Cortés Shrugged

[Vigil]

(Open to those who registered as survivors in the recruitment thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=22166). Those making cameo appearances must have their ideas discussed and given the greenlight by me before posting. All bunnying in this thread has been preapproved. Powergaming has also been explained and will be dealt with internally unless otherwise specified.)

"My lord, you have become fatigued, you have become tired: to the land you have arrived. You have come to your city: Mexico, here you have come to sit on your place, on your throne. Oh, it has been reserved to you for a small time, it was conserved by those who have gone, your substitutes... This is what has been told by our rulers, those of whom governed this city, ruled this city. That you would come to ask for your throne, your place, that you would come here. Come to the land, come and rest: take possession of your royal houses, give food to your body."

- Said by Moctezuma II, ruler of the Aztecs, to Spanish conquistador, Hernán Cortés when welcoming him and his fellow Spaniards to the city of Tenochtitlan.


FOREWORD

On June 5th, 1926, on an eerily cool and placid morning that followed a week of inexplicable gales and savage winds from the West that caused the seas to rage under perilous and awful storms, God came to Corone. Unlike the Bible had told us, He did not descend from the heavens upon a mighty chariot to cast Judgment upon us all, or under the guise of Angels seeking to test our faith, or in the presence of His humble and wretched Son. No, God Himself chose to come to Corone and cast His eyes upon His Children that fateful day and did so in a way many would dispute to be deliberately mundane in order to conceal His arrival from those that would wish Him harm.

God came with His followers upon immense and terrible black ships from the West that morning and did so upon calm seas. Fishermen already at sea who sought to quickly salve a week of terrible seas and poor profit with that of a great catch managed to be among the first to witness the queer vessels as they arrived and made their way to the land's most prominent harbor, Perigue. These men who cast their nets at the sea, a superstitious people who knew not what these ships contained gazed upon them with immediate suspicion and did so dubiously as they noticed the black ships themselves were inexplicably alien to any kind of conventional design that any would consider normal or at all human.

The ships were awful leviathans that seemed to cut and tear through the water rather then glide upon it, and whose dark, stained sails bore a symbol drawn upon it in what many suspected to be blood, an ominous sign many would learn to belong to our one and true living God. Still, the ship was propelled forward also by mighty oars and the sound of whips and awful screams could be heard over the incessant, baritone chanting among the ship's slaves that kept them in time with the beating of mighty drums. These vessels carried with them a bloody history and those who hazarded a glance at it knew immediately that these ships were not the vessels of queer merchants from Fallien, or the harbinger of an invading armada of Alerarian ships.

No, these ships were something far more terrible and its inhabitants would prove to be a crucial ally to those they befriended, and an awful adversary to their worst enemies.

Soon, God and His ships arrived at Perigue and were moored at the docks. Onlookers could only watch and those that deigned themselves to be among the Navy or officials in customs houses were stricken dumb as they watched the alien vessels and their strange inhabitants wet their feet upon Coronian mud. The sailors themselves looked to be protomen or people of a forgotten and long bygone era that had long surpassed the world more then a millennia ago. They wore terrible and sharp pointed hats cast scarlet and were dressed in all manner of strange clothes, but many simply wore loincloths and walked upon bare feet.

They were of dark complexion and bore no similarity to the black desert dwellers of Fallien, but were instead a people of a different shade of brown. They had beaked noses and strangely clean faces for what looked to be a group of savages, and their hair was strangely well kept. Their eyes were coloured red with irises slightly too large to remain unnoticed. Though there were few women among them, these travelers from the far West walked about with their countenances exposed and bore little regard in how those at the harbor or their own men saw them.

These ugly people were the first to be loosed upon the shore from the mysterious ships, which immediately took to the docks and mingled about, chirping and clucking in a loud and indiscernible tongue. But, when the next of those who inhabited the ships took to the planks, these sailors immediately fell to their knees and pressed their faces to the ground at the howl of a long and horrible horn. Strange, tall figures that stood several feet taller than that of the savages found the docks with an entourage in tow. They were dressed in robes made of cloths found to be iridescent, but one could recognize as shades similar to that of azure, emerald or crimson, depending on where the light hit it. These figures looked upon their subjects with disdain, but looked far more queer and alien then that of those that held them with such reverence.

They stood far taller then any men any Coronian had ever seen, but their height might have been added to the fact of their strange, tall headdresses that they walked precariously to keep aloft. They were also terribly thin and emaciated, looking as if they hadn't eaten in months. However, whatever evidence of their condition might have been revealed by their faces wasn't permitted as all of them wore strange meshed veils that covered the entirety of their faces and left only pallid noses and strange, awful red eyes for all to see. Their gender couldn't be discerned as much of their appearance remained hidden, and their frames too stark and alien. These tall creatures of a higher race also led slaves by thin rope who were similar to the savages but were both emaciated and none of them bore the strange, pointed hats of their brethren.

But, however unlike these strange holy men were from the savages, they also were the only ones who bore weapons. Brilliant swords that looked to be like that of scimitars and were gargantuan in appearance to accompany the creatures who looked to stand as tall and thin as lampposts. But, as the procession of giants moved to the dock, guiding their weak and pitiful slaves to shore, it wasn't the last in the queer meeting of invaders. The tall creatures made it to the end of the docks before they pulled their slaves forcefully and kicked them to the ground before making long, elegant bows before the newest visitor of Corone as he took to the shore to the sound of horns and the thundering of drums while his entourage remained respectfully quiet to his arrival.

Our God called himself Sidalurum, and was a young and beautiful man whose very appearance glowed with charisma. Immediately upon the sight of him or hearing his tender voice, a noticeable and fiery yearning caught onlookers. Hunger. Lust. He was desired by both women and men, and if those who witnessed the procession had taken any great care in their observations, they would have noticed the amount of care the sailors and giants had taken to hide their eyes and cover their ears in the presence of their God.

Immediately, onlookers found themselves moving strangely forward as a hunger grew within them that wasn't there before. A desire to be with the God and to consummate his new arrival. His entourage carefully made way for the Coronians who stripped themselves and ran to the young God who greeted them with a warm, melting smile and a tender voice. His very words soothed them and seemed to abate their lust as the men and women of the Harbor, fell to their knees and pressed their faces to the ground like that of the savages. Naked, and their minds furious in the desire to be with the God they could only listen as he stepped past them and made his way to shore. There would be time for such matters later, he had told them. For now, he wanted to meet the people and find his new throne. He had come to stay.

Soon, news spread of the arrival of Sidalurum and his followers and it spread through the harbor like wildfire. Though he would leave with much of his arrival soon after he left his ship, the young God's very presence seemed to infect the people of Perigue. Those who talked of him were hungry to be in His presence and gain his affection, but soon found their lust turned to one another. Love filled the air and permeated the harbor as men and women of Perigue writhed and held each other in such passion they had never quite experienced before. It was as if the very presence of such charisma had caught the people unaware as they caressed and loved one another. It came to them by the sight of him. The sound of him. The very smell of him. They wanted to know Sidalurum. To taste him. To hold him and show him how much they yearned for him.

In Perigue the first orgies caused by the young fertility God came in full sway, but it wouldn't be long before such people found that their lust couldn't be satiated without the blessing of Sidalurum himself. So, within days upon hearing he had made for the capital, Radasanth, the people of Perigue abandoned their homes, their jobs and their very livelihoods to venture after him in search of finding a way to satisfy their hunger.

However, that same day God had arrived upon our shores, he had stepped from his ships and made his way along the winding dirt roads, gathering followers all along the way. Eventually he had come to the mighty city of Radasanth, and like so many people before them, the city's citizens fell to their knees in reverence of the God who walked the streets and talked to the very same people who he would deign as his subjects. That same day that Sidalurum came to Corone, he had conquered it. Dominating it with Love. Soon all of Radasanth would know his name and lust for one another in response to an alien hunger of sexual desire that carried itself upon the wind by word and by blood.

However, as Sidalurum came to Corone, made his way to Radasanth and journeyed to its center where he proclaimed his throne, a temple in his honor would quickly be built by his followers in an effort to please him. Within the week, everybody in Corone had heard of their newest God and were eager to meet him, making the long pilgrimage across the savage countryside. Within a month, there were orgies in the streets and people were busy trying to satisfy their carnal desires that they couldn't bother with matters of business or state. Soon all manner of outside trade had diminished and Corone became closed from the outside world. While word had spread that an emergency coalition of Corone's neighboring forces formed a blockade quarantining the country from whatever mysterious pestilence it had succumbed to, the Coronians remained ignorant of it.

Within the month, Sidalurum had greeted Radasanth's magistrate, the country's Barony, and attended extravagant parties thrown by members of the upper echelons of Corone's Empire. At his word and eager to please him, the people of the Empire readily disbanded their military and dissolved their government in favor of an absolutist theocracy. After all, what need was there for men of State or of Arms when Sidalurum was there to tell them what to do and to protect them from the outside world?

Soon, a virulent peace overtook Corone, and conquered the island in less then a couple of months, managing to outdo all of the country's adversaries in their attempts to invade the country and make the island their own. Sidalurum became our religion. There was no need to bow at the altars of Christ or pray to Thaynes or consult the Pagan Gods. They were in our prayers. Sidalurum is here. He had become our protector and our lover. He had become our one and only desire. Though it hadn't been easy. There were riots as fires consumed Radasanth and violence and much bloodshed came from those that resisted. But, eventually they would yield. They had to. Sidalurum was a God after all, and his word was absolute. But, those that resisted contended with the faithful that Sidalurum brought nothing but pain and pestilence with him, and his very presence was a drug that would consume us all. Those cries eventually died out to the sounds of shrill and definite passion.

However, he would only be a harbinger of Corone's eventual doom. For a far darker and irresistible hunger was about to take root and turn us against one another for a very different purpose then sex or desire. It was the same, simple desire that we shared with beasts and our pets.

In a word, we would begin to prey upon one another and eat each other for food.

[Vigil]

(Present day. Est. November 29th, 1926.)

The decaying remains of a city that once teemed with life, Radasanth lay bare for all who chose to look upon the ghoulish and abominable results of a people who had made contact with a God, let alone a living one. Marred and irrevocably harmed by the destruction and damage caused by the early riots at Sidalurum's first arrival, the ruined metropolis was unrecognizable in its state of disrepair and utter wreckage. The cobbled streets were stained with blood and littered with all matter of refuse and debris that had fallen from the remains of buildings and the hands of the people that once resided there. The city, once a bastion of the Empire and the island's beating heart of trade and commerce, was scathed and blackened by the fires - spilled by the strife and struggle against the God and his new followers - had consumed much of the city, only sparing the city's center where Sidalurum's followers were quick to put out the flames and save the most desirable parts of Radasanth for the decadence of the God himself.

Few buildings still stood, and those that hadn't been gutted by the flames of the all-consuming fire had been carefully searched and made barren of food, ammunition and all matter of supply necessary for an urban survivor and those who sought to overcome the perils of the city to scavenge. However, unlike the worshippers and conclave of Sidalurum's new flock which were numbered in the tens of thousands, only a meager handful of survivors that managed to resist the undulating temptation of a terrible and contagious form of love that seeked ever more to find a way to spark that hunger. Still, the human refuse that was left without God or country had to contend with a city that no longer belonged to the dead, but a writhing, rotting corpse that now teemed with its dark inhabitants.

But, it wasn't a fight that could last forever.

Or so Liam Duigenan and his enclave of Catholic cabalists had chosen to believe during the first dark days of Sidalurum's arrival. The desire to believe that such unspeakable horrors the Irish had saw as harbingers of a coming apocalypse would have some sort of end was what had driven them to do what they did in the first place. It was the hope that let them sleep at night, or to break bread with friends and family knowing that all storms, even the most profound and terrible, has a desired end. But, much like the end to such suffering they wanted to see and their lives restored, that hope died in the long, and arduous months of Sidalurum's reign.

However, Liam begged for the ignorance his brothers and sisters enjoyed after all he had seen on the surface. He yearned to return with his men to Ashbury Square and to St. Sedna's Cathedral where they would journey into the bowels of the church and seek reunion with the faithful who had been left sealed away in the large, cavernous vaults the Irish had built during the Coronian Civil War as a shelter in case the fight between the Empire and the rebels had been taken to Radasanth. Luckily, such use to wait out the onslaught of brothers slaying each other in a struggle to control the nation beneath bloodied soil had never been necessary. Until now, when the entire congregation and populace of Ashbury Square had locked themselves away during the first dark days of the God's arrival whose presence they saw as a pretext of the coming apocalypse.

However, the urge to tell his comrades that their search to an end was in vain and to return home was almost too much for the old man to bear. It would be too easy to lie to his men and his people. To lock themselves away for an eternity waiting for an end those beneath the surface believed would never come. But, the only thing that kept the old Irishman going wasn't his enduring faith or rabid conviction. To Liam, the only thing that kept him going was the sight of his hot, fetid breath and the numbing cold that caused his old bones to ache.

Where Man and God had failed, Liam now knew Mother Nature would prevail. Once during the day, the old man had paused with his men on an unfamiliar street to see the naked remains of one of the Coronians gone savage clinging to the steam grates for warmth. Upon further inspection, the group of Irishmen discovered he had frozen to death. The old man's hope had been restored not with a bang or a triumph, but a cold snap and the signs of Corone's first frost.

***

For many days, the band of Irishmen had journeyed over and under the ruins of Radasanth and it's outskirts in a search for answers they had risked so much in coming to the surface to find. Moving from building to building, and from street to street, Liam and his men never lingered for long in the fear that they might be spotted, or a pack of snarling cannibals had caught their scent. Still, they persevered in their efforts to uncover the black, insidious remains of the story that had unfolded while they and the Irish had found refuge beneath the surface.

The story wasn't an easy one to ingest, either and frequently Liam had found since he had been topside that many of those lesser men among his party who felt their prayers unanswered and the doom before their eyes too much to bear, often deserted them in the night. While others had been preyed upon by the wilds of the urban jungle or others fell in their scrapes with the fanatics for survival, the one sin Liam could not abide by was cowardice. With nearly half of his men eaten or having vanished in the safety of the night, Liam had taken it upon himself to demonstrate his conviction to the bond that brought the men together and show them the burden all of them must bear by making an example out of the last person who attempted to flee their company.

As the old man guided the group of Catholic men down Easter St. as the sun began to fall beneath the oily horizon, he could remember the man's muffled screams. Feel him struggle against his brothers as he writhed in agony and caught the stench of burning human flesh. Only once did Liam spare a glance behind him where he saw James covering the rear with rifle in hand. Only once could the old man look upon the man's brow and see where he had taken the hot iron he had pressed to his flesh and branded him with a cross so that he might never forget where his loyalties lie and be reminded in his darkest hour who his brothers really were.

It was law among the holy order issued to them by Cardinal Joseph Gomall, the highest ranking member of the Catholic Church in Corone, or Althanas for that matter, that no Irish blood ever be spilled by that of another Irishman. The blood was too precious, and the original pilgrims were too few to risk losing it to such petty matters as fratricide. To do so was to invoke the wrath and certain vengeance of his brothers. Standing there with pistol and brand in hand that accursed night, Liam broke that oath by branding the would-be deserter and swore openly that he would shoot any man he saw attempting such cowardice again. It worked.

But, whether his men were now more afraid of him then the fanatics, he couldn't discern. He knew, however, from their silence that his dark secret would be kept in times of such peril and ruin.

Eventually, following the safety of the shadows and dodging the attention of unwanted eyes until the threat of impending dusk approached, Liam directed his attention to shelter lest he and his party find themselves exposed to the dangers of the night when the fanatics were most apt in absconding with unscrupulous survivors. However, as the group of survivors found themselves haggard and tired from a day's worth of close calls and near misses, they were not able to avoid the attention of a throng of savages who had stalked them for nearly an hour before they caught them unaware.

[Vigil]

(This is a hasty post and lacks a lot of detail, but for the sake of getting this train fucking going, I'm moving it along. Been reading too lovecraft I suspect, but don't worry, this is all about shaking the rust out.)

There were five of them in all; nearly the strength of Liam's entire party or nearest he could tell when they had ambushed them. It had been during a lull when the men lingered in an alley for a break amongst the refuse and debris while one man, Nathaniel, had paused to relieve himself against one of the nearby walls. A momentary lapse in judgment led them to believe such a place with only two entrances and a choke point would make it remarkably easy to defend. What they hadn't considered, however, was to check to see if anything was hiding amongst the mounds of garbage.

While Nathaniel sought polite cover of the nearby trash to squat, another man by the name of Douglas had gone off to have a cigarette while charged with watching the entrance they had just gone through. Though they were aptly supplied and well armed, these men were of no military mind, but were men of family and of God. How could they see such a folly in separating in a maze of trash while leaving the bulk of the group to converse quietly in the center of the alley?

They realized their jeopardy when they heard the sound of disheveled garbage, a snarl and the shrill scream from the direction Douglas had went followed by the crack of his rifle. Rushing to their companion's aid, most of the men left Nathaniel pulling up his trousers and reaching for his rifle. However, in the rush, the young Irishman failed to hear the sound of trash being sifted from behind him and only when he heard the inhuman growl of a man from behind, did Nathaniel turn around to see the vacant stare of a young man with bloodstained, dirty blonde hair looking at him, slobbering with anticipation to catch him unaware.

Nathaniel died with naught by a whimper as the young, lithe cannibal sprung from the trash and latched onto him, tearing at his neck with such savagery that blood spurted from the wound and covered both youths before either had fallen to the ground.

Meanwhile, Douglas found himself lucky to have been in the presence of such reflexes that when a cannibal had tried to jump him, rather then pausing to shoot him, the Irishman grabbed his rifle and clubbed the young woman who had tried to sneak up on him. The loud crack of her skull against the heavy maple of the rifle's buttstock knocked her in a daze as the Irishman coldcocked her. It was long enough for the Irishmen to gain a proper handle of his weapon, stock to shoulder and his finger against the trigger before he blew her brains out with little hesitation. Once a former militiaman, Douglas wasn't going to be taken down so easily like one of his brothers.

"Contact!" He yelled, cupping his hand over his mouth to shout over the breeze, rewarded by the sound of footsteps thundering after him. "Contact!"

But, as the men rounded the corner, leaded by James who had proven a might touch faster then Liam, a fanatic who had perched himself on top of the gargantuan mound of trash leapt and had taken the Irishman by surprise as two more sprung from the garbage like their brother in an attempt for an easy meal. However, unlike James and Liam who had been assaulted from above and Nathaniel who had been caught quite literally with his pants down, these three men had been armed and alert. Reaching for the throat of a big, fat man Liam knew to be Donald who owned a butcher shop back in Ashbury Square, the cannibal fell easily as the big man buried his hatchet into the throat of the creature and grabbed him by the foot, hurling him with all his power to the ground so that he could finish his grisly work.

The other cannibal who had left the safety of the trash where He and the others had buried themselves in haste only minutes before their arrival, had met his end at the hands of young Dr. Jonathan Ward, who had had the time and forethought to push Liam out of harm's reach and squeeze his revolver in the same motion, catching the fanatic in the chest right above the left lung. Ducking in time for the fanatic to hurl himself over him, the doctor turned and shot the cannibal twice in the back, only pausing to make sure he was truly dead.

Whether it had been through the fortune of making a man out of James or his fast reflexes, Liam was able to pull out his pistol when a word of warning caused the other Irishman to turn around and catch the side of the fanatic's jaw with his fist, knocking him head over foot in Douglas' direction. Though he had been fast to recover, Liam was faster as he pointed his pistol at the cannibal who had once been an old codger ten years his senior and buried a slug right above his left eye.

The fight was over before it had even begun, but as the Irishmen paused to collect themselves, they couldn't account for one member of their party. Rushing back to look for Nathaniel, they were rewarded by the grotesque sounds of ghoulish crunching as a young, lithe man with blonde, bloodstained and dirt-covered hair stooped over the remains of the dead Irishman, feasting on his entrails.

"Oh my holy God.." The doctor had muttered as he paused to make a sign of the cross while the others could only look on in horror. It was James who had raised his rifle and began to move towards the cannibal with a look of icy revenge cast upon his face.

"No." Liam said, staying his hand and risked his ire as James looked upon him with anger. "We're down a man and this one looks to be healthier then the rest."

"What?" James sputtered, "You can't be serious?! He's eating Nathan! By God, what man are you to stay God's wrath to help this ghoul?"

Liam looked at him balefully and replied coldly, "Careful how you speak to me, brother. I was the one who saved you from the Devil's temptation and ill judgment once before.. or lest you forget?"

Feeling the scar upon his forehead begin to burn in a mixture of shame and heated emotion, the other man yielded and stayed his anger with a sheepish reply, "Yes, sir."

"Now then," The old man said as he gestured for the pronged pike, "Let us see how else fortune favors us today."

Moving closer to the cannibal who had remained ignorant of the reproach that awaited him just from over yonder while too busy consuming another hapless victim, Liam crept quietly with pike in hand as he snuck up on the youth. Peering over the trash long enough to see the back of the young man's head and the grisly remains of one of his men, the old man didn't hesitate in what he was about to do as he raised the pike and roared.

The young man moved quickly as he heard the cry from behind him, but with nowhere to go and an adversary so close, all he could do was look up and turn as Liam thrust the pike forward and caught him by the throat with enough force to knock him back into the wall. Snarling and reaching up savagely at him as he pushed and squirmed to get free, the cannibal was defenseless as Liam pushed down on the pike and forced him tighter against the wall with much more strength then any man of his age should have to bear.

"Swiftly!" Liam roared from behind him, "I have him!"

James and Donald moved at his beck and call as the Irishman wrestled with the cannibal to keep him under his thumb. Surrendering the pike to Donald only when he was sure the big Irishman had a nice and steady grip, Liam moved forward and bent over onto his knees, catching a savage look from the cannibal. Upon further inspection, like so many times before, Liam found his eyes to be vacant of any kind of humanity and as he snarled and gnashed his teeth, the old man smiled softly. "Don't worry, boy. It isn't God who grants you mercy from your torment today. It's me."

Dousing a rag with ether, Liam whispered a prayer before shaking his head. "I wish there was another way to do this, boy. The last one I tried this on nearly bit me, and the others I've killed from using too much force. But let's hope you're strong enough to endure what I'm about to do you. Perhaps, you can say, this is a work in progress."

As the cannibal snarled and squirmed while snapping his jaws every time the old man grew close, something about the rag caused the fanatic to grow dizzy every time it came near. And eventually, when his vision became blotted with colors and began to waver he was rewarded a sharp pain when his head cracked against the wall when Liam thrust the rag into his mouth. However, whether the beast could recognize the faint garbled words being said or not, the last thing he heard before he surrendered to blackness was the sound of the old man, invoking the name of the Archangel, Michael.

[Sulla]

Madness. As pure, unfiltered and numbing as a river running off a snow capped peak. There was no color, sound, smell, nor feeling outside the realm of the depraved and wicked impulses that dwelt below the depths of man's soul. They were primal urges which smashed the fragile crystal of the mind and reflected untold times over the malicious disregard God had for mortal men; his lethargy contrasted the bitter fit for survival his unwilling converts faced daily in the streets. But his ill-timed decadent feasts paled in comparison to ravenous orgies of flesh that spilled over into the city. Craven, lustful beasts took on human form with no regard for society, piety, or fraternity. When sexual gratification could not quell the slow and silent growl of intimate connection, than the more drastic measures began. Sulla remembered all too well, but every memory was frayed and torn like the victims in them. Images and a warm flush to his face. The passion was intoxicating, the hunt was invigorating, the kill was titillating, but the communion of two souls was unsettling.

As Sulla lay deep in thought, he could not shake the uneasiness the hung around him. At first, he thought his empathic abilities to observe the feelings of others had managed to survive the withdrawal of his mind. But even after the spell was broken, an unmistakable emotion was present. It was faint, a flickering light in abyss that was the hitman's heart. But it was there; he was responsible for every act of carnal carnage. Every kill had connected him with his victim, but no blood money had ever made him feel the ever haunting essence of regret.

”Damnably God.” It was an almost inaudible whisper, but he knew someone sat at his fetid bed side.

“You're awake,” said a powerfully grim voice. His eyes still closed shut, Sulla could only envision the specter he spoke to. The sound of soft laughter entered the endless dreamscape of the killer's mind. “What do you know of God?”

“In principio creavit Deus caelum et terram. Terra autem erat inanis et vacua et tenebrae super faiem abyssi...” His voice was clear, analytical and monotone. “...and so on,” before it broke into drowsy delirium again. In his youth, his parent's tedium and affluence allowed Sulla the pleasure of reading even the most obscure texts. A Vulgate bible, from a world where trinkets and travelers were many, found its way into his library. He'd even seen a priest twice out of morbid curiosity at a religion founded on its prophet carrying the weight of man's transgressions upon his shoulders. But God's son did not die for everybody's sins, Sulla realized that quickly.

Unable or unwilling, the killer's eyes remained tightly bound to the guise of sleep. The still, calm quiet in the unidentified room heightened every echo and subtle creak in the floor boards. Rotting flesh and ammonia subtly permeated throughout the room as the trip back into consciousness arrived on schedule. As his eyes opened, the dank attic room around him told a story. A tannery was below, the foul stench too strong for even fanatics to poke around him, while hiding any suspicious hints of cleanliness or sanity that clung to the survivors. Leather hides adorned the walls and ceilings, covering the decrepit state of the wood that made up the small enclosed building. It had survived raids by being so wretched, and lived through the blazes because even fire would not touch so sore a sight. Yet to the desperate, the building was a last bastion to hide them from the forlorn future that lay outside in the chaotic streets. Sulla's eyes met Liam's then, and the killer caught the full vestige of the raptor-like features and sullen aura that clung as tightly as Laim's wizened face.

“What do you remember of the spell you were under?” His tone was as serious as death, but Laim's strong accent fascinated Sulla more than the words.

What he remembered was tracking a target to Radasanth just before God's arrival, some young bride running away from an arranged marriage. The plan was set down perfectly, and had the strange curse not floated onto Corone's shore, the assassin could have been gone within a days times. But rumors of the debauched docks caused enough of a panic in the streets of the city for Sulla to think it sensible to hides his knife and personal journals; buried deep beneath an oak tree in a long forgotten garden. By the time he was finished stashing everything, the curse took hold. As Sulla lay on that straw mattress, his exposed showed recent scars. As the lust took hold, the killer did his best to stave off the urges. He retreated deep within his mind only to find, time and time again, that his conscious wanted only to love and be loved. Drastic measures were taken, and during the first week of Sidalurum's theocracy, Sulla used the precious lamp oil he'd found to heat up blades and nails to shock his system into compliance. The pain was meaningless, he only desired control. That first week was a Phyrrhic victory, and it ended as they all do.

“I remember too much.” Another brief pause before, “thank you.”

“I saved you for a reason.” Stern, powerful, Liam rose and began to walk out the door that joined a larger room, where his men gathered to guard the attics only true entrance, though enough windows were of proper size in the event of a hasty retreat. The killer noticed a small pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and dressed into the neat black suit as quickly as possible. Now and then, he could feel the looks of Liam's comrades that found him suspect. Cramped and nauseated, Sulla moved to leave and paused only a moment to stare at a metal bucket that lay bedside. It had blood around the rim, and no doubt served the dubious purpose of holding the last remains of Nathaniel.

Regret. It reared it's ugly shriveled head again and brought a friend, gratitude. As the killer followed Liam's example, he was greeted by the emotions ranging from revulsion to outright hostility. The large space, housing piles of pelts and lit only to the bare minimum, witnessed an awe-inspiring sight. His eyes met Liam's, and without the slightest hint of humor, asked if there was anything to eat.