about wine so much?". The storyteller merely shrugged and walked to the banister where stairs spiraled to the top of the dark, former fanatic stronghold. Fibonacchi slowly climbed the creaking stairs, the girl following obediently behind.
Cracks of light poured in from the wooden roofing, the only light source from further up. It was agonizing minutes of tripping over bodies and nearly spilling over the poorly lit stairwell until the storyteller ran into a barred door with a thud. Setting the bag of plunder down, Fibonacchi unlatched the rusty door and slowly pushed it open. A rush of cool, refreshing mountain air from the nearby Coronian hills hit the pair full in the face as they gazed at the empty roof ahead. Pulling the loot over his shoulder again, the peddler walked onto the chipped tarred surface and dropped the bag, smiling as freedom glimmered all about it him. Stepping over to the ledge facing the winding road where eventually the Silver Pub laid, the peddler smiled," Beautiful isn't it?".
Too busy to answer, Zoe was bent on the ground pouring the plunder onto the ground, scooping it into halves. Shrugging, Fibonacchi continued," I was afraid you wouldn't come through on your part of the bargain. Especially the bar brawl part.. eh?".
The shuffling of coins stopped and there was a gentle response," I kept my word with the promise of half of this. Besides, how hard could it possibly have been?". With no answer, Zoe looked to the storyteller who stood stooped over the ledge, gazing at the horizon. Rising to her feet from a cross-legged position, the girl walked over and leaned over the ledge to, her unkept, migrant brown hair wafting in the breeze.
"So you want to know why I picked this place right?", Fibonacchi asked keenly, already knowing her answer he pointed to the great hill at the outskirts of the city, where a cloud of dust and mass of rubble littered its otherwise green scenery. Lights from various buildings surrounding the hill had turned on and people were already out, staring up at the rubble, completely unaware of what had taken place.
Zoe gazed at the fallen mansion in wonder," He was actually there? Just now?!". The girl's heart fluttered as she thought of the reclusive eldritch, the sort of puppy love common for teenagers her age.
The storyteller smiled and nodded," Give or take a few hours, yea, he was here. But I suppose you have another question you want to ask me, am I right?".
The girl nodded and whispered secretly," How did you know he was there? Are you spying on him?!".
Fibonacchi gave a hearty laugh as he continued to look at the war torn ruin of a mansion, a certain mysticism hidden behind his gray-stained eyes," In a way I am, but I'm not really sure.. Saxon and I share a.. special connection, if you want to call it that". Watching the girl look at him in the kind of keen interest he often saw upon his own children’s' faces, the peddler grinned," I took it upon myself to share his adventures to the world, because he obviously wasn't going to tell. Besides, hes an eldritch, secrecy is his thing, understand?".
Slowly tearing her gaze from the storyteller to the rubble, Zoe had one final question on her mind," What happened? Did he escape with the watch? Or did he get crushed like a bug?!" she chattered excitedly, hoping to hear of her hero another time.
Pulling a roll of tobacco from his pocket, Fibonacchi lit it with a fine match he scratched across the stony ledge, his eyes gazing towards the blood stained sky. Upon the horizon the dull scarlet orb slowly dipped, meeting with the sun it gave a kind of blood orange streak across the sky. Attempting to access his vast memory for the final time this evening, the storyteller began to speak in his alluring, sing-song voice, allowing the mental picture and imagination in Zoe's mind to do most of the work.
~*~
It wasn't before long that Saxon realized what he had gotten himself into. Clutching the joggling watch that toiled away with the God locked inside, the weird staggered from the antechamber and into the center of the dark, rumbling stairwell. Rubble tore from the sky as the pillar cemented to the center of the stairwell shook under stress. When it rains, it pours, the eldritch thought quietly to himself as he studied the steps ahead of him. The smooth granite stairs that spiraled towards the surface were ruptured with holes and gaps as the mansion itself convulsed in its death throes. Hobbling with the aid of Syvriak towards the steps, Saxon felt the air cool around him, his senses tingling as the area grew darker. Without casting a provocative glance above, the eldritch leaped instinctively to the side, nearly crushed by a man-sized chunk of marble that rippled the stony dungeon floor below it.
Resting safely under the shade of the winding stairs above him, the weird felt a blinding pain in his side. Holding the staff in the crook of his arm, he dabbed his pallid hand in warm, viscid blood that seemed to seep out of his bandage from his gaping wound. It was the worst pain Saxon had felt in his lifetime, and he wanted nothing more badly then to find a physician to treat the wretched wound before it festered with disease. Slowly the rumbling of the entire stairwell was drowned out by a grating noise from above him. Feeling the shadows upon him darken, the eldritch felt his feet leave the ground as darkness roused from the shadows, pushing him out of the grisly scene below as the lower level of stairs crashed to the ground.
Having landed on the stairway two levels above the ruins below, Saxon spent no time doddling and continued to limp to the world above him. There was a certain rhythm to the shaking, as if two giants were wrestling in the city and both kept trying to get each other into a half-nelson. Something about this escape seemed too easy as the eldritch turned once more about the spiraling staircase. With the exception of the occasional blood curdling scream from atop, the cult seemed to have scattered from the mansion like cockroaches scurrying from daylight and into the cool, safe darkness under someone's sole.
Continuously looking down behind him, the eldritch's head smacked against a thick, ebony surface that hung above him. Rubbing his head, the eldritch gazed overhead to see the oddity. The ashen smog spawned by witchcraft seemed to have finally had a purpose after all. Without warning rocks and debris came crashing through the barrier into the darkness below. The weird ground his teeth as he stared in ire at the blockage before him, his powerful reflection cast in its shiny surface. Not to be daunted by the obstacle, Saxon held the watch, cover up, towards the sky and had instant results.
The barrier slowly began to curve towards the watch's magnetic hold, as if it were a cap being spun inside of a metal tube by a gush of steam. Not waiting to witness what the devil's smoke would do next, the weird had turned and hobbled down the stairs two at a time when he heard a violent scrape against the stony wall. Turning when he was a safe distance, the eldritch watched as the polished, black surface flipped like a coin caught in a bottle, revealing the ashen, opaque haze that had hounded Saxon only hours before. The steps the eldritch had previously stood upon had been sheared off, revealing moist, ground soil that poured without resistance into the abyss below.
With no where to run, Saxon placed his focus into the darkness around it, prodding it to life. Obeying its master, the amorphous, black substance scurried to the eldritch. Obeying his conscious orders, the shadows slithered upon the weird's back and formed four spindly, spider-like limbs that spanned over half the width of the stairwell. Not waiting to be crushed like an insect, Saxon dived off the safety of the stair case only to have the four limbs catch hold in the masonry above, causing the weird to bob. Looking above him and stuffing the rippling watch in his coat pocket, the eldritch firmly grasped his staff in two sweaty palms and climbed quickly into the haze above him.
Knocking aside any whistling debris that might send him into a fatal fall, the eldritch felt his eyes useless as the cloud grew thicker the farther he clawed into it. Hearing a deep whizzing above him, indicating the mass of the wreckage plummeting towards him, Saxon felt a cold flash graze his face as the shadows surrounding him ran defense. Going about this for agonizing minutes and feeling his resolve beginning to dim, a burst of daylight caught the weird suddenly about the face as the barrier left him and he plunged from the haze onto the shiny, basalt surface once more.
The gush of blazing light caused the shadows around the eldritch to dissolve or retreat into the safety of the shade, leaving its master to his own devices. Feeling the central pillar that had guided him all this way, Saxon staggered towards the stairs and continued his climb, the surface only a few yards away. Up, up, up the eldritch went until the ground before him leveled off and the tight cramped space bled into the ruined solarium. Looking about him bodies littered the ground around him, all of them the malevolent cultists who waited aptly for their lord and master only to be cut down by the chaos below.
Circling the expanse of the Hell he had just escaped, the weird ignored the crumbling ceiling and walked onto the quivering pillar where the lurid blood let symbol stared up at him. On intuition alone, the eldritch turned Syvriak upside down, the coiling staff unfolding its head, revealing two writhing, pronged tips. In a last act of heresy, Saxon plunged his staff into the symbol, hearing it click as it accepted the key. Turning Syvriak in his hands, the eldritch felt it ease and jerked to the right. With a low, unearthly growl, the steps heaved themselves back in place, filling the demon's face and into its curved horns. With a gush of dust from the demon's jeering lips, the rumbling stopped, the watch growing still as the God within finally conceded to its imprisonment.
Gazing upon the ruined mansion before him, the luxury and rich feeling shattered like glass, the eldritch still did not feel satisfied. Walking across the scuffed marble floor, slaughter and ruin spanning around him. Stepping into the threshold of the door where the cultists had dragged the fallien prostitute to be gorged upon by the murderous ravager known as The Sjaarg, Saxon didn't look back. Slowly, shadows around the estate quivered and roused again by some mysterious force within the realm of Tsep. Slowly ambling down the dark hallway, Saxon did not take notice to the darkness that began to thrive and cling to every surface it could get hold of, crushing it in it's grip.
Leaving a path of destruction behind him, Saxon staggered through an expansive ball room, littered with even more bodies and luxuries the eldritch knew he would never experience. Tearing down the walls, upholstery, and ceiling around him, the darkness followed the eldritch until he met the door. Placing his hand upon the silvery knob he gave it a turn and pushed the heavy, stain-glassed door open, blinded by the morning light. Slowly the blazing sun rose to bear witness to one of the buildings of Radasanth, rich in malevolent sin and lavish temptation, crumble in on itself. Feeling the strange, alien power that bathed him for the first time, that had taken hold of him from a source he knew not of, fled back into the depths where its master lay dormant. The eldritch never looked back as the seemingly innocent ivory estate was pried open by the evil within, revealing its secrets for the entire world to see.
~*~
Zoe whistled in awe as she listened to the ending, her eyes gazing upon the mansion with a sort of dedicated malice that one could only find in children. Fibonacchi gave one last puff of listless, gray smoke and ground his cigarette into the ledge, his insomnia finally starting to wane. It had been a long, toiling night and the peddler was on the verge of collapsing out of exhaustion. Glancing at the blazing, morning sun, the storyteller winced, Daliya is going to kill me!. Still resting in his stooped position, Fibonacchi rose and nodded to Zoe," I'll take my share and scaddadle, I've got an angry wife awaiting me when I get home, the sooner I get there, the more likely I'll get to keep my scalp," finding the girl quiet as she still inspected the mansion intensely, Fibonacchi patted her on the shoulder and turned," Later, kid. Thanks again for pulling me out of that jam, sleep well". Hearing no response, Fibonacchi sauntered to the center of the blacktop and leaned over to the sack of gleaming, unprotected loot.
Hearing the distinct clinking sounds of the peddler rooting around noisily through their plunder, she turned," Mister Fibonacchi?". Watching him too caught up in his thoughts, she repeated even louder," Fibonacchi!".
Turning on a coin, the storyteller gazed at her with a pensive look," What is it, kid?".
Pointing in the direction of the estate, Zoe whispered quickly," There are people going into the mansion!". Turning her back to the peddler abruptly, Fibonacchi pocketed his wedding ring and the brass watch he had pinched from some big-wig and rose, walking with a quick pace over to the ledge, and peered into the ruins. Suddenly catching sight of several shadows walking up the beaten, cobbled road into the darkness of the ruin, the storyteller brushed it off.
"What about it? They're probably just two-bit grave robbers going to pick over the rui--," Fibonacchi was cut off by the sound of a foreboding gunshot ringing in the distance, suspicions immediately crinkling his aged brow. Turning on his heel, the storyteller shook his head," We shouldn't be watching, kid. Whatever is happening there is none of our business!".
Bubbling with frustration, Zoe caught the retreating peddler's hand and shouted," How could you say that?! After all you told me, all of us, about Saxon, about everything! You're not even curious about the people?!".
Although Fibonacchi indeed was, he wasn't about to fall into another deep hole he had dug himself into. Slapping her hand aside, the peddler's eyes narrowed," You don't want to go dabbling in Saxon's affairs. Hearing them is one thing, but I've been on the wrong end of that stick once, and it ended up nearly getting my head lopped off. Trust me when I say this Zoe, nothing about Saxon is safe. Ever". Abandoning the girl to her own foolish fantasies, Fibonacchi retreated to the treasure and began to collect his loot when he heard Zoe loudly storm towards him. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as he piled his share of coins into his cerulean, rain-stained coat, he stopped," What?! I have a family to feed, and I'm not about to go throwing it away on a hunch and especially when it concerns that eldritch!".
It was as if the storyteller had watched himself betray his very inquisitive nature in front of the adolescent, but he brushed it off. Daliya won't take me back a second time if I get chest deep in this shit again, the peddler tried to reason with himself. It was apparent that the battle inside of Fibonacchi could be seen, because Zoe began to play upon it," You know we should go look, Fibonacchi. If somebody innocent died, Saxon killed Krabek and his gang off for nothing!".
Slowly the storyteller rose, his gold-heavy coat weighing him down as he slung it over his shoulder. Having had to keep this secret from his children for the same reason, Fibonacchi nearly kicked himself for having lured Zoe into the same trap. Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder he spoke somberly," Zoe, I will tell you one last time, Saxon's business is not to be meddled with. There have been people over the years like you who have taken up the idea of following him around and uncovering his mysteries, and they all died. Horrible deaths. Every one of their bodies I've found, even if its been by coincidence. Zoe, I'm begging you as a friend, do not go to that wretched place. You. Will. Die". Ending his last word with fatherly emphasis, Fibonacchi rose to full height and looked down at her to see if he had finally quelled the bubbling curiosity within the girl.
Glaring up at the peddler with fury, Zoe strode angrily to the remaining treasure, stopped for a moment, and began to walk towards the door. Stopping at the threshold, the girl glanced at the storyteller with malicious eyes," Your a coward! Mugov should've cut you down where you stood. I'm going to the mansion and I'll find out what's going on, Saxon would want me to!". With that the girl stomped off down into the creaking steps, leaving her companion to his own thoughts.
Having encountered this many times, Fibonacchi grew angry with frustration, tears bubbling in his eyes. It was not often that the storyteller had shed a tear, but knowing of what will come to pass, the peddler began to walk with shame and stepped over the teenager's spoils with whatever honor he could muster. Disappearing into the darkness, the peddler had not the heart to follow Zoe to her doom, and he wouldn't dare tell his wife of what had come to pass. For some reason, Fibonacchi knew that his wife would have taken his children and left him if she knew what he was allowing to happen with another of his recollections of the elusive eldritch.
~*~
When Saxon had left the ruined mansion, he had thought it would've been abandoned, decadent, and whatever ate away at it would have buried its despicable secret from the world's eyes. But, whatever it was that had pulled, devoured, and ripped the estate apart left it in ruins. Despite the destruction that had occured the night before, five jagged edifices dotted around the estate, appearing to be profane, pearled fingers that enclosed upon a ruined bauble that was the solarium. It was as if Althanas itself wouldn't let free whatever it was that lurked just beneath the surface of the strange, archaic symbol that laid sealed upon the chamber's marble floors.
Whatever the eldritch's wishes may have been, they were not carried out as a group of figures cloaked in trench coats and broad-rimmed hats, their intentions all but innocent, wandering about the estate. Moving about the ruins as the sun hung high over head, the figures stabbed at the crumpled robed figures with collapsible pikes, their interest seemed to be only information. People who had wandered to the ruins were hauled away from the far side of the hill where suspicion arose while others thought there was a pile of corpses, their eyes not worthy of seeing the shaking truth. Amid the shade of what was left of the roof, beady red eyes glared down upon the group, watching them work and its hunger unsated. An agonizing cry bounced off the walls of the solarium, the attention of the strangers drawn towards it like ants to a dying carcass.
Pulling a cloaked figure from the rubble, two of the men dragged her towards across the symbol, her blood trail smearing the demonic symbol she considered to be reverent. Wailing and sobbing as her broken legs wobbled and weaved across the ground, hitting bumps and rocks until she was dropped with a thud. Standing silent and sentient, the men gazed forward. Slowly the girl turned to find a man with a bowler atop his head meeting her gaze. Wicked hazel eyes sitting atop horned rimmed glasses stared nonchalantly at the fanatic from a deep, hooked nose. The man appeared to be amused at the sight, his rusty lamb chops twitching as his face creased into a smile. Again, the woman couldn't look away from his gaze as it seemed to bore into her very being. Smiling, the man kneeled down at her, pulling up at her chin with care," Yaani isn't coming back, Gilda".
Gripped with shock as the man clad in a brown, plush suit read her thoughts, she spat at him," Bahkthaal damn you, heretic!". Wiping his face daintily with a scarlet kerchief he pulled from his suit pocket with care, he never lost his smile. Continuing to follow her eyes, the man seemed to be reading her, his face testament to the power he held over everybody in the room. Slowly rising, the man pulled a revolver from its holster, his men holding the fanatic steady as she squirmed, pressing it to her forehead he jeered.
"Gilda, you have just done your country a great service. I thank you for your testimony in the matter at hand, and I assure you that we will bury you with your beloved," with that the bewildered cultist's eyes rolled back into her head as hot metal tore through her skull and into her brain. Crumpling like the others, the fanatic died with one last, fervent thought. Keenly losing the smile upon his face, the leader cleaned off the end of his gun and shook his head," A dirty business patriotism is these days, if only everybody would be like Gilda and be honest with themselves they wouldn't have to go through such ugly torture," placing the gun back in its holster the man glanced towards his compatriots," Take her body to the pile with the others. When we're finished here, burn the entire radius and make it look like an accident".
Completely obedient, the pair nodded and kneeled to grab the heap and hauled her away from the feet of the strange, wiry man. Turning to hear a muffled cry, the man was met by a pair of hooded twins who carried a kicking teenager between them, stopping a few feet of way the first one huffed," Found her hiding in the brush, m'lord. She ke--".
The first twin trailed off as he heard the leader tap his shoe, his eyes narrowing. Dropping the girl the two bowed low as they slammed their hands to their chest," Our apologies, m'lord".
With a perplexed looked upon her face, the brunette girl looked about her, her mind abuzz with questions until she meet the same terrible eyes locking onto her gaze. Kneeling down to her, the man smiled," Hello, Zoe".
Black with panic, the girl stammered," H-how did you know my name..?".
Holding his glance at her he leered," A lucky guess, Zoe. My name is Jericho Caldwell. I am the head of a very special organization that is trying to get to the bottom of this and I have to ask you a question, one of great importance," seeing his grip finally upon her the mysterious stranger tipped his bowler up with a thumb revealing waves of gentle, amber hair," Who did this?".
Before the girl could answer an animal-like roar ripped through the air, causing everybody to glance up in surprise as a great albino beast sprang from the roof, claws outstretched and leaping towards the leader with blinding speed. Rolling out of the way as the horror landed to the ground, Caldwell watched as the twins fall back while one of them was caught in the monster's terrible grasp and brought him off his feet. Reaching for his blue steel revolver, the leader nearly jumped when a shot rang out, the bullet whistling as it tore into the beast, causing it to be caught off balance. Again and again shots rang out until the beast collapsed into a heap, its captive choking as he landed, air flooding back into his lungs.
Not turning, Jericho laughed as he put his weapon back," Good show, Faust, consider your pay doubled!".
Breaking from her captor, the teenager tore off into a run, Zoe passed the corner only to feel cold, clammy hand placed over her mouth and pulling her close to the wall. One of the strange men following in pursuit continued to run down the path and into the brush. Glancing up, the teenager saw Fibonacchi's caring face, a finger hovering over his mouth. Slowly they slinked off to the edge of the ruin and broke into a mad dash down the hill.
Followed by his men, Caldwell stopped them with an arm and watching the two refugees disappear into the forest and into the city below. A new recruit spoke up," Why are we letting them go, lets get them before they escape!".
Not turning, the leader who was far shorter then any of the henchmen around him, he shook his head," Don't you know the saying, Dane? You catch far more flies with honey then vinegar," smiling he turned," Besides I already know who was behind this, the Dadghaal were to be brought to justice today by my hand, and my hand only".
Retreating back into the ruins Jericho finally felt like something had been accomplished today. Halting to see a trail of blood where the beast had once been, the man tilted his head in wonder as his eyes slowly wandered to the ghastly symbol that seemed to jeer at him. One of his men rushed to him and shouted," Your orders, sir?".
Taking his eyes from the symbol he pointed to it," I want to know what that is, cut it out and bring it to the boys in the lab. Also, red flag the name Saxon and see what they can dig up". Dashing across the room in a mad hurry, the henchmen was quickly forgotten as the one called Jericho placed his gloved hands behind his back, his eyes transfixed upon the symbol intently trying to learn its secrets.
~*~
Feeling the afternoon sun upon his back, Fibonacchi walked with his coat over his shoulder. Having to sacrifice all but a couple pockets full of coins, the storyteller kept telling himself it was the right thing to do. If he hadn't caught up to the girl, the peddler knew she would've been cut down where she stood. But, being in the past, the storyteller threw the concerns away, the draw to sleep becoming his overwhelming need. Turning a corner into his neighborhood, he saw a crowd gathered at his doorstep. What now? I'm not selling anymore today, the weary peddler thought adamantly. Gradually coming upon him like a tidal wave, something felt terribly wrong as members of the crowd turned to look at him, their faces stained with tears. Dropping his coat, the storyteller rushed toward the crowd, breaking into a mad dash. The crowd parted as Fibonacchi ran wildly on, his thoughts abuzz of what could've happened next.
Stopping, his face gaping in horror, the peddler looked down in shock. Sitting on her knees, a plump brunette woman Fibonacchi knew to be his wife held their dying child in her bloodstained arms. Collapsing to his family, the storyteller whispered weakly," No...no..no. Not Sally. Wake up, wake up!".
The scene all surreal to him, Fibonacchi began to feel hot tears run down his cheek as his wife turned to him, her eyes red as she reiterated the tale to him," ..She called out your name just a few hours ago, she wanted her doll. Remember how your the only one who can find it?", hearing her husband's stony silence she continued," Then a man came, a fat one, he looked as if he had been through Hell and back. He heard Sally call out your name..and.. and..he killed her!" Still clutching her still daughter, Daliya held their child between them and buried her head into Fibonacchi's chest.
Fibonacchi grew hot with anger, his eyes glancing at the ghastly wound of his daughter, and slowly pulled the familiar, grizzly knife from her heart. Placing his hand over the chest that gushed red with blood he whispered," I should've been here," feeling his eyes moisten at the grim irony he repeated," ..I-I should've been here".
Rocking back and forth the storyteller felt his world crumble around him when only a few hours ago he had been standing atop of it. Slowly picking her head up from her husband's chest she glared at him as she sobbed," Where were you, Fibonacchi?! We needed you!".
Pushing them back, the peddler felt time slow as he got to his feet, his gray linen shirt wet with hot, sticky blood. Grasping his black-gray locks in his hands he gazed up into the heavens and felt Fate deal him another choking blow. Turning, unable to face what he had done, Fibonacchi broke into a run from the scene, stepping over his coat he continued to run until he was but a smote in the distance. Slowly ambling down the stairs and down the sidewalk to where his father's coat lay, the little boy picked it up and stared down the road where he watched his father dash away from him and his family.
~*~
-- Three Weeks Later --
Hobbling down the same road he found disturbingly familiar, Saxon glanced up at the crescent moon as it hung jeering at him. The eldritch had managed to find a doctor who he found out was from Alerar and had never heard of a Salvic cult, for he had checked twice. Patched up and with more then two weeks bed rest, the weird had wandered about Radasanth in search of answers. The watch that sat in his pocket was quiet, the strange feeling of power missing as if the God had finally snatched it away. The ebony sheen of the watch seemed to have seeped back into where ever it had come from, revealing a shiny brass coating. It was unlike him, but Saxon asked around for the one of the leads he could find; Illumi.
The word seemed alluring and mysterious, and no one seemed to have recognized the name. The town had been repopulated with the Strange as they broke out of the woodwork, the Sjaarg no longer an issue. All of them held mum, even at the threat of disappearing, for it was their way to keep the weird guessing. But somehow through divine favor one that looked to be bound to a building, its face made entirely of rocks told him of a merchant that sold unearthly wares on the other side of the city. Having made the journey, the eldritch learned from the man that Illumi wasn't some where, but someone. Having only the location of desert of Fallien under his belt, Saxon had turned to leave when the merchant ribbed him with his cane and said:
"Strange One, you possess something that shouldn't be. What it is cannot be said, but think of it as a being held in a prison like a cantaloupe in a bowl. My friend, though it may be contained, it occasionally stirs and its power dribbles from its prison, seeping into reality and those around it. It will corrupt you and twist you until you are its pawn, Strange One. Cast it away. Cast it away before it is too late!".
Having shunned the warning with a curtly nod, Saxon took the advice with a grain of salt and took his information back to the inn he had been staying. Hearing a few days later that the store of the strange merchant had been burnt to the ground, the weird could only suspect the worst. Knowing somebody was onto him, Saxon had checked out of the Silver Pub and investigated his other lead; The Tangled Vine. Having found the bodies cleaned out and the store in ruins, the weird journeyed to the rooftop where it had laid untouched. A pile of various coins and assortments had awaited him and he felt as if he had seen it all before until he caught sight of the ruins upon the hill. Taking the money as a settlement for his trouble, the weird didn't stop until he had walked upon a street that caused him to feel great sadness.
Now stopping as he felt eyes upon him, Saxon turned to see a little boy clutching a stuffed bear staring at him, standing upon the stoop towards a small apartment. Nodding to him in respect, the eldritch continued on only to hear the child call out to his father. The weird had ignored the statement and turned another corner until his face was caught in torchlight. Feeling around in his pockets he pulled the watch out of curiosity. Looking at its new brass sheen, Saxon turned it lightly in his hands, the weird stopped as something caught his eyes. Slowly in the shine as the brass met the torchlight, the eldritch could make out a ghastly face jeering at him, following the shine of the keepsake and disappearing back into its prison. Hearing the merchant's warning echo back in his mind, Saxon finally nodded in understanding. Placing it back in his pocket, the weird slowly walked down the road, Syvriak clacking as it hit the pavement. Slowly the tapping died away as the weird disappeared back into the darkness, where for the first time in weeks he felt at peace.
Spoils:
Eye of Bahkthaal: Having captured the demon-god in the keepsake his father built, the watch seems to have gone back to the brassy sheen the weird once remembers. Whatever purpose it serves, the weird doesn't know. But occasionally a strange force comes upon the eldritch rendering his control over the darkness to increase 1.5x his normal power. Somehow though, Saxon suspects the watch expects a terrible price for its gift.
Storm Veritas
06-20-07, 08:32 AM
This is a long quest, and took me a long time to read. It was worth it – a really tightly written story that held my interest the entire way. Using dual stories is sort of a hackneyed, often misused gimmick, but the way that you interlaced the stories and created so many parallels between the torrential trials of Saxon with the game of poker were really thrilling.
This story really has a tremendous start, and although the ending is sound, it has the feel that the premise for the quest and the starting mechanisms were much more skillfully thought out than the climax areas and the ending. The quality of writing remained fantastic through the thread, with only a few errors (“your”, where “you’re” should be, for example) that wouldn’t normally be caught with a simple spellcheck.
STORY
Continuity: 9 – This category is the “when” of your quest. These are almost free points, and you didn’t do much to change that. I haven’t read much else by the Saxon character, so there weren’t glaring anachronisms here within your character’s story. I would have liked a little more background at the get-go from your main character.
Setting: 7– I’ll start with what I didn’t like – the introduction of Saxon / weird / eldritch. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on there. Your intro to the story was very sound, but they were such bizarre characters that it took me quite a while to catch on.
When you were good, you were fantastic. The single thing that you do best is set a stage, and describe action. Your use of analogy referring to real-world descriptive events is far more effective and entertaining than the seven-syllable thesaurus abortions that often come down the pipe. Keep up the good work there.
Pacing: 7 – I think your efforts here were fantastic, which is why I give you a 7, but it is one of your weakest categories in that the constant shifts from plotline A to B and back were not always done at the best times. There were some places where you had great momentum in a storyline (particularly in the earlier phases of the card games, which were brilliant) where I would have liked to see you carry that momentum forward a little more.
CHARACTER
Dialogue: 8 – Could be better, but most are worse. I think Mugov really started to annoy me after a few lines – he became fairly predictable. The thoughts of Saxon, the words of Fibionacci, and the peripheral characters vacillated between effective and excellent.
Action: 8 – The death of Fibionacci’s child made Saxon’s last stance anticlimactic. The action in the Saxon threads were much more entertaining, and you weren’t gratuitous with violence. While I may question the actions being driven by illogical thought (Mugov’s decision to get ethical at one point and challenge Fibionacci to a formal fight, and then turn around and murder a baby), the raw, pulpy action was great.
Persona: 7– Hit and miss. Fibionacci was a tremendously deep character, both the hero and the villain. Mugov was very flat, fairly boring, very predictable. Saxon was fascinating, much more noble, but tough to follow. You created some real impressions on these characters, and didn’t force the reader’s opinion. As I read this I could really form my own thoughts about the characters (especially Fibionacci, who I found the most interesting), and really enjoyed that.
WRITING STYLE
Mechanics: 10– Given the difficulty of such a dual-layered thread, I gave you a ten. This isn’t to say it is flawless – there were a few really petty errors in grammar – but on the whole this thread was executed in a master stroke.
Technique: 9– The use of those metaphors / analogies still stands out as just a brilliant move here. Love that.
Clarity: 8– A few points docked here, too, for Mugov’s irrational decision making process. That really grinds my gears. Given the complexity of this story, I still feel you did an outstanding job making this as clear as possible.
Wild Card: 9– Less than perfect, but nonetheless outstanding. I will nominate this thread as a candidate for a Judge’s Choice.
Final Score: 82
Saxon Receives 850 EXP and 200 Gold, as well as the Eye of Bahkthaal.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.5 Copyright © 2024 vBulletin Solutions Inc. All rights reserved.