The Key Beneath The Doorstep. (Solo w/ Cameos)

[Lye]

The Key Beneath The Doorstep

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Gorian'fel – Little is known about these mysterious creatures. Their social structure, breeding, and origin have baffled scholars across Althanas. What little is known, pertains to their habitat, diet, and basic anatomy. The Gorian'fel is assumed to be a nocturnal creature, for the only recorded sightings have been at night. These sightings also seem limited to the Coronian reigon, specifically the Concordian forest.

These massive, bear-sized beasts also are subterranean, making them exceedingly hard to hunt and locate. Much like ants, the Gorian'fel will create a series of underground tunnels for which to dwell. Currently, only two of these structures have been found and explored. Both structures were found abandoned and located only when reports of massive sinkholes had claimed travelling caravans. The larger of the two dens was measured to span several acres under the Concordian Forest. The full extent to which these tunnels reached could not be determined due to multiple caved in routes or root overgrowth.

There exists some knowledge as to what the Gorian'fel hunt. They seem to be carnivorous, and are suspect to be responsible for missing livestock of nearby farmlands. These beasts also seem semi-intelligent, for the caravans lost to the abandoned dens were devoid of horses and humanoid remains. Extensive blood was located at both scenes, assuming that the Gorian'fel may have used older tunnels to hunt by creating pitfalls, then consuming the trapped victims. Occasionally, travelers have remarked to have found similar trenches occurring throughout Concordia, though no remains have been found. Overall, evidence is sparse, and it is difficult to conclude true hunting methods and diet.

The most interesting trait found by those fortunate enough to slay a Gorian'fel, is their innate ability to resist any form of psychokinetic effects. Those that own just a piece of their hide can block mind reading, nullify psychokinetic attacks, and even hinder abilities controlled with the mind. Furthermore, excessive amounts of the hide can induce headaches, migraines, psychosis, paranoia, and other crippling mental defects. This can only imply that these beast have limited telepathic powers and use such for survival.

Much is still unknown about the Gorian'fel, but any adventurer unfortunate enough to meet one in the Concordian woods should not engage them…

“Is that you m’ Lord?”

The master assassin, Lye Ulroke, slammed the weathered tome shut with a plume of dust. “Yes, I was just gathering some intel on my next excursion.”

Rays of candlelight danced through the gaps between tomes and stacked shelves of The Order’s Vault. The shadows scurried around until his inquisitor stood in front of the assassin, lantern in hand.

“It’s nearly high moon,” the shriveled old man began. “Nothing good happens in the dead of night.”

Lye gripped the book in his gloved hands, and a faint scowl could be seen in the flickering glow. “This happens to be true, for I am up to no good, Corvanik,” the assassin reassured while sliding the tome into the lone, dustless crevice. The exiled Ai’Brone monk frowned at the response.

“Hopefully, this won’t result in another messy revival?” Corvanik prodded.

“Let us both pray it does not.” The assassin placed a hand on his obsidian leather vest - a place where gruesome scars dwelled beneath and ached with memory.

A silence befell the two in the musty darkness. Their lanterns flickered toward one another, and a battle of shadows continued upon the numerous aisles of stories, secrets, facts, and records. Corvanik let a sigh escape his lips.

“Where shall I inform Miss Noir you will be?” he inquired, defeated in his attempt to garner more information from his superior.

“No,” Lye snapped, “I do not want her or anyone to know where I am going.”

The assassin bent over to retrieve his lantern from beside his bladed boots. As he raised it from the ground, wisps of platinum hair became enlightened from the darkness. Two narrowed, emerald eyes sparkled in the flame’s dance, and his hardened features became exposed by its light. Now revealed, the monk could witness the fierce determination his lord possessed.

“I see,” the elder spoke with an audible disappointment. “She will know you have left whether I tell her or not.”

“That is fine. If you must tell her anything, you may tell her that I will be collecting a gift for a friend,” Lye stated vaguely as he brushed past his Ai’Brone counterpart.

“A gift for a friend?” Corvanik repeated in complete bewilderment, trailing behind the fluttering of Lye’s crimson scarf.

“Yes, someone whom I owe a surprise visit. Someone that is not easily surprised…”

“You don’t mean –“

Lye gave a push to the oaken door that sealed their vault, and Skavia’s chill of winter rushed over the assassin’s venomous smile.

“Yes, Sei Orlouge,” he stated darkly.

[Lye]

The sounds of wooden cabin wheels against cobblestone streets filled the midday air. Warm rays of light beat down upon the transport wagon filled with about a dozen passengers. Various colors of cloaks and robes jostled in the breeze of the wind and shake of the road. Idle chatter competed with the merry chirps and songs of Corone’s wild avians.

“Are we there yet?” whined a small elven girl to her mother.

The woman smiled and pulled her daughter close with a laugh. Although the appearance of a seven year old, the elf child was more than likely over twenty years of age. There was no father present, eluding to their destination being where he would reside. Beside the familial couple sat two broad shouldered orcs. Their ivory tusks were apparent beneath the shadows of their robes. Large, crudely crafted weapons stuck from their backs and the two remained hunched without a sound.

“Hey, check it out!” sounded off a teenager in flashy armor. He pointed to the looming, watch towers swiftly approaching. “It’s Underwood!”

“Dude, calm down,” voiced his companion. “Keep standing and shouting like that and you’ll tip the cart.”

“This is where The Ixian Knights and Coronian Rangers hang out!” he continued without a thought to his partner’s words. “Man, I can’t wait to join one of them.”

“Yeah, yeah… How about you use your fancy new equipment on the field first, ace?” another soldier in more seasoned armor remarked.

“Hey!” the novice barked back before slumping back in his seat with arms crossed.

“Arriving in Underwood!” shouted the driver as he cracked the reins.

All but one man cocked their head toward the massive wooden entrance of the city wall. One towering wooden gate, barred with planks of iron and gigantic bolts hung high above as they passed underneath. The whispering cacophony of busy locals began to grow to a roar. Just within the weathered walls, the wagon turned abruptly into a sparsely populated clearing. It came to a stop where similar vehicles loaded and unloaded various types of cargo.

“Welcome to Underwood! Now get a move on,” the driver bluntly stated as he turned his sun burnt and balding head toward his passengers. The cold businessman's stare offered silent, yet aggressive encouragement to his words. Gathering their things, all but one abandoned the cart and joined the sea of bodies moving to and fro.

“That means you too, red-scarf. Wasted daylight is wasted gold. Git!” he encouraged with a shooing flick of his hand.

Two glints of deep green flashed at him through the shadows of a black hood, and the driver stopped dead in his tracks. The straggler said nothing, but let his silent threat take its toll before breaking the gaze and dismounting the cart. The inconsiderate wagon master shuddered his whole body as if possessed by a chill. Then, he spun around and snapped the reins.

“Erie fellow…” the stranger heard as the distance between the two grew.

With two gloved hands, the enigmatic soul gripped the charcoal hood and cast it free from his head. Locks of white spilled from its contents and settled around chest length. His twin emerald eyes, one of which possessed a scar from the brow to the cheek, scanned the rolling masses of Underwood’s streets.

“Now if I were a Ranger, where would I go to relax?,” Lye thought to himself as the warm, Spring sun teased at his face.

As if on cue, a loud crash sounded with boisterous laughter in its wake. The assassin’s attentions turned toward the racket and caught a glimpse of a drunkard in uniform being forcibly ejected from a large building labeled, “The Lazy Lumberjack”.

“Perfect,” Lye commented aloud. He smirked beneath his crimson vlince scarf and carried his steps in that direction.

[Lye]

He may as well have been a ghost. As he stepped into the pub, past the slurring drunkard that was recently cast out, Lye witnessed the masses partaking in song, drink, and good company. Soldiers in uniform locked arms with tankards splashing about as they rocked in unison. Their rosy cheeks and slurred words did not do their song much justice. Those who were not in uniform followed similar behavior. Men used liquid courage to encroach on the ladies, and women used their false confidence to string them along.

A phantom in the maelstrom, the assassin needed someone of sane mind to interrogate.

"Welcome!" shouted the gruff and rolling voice of the bartender. It was faint over the roar of shenanigans, but Lye was used it as a beacon in the storm. He took care maneuvering through the patrons, but his best efforts could not avoid the occasional splash of neglected drink or bump of distracted customer. Still, he manage to arrive at the one peaceful island in the storm where the staff was in control. "What can I git fer ya?" the Dwarven tender asked.

Lye took a seat at one of the empty stools. "I'll take a Raiaeran Red in a horn if you have it."

"A horn, eh?" the Dwarf asked with a cracked smile. "Not many folk still drink from horns. I like yer taste, lad."

The assassin's face remained stoic to the compliment, and the barkeep abolish his smile to match. As the assassin fished for the gold pieces needed, the Dwarf busied to ready the order. Lye snapped three coins on the weathered counter top, and the drink soon followed.

"That all I be fetchin' fer ya?" the bartender asked, snatching up the gold with a massive, leathery hand.

"Yes," Lye uttered through his scarf. His Dwarven counterpart replied with a twitch of his unkempt beard, then gave the assassin his back. "Unless you deal in information as well..."

The Dwarf froze in his motions as the sound of additional gold hit the counter. Nearby patrons, swollen with ale, also turned their attention to the sound.

"Information you say?" He turned to the inquiring assassin with the cracked smile renewed. "Depends on what yer lookin' for."

The assassin laid out an additional ten gold before him to which prying eyes fell upon. In addition to his displayed offer, he motioned the bartender close. Reluctant to heed the stranger, the Dwarf grew rigid but still offered his ear.

"The Gorian'fel," Lye whispered. Immediately, the Dwarf pushed away from the counter with brows pressed together in confusion and concern. "Where would I go about getting the information needed to encounter said creature?" the assassin asked louder. The other listeners joined with confused expressions, for they only made out bits and pieces in the thunderous racket.

"I don't know why ya would want to seek one of them," the Dwarf added.

Lye lifted the horn of Raiaeran Red to his lips, pushed his scarf free of the vessel, and sipped the aromatic, scarlet wine. Five more coins dashed to the counter, and stern eyes remained locked to the barkeep.

"Hmm," the Dwarf added with a scratch of his wiry beard. "I can see yer serious 'bout this. I don't know much 'bout the animal you seek, but I know damn well a lone man is lookin' at suicide huntin' one."

Lye remained silent, but pushed the fifteen coins further toward the informant. The bartender sighed, placed both his hands on the counter, and grew close to the assassin.

"I do not have the information you seek," he hoarsely whispered, then pointed a thick finger off to some patrons. "But that faun has been real cordial with the uniforms. No doubt she's been victim to all their tall tales."

"Much obliged," Lye returned. The bartender offered a pat on the assassin's shoulder with one hand, and scooped up his incentive with the other. The assassin shrugged off the uncomfortable formality.

"Hey thur! Wussa guy ghotta do t'git 'nother ale?!" slurred a patron at the far end of the bar. The barkeep offered one last curt nod of his head, and turned his attentions to the drunkard.

Lye snatched up his horn from its stand and left the counter to pursue further information. The atmosphere of alcohol, mischief, and obscenity permeated the senses. The scene to which he arrived was no exception. A faun, well endowed in all the right places, was the subject of attention to a trio of soldiers. Their rosy cheeks and slurred attempts to swoon her were only fueled by her sensual banter. The booth may have well been a bed due to the proximity of the group, and several empty containers of finer alcohol decorated the table's surface.

"Excuse me," Lye interrupted to little avail. "I said, excuse me." He was met with the hostile stares of her company.

"What th' ffuck do you want, ugly?" one stammered. The hairs stood on the back of the assassin's neck. The insult lit a fire of aggression in his veins, but he made effort to contain it.

"The faun, might I have a word with her?" Lye responded through clenched teeth.

[Philomel]

The Lazy Lumberjack.

In the past few days she had quickly discovered that this establishment was an appropriate, uncomplicated place to acquire new clients and a sizeable amount of money for one night. Especially concerning the regulars here, for they were a mass of soldiers, guards, and merchants who quenched their thirst in this place. So very eager to find a rest-bite from their tiring days of travelling, their money seemed to be endless. They cast it around like grains of rice, filling their gullets with pint after pint, becoming more and more susceptible to Philomel’s wiles and ways, and granting her very easy amounts of payments for so little work.

There were three of them this night wooing her, three of the “ranger” types. Tucked away into a corner of the public house in a booth, she was gaining all the attentions that she needed for a good week’s worth of income. It would easily be enough to pay her lodgings and food. Three empty jugs stood on the table, two of a rich, dark ale, the other having been a white wine. The furthest away man had partly draped himself over the table to get his head nearer to her copious bosom; for this night held in a black thin silk bustier with pearls adorning the underside and a single ruby nestled between her breasts.

From left to right they were a Sergeant, a Corporal and she thought Captain. One of them was called Bartholomew, but she could no longer be sure which due to their current state. When she spoke, they all grew silent, then gave a cheerful, flirtatious, and collective laugh. The Sergeant was fondling her left breast, whilst the Corporal, the one who lay upon the table, had his hand straying slowly closer and closer to her barely-covered “downstairs”.

A gold coin was subtly slipped into the folds of cloth that made up her belt. A soft smile came to her face, one of knowing, and her fingers tiptoed down to stroke the knuckles of the hand that placed it there. At the same time, she pushed the hand away, moving it from where it strayed uneasily close to her hidden dagger. She opened her mouth, about to come out with some witty remark that would distract them all again - at the same time as being insulting them to their blind faces - when a new voice arose.


The company looked up. Philomel, obviously the only sober one out of all of them, raised an eyebrow and stared straight at the interruption. He stood at the end of the table dressed smartly, or at the very least, unlike the usual soldiers in this pub. Light, white hair could be seen framing a face with pure green eyes, like basil leaves in summer, and in his hands was poised a drinking horn.

The Corporal slurred his words as his hand retracted back from its journey. He twisted his body to sit up, glared at the stranger, and spat a slurred insult.

Philomel continued to stroke the knuckle of the finger near her belt, then tilted her head.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked in a calm voice, yet one that was flowing with indiscreet sensuality.

The Corporal blinked. Then, as a collective, the whole group suddenly tensed and gathered close together, surrounding the faun-whore as if she was some form of precious commodity. A description Philomel certainly favoured.

“She’s oursh,” he slurred, heavily drunk, “Oursshh, ge’ yer own!”

The faun mildly found this endearing, the vague loyalty towards her that the Corporal had, yet this new figure seemed to have enough bestowed sense and wealth to know what she was. Perhaps this was another opportunity of the night, a way to make even more gold, She smiled exquisitely, and leaned forwards towards him, ignoring for the moment the drunken fools around her.

“How can I be of assistance Mr…”

[Lye]

The assassin turned a foul lip at the groveling military men. Such desperate need for such a common commodity was laughable. Yet, in this world, every man had a vice in one way or another. Fauns were no exception.

“Jack,” he added. “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time? Preferably in private?”

The stranger lifted his horn for another swig while nonchalantly revealing a satchel of coin at his hip. The bag clearly weighed down on his waist as though to state he could make it worth her time.

Philomel’s eyes flashed momentarily with a whispered greed, and she tilted her head. Placing her hands flat upon the table, she raised her body from the seat, then angled to move past the drunken wretches. As she did, the Sergeant swung out with his arms and gripped her around the waist.

“Don’t leave usshh!” he pleaded.

Rather firmly, she shoved the wasted soldier away, and pushed past the rest to stand in front of the stranger. Pushing out her chest rather obviously, she smiled.

“Most certainly,” she said.

His scarred brow rose to her sensual poise. Though not a man of the flesh, he ran a verdant gaze up and down her curves. He lowered his drinking horn and gave a subtle nod of affirmation. The more interested he seemed, the more he assumed she would cooperate. The drunkards behind her offered nothing but scowls and obscenities his way. The Captain even seemed to scramble for his misplaced rapier which mockingly dangled on the wall behind him.

“I’m not familiar with this area,” Lye continued, “would you know of somewhere we could… converse?”

The faun felt a warm rise of positivity come into her body, and she released it as a pleasant smile. Taking a step towards the newcomer, she inclined her head, turned, then gestured towards a set of wooden steps in the corner of the pub. These steps ended with a solidary door at the top. With little hesitation, she walked towards them; no longer interested in the three soldiers. They had already given her more than she would make in an average night.

“Hey!” shouted the captain as their precious whore left. “Did whe shay you could go?!”

Having found his beloved blade, the drunkard attempted to draw it. The assassin shot out his hand, slammed the rapier back into the scabbard, and thrust a single finger into his forehead. Crippled by the curse of the three empty containers upon the table, the Captain stumbled backwards. Just as the other two militants were about to join the fray, it was over, and the staggered Captain crashed into his comrades. The ruckus, that would normally draw the attention of a furious bartender, was muffled by the social static. It even served to excite onlooker conversation.

“I’m afraid I must beg your pardon,” Lye spoke as he bowed to the tangled mess of bodies, then carried himself through the masses behind Philomel.

After she arrived to the top of the steps, the faun pushed open the door and held it for her new guest. She turned her gaze back to the main room of the pub, and waited for Lye. He hastened his pace up the steps with care, as to avoid a spill of his drink.

“Please, pick a door,” she said, a small smile on her face. Beyond them displayed a corridor with various doors heading off either side at regular intervals. “All are currently free.”

Lye strode past her with a curt nod. “Thank you.”

His stomach flopped, for such chivalry and manner went against his moral norm. Still, he possessed the skill and appreciation of tact needed to acquire what he desired. The adventurer stopped his stride in the middle of the lengthy hallway and tested a worn iron knob.

Philomel glanced back at the direction of the booth she had been seated. She saw a vague kerfuffle beginning to build, but it did not seem too adventurous. Closing the door behind them, she started down the corridor with eyes on the stranger who called himself ‘Jack’. He gave way to a door and together, they entered.

The faun-whore made her way directly over to a low cushioned seat opposite the door. She twisted and sat, then lounged back, tilted up her head, and fluttered her lashes under the candlelight.

“So … Jack, what exactly do you require?” she said in a light, airy voice.

He closed the door and slid the bolt into place before he turned to face her. The muffled chaos from below and substantially sweeter aroma gave him a much needed reprieve. He took a deep breath and sat on the delicate mattress across from his sultry guest.

“Information,” he stated bluntly. “I hear you have come across many tall tales in your stay here. Have you heard of a ‘Gorian’Fel’?”

The stark remark caused her face to abruptly fall. The smile vanished. The relaxation and sensuous nature disappeared as soon as he spoke the word “Information.” She sat up slightly, her brow creasing into a furrow and looked at him directly, suspicion appearing in her gaze.

“Pardon? Are you cursing at me?”

“My apologies. It is the name of a beast,” he corrected. Immediately, he sensed the conversation take a foul turn. “First, might I be so bold as to ask you name?”

She paused for a moment, lips caught in an immature pout, then raised a hand and habitually flicked the end of her plait over her shoulder.

“They call me Philomel,” she replied, “The Nightingale.”

[Philomel]

The assassin cupped his drink between his knees, and informally hunched into a relaxed position. This lead may be a dead end, but he needed to pry further. Certainly she had heard something of use during her services.

“Well Miss Nightingale,” he began, letting his tone smooth over. “I am trying to hunt down a beast of rumor. I can assure you they are real and indigenous to this area. They are about the size of a dire bear but with less fur. They have no eyes, rows of teeth, and have been known to cause pitfalls throughout the forest. Has anything like that come up in conversation before?”

Philomel sat perfectly still during his description, her expression hardly changing apart from to show even more suspicion. She narrowed her eyes slightly and looked over him, trying to pry into why he might be looking for such information. Of course she had heard stories - there was nothing men enjoyed doing than telling her the most exaggerated versions of their tales in order to impress her. They often littered them with much more death than was necessary or likely, and ended up being the gallant hero in the epilogue, which the faun-whore used to her advantage.

She leaned back slightly and raised her chin as “Jack” finished.

“You have taken me from a night of easy income. I expect compensation.”

“Certainly.” The assassin spared a hand to his side and produced the heavy satchel of coin he flaunted earlier. He placed it beside him on the mattress, just out of reach to the faun. “I don’t intend to waste your time. Name your price.”

Raising a slight eyebrow, she went silent for a moment, considering. From what she could see of this fellow he was conscious of her endowments, and knowledgeable of her talents. With a rent to pay for and her own belly to feed, now that she was entirely private, Philomel wondered if she could get more from this man than simply a bribe for “information”.

“It … depends what you were looking for,” she said in a quiet, salacious voice. “The amount I would have gotten from the soldiers would have been … considerable,in their state. A hundred Gold collectively, or more.” Of course she did not mention the fact she had already received a rather beautiful costly sum from them already, wrapped up in the folds of her belt. “And of course, it is my talent to keep the lonely travellers of this land from getting uncomfortable.”

She flourished it off with a sweet, alluring chuckle.

Lye raised his drinking horn to his lips, and began to drain its contents. His suspicions of her profession became cemented in his mind. The gesture of finishing his Raiaeran Red in the presence of her advance would certainly pass of uneasiness to his acquaintance. Dry to the tip, he set the vessel beside the coin and it jingled in response.

“A hundred?” he repeated while loosening the twine at the neck of his black cloak. “That seems a little steep for just a few tips. I can only assume what you are offering is quite generous, but I have more than enough to compensate. I could even offer you more than just gold.”

He met her sensual gaze with the natural ferocity of his own. Something about her persistence and confidence interested him. She easily made jewelry of the three men below, and now she seemed to pursue him. He was not a man of the flesh, but perhaps this farce could prove her talents more useful for other purposes. He relaxed his pose and leaned back on the bed, propped up by both arms. Curiosity gripped him as he waited for her reply.

Philomel nodded, once. “Precisely, a hundred. Just as you could offer more, I can also.” She pointedly clasped her hands together, and laid them in her lap, using her upper arms to frame her copious bosom. “And though I am sure you have your own talents, they are not what one needs to survive. Gold is.”

She watched him lean back, but remained where she was, straight-backed, poised, looking elegant yet alluring - a stance she had learnt from her mother. The man seemed relaxed enough to her, perhaps he would be a more interesting catch than the three bawdy drunkards they had left behind in the dirty downstairs hell. Remaining in her pose she smiled, subtly, feeling that she was beginning to gain ground in this of sorts.

“Gold is something that can be used up - much like wood in a fire. Miss Nightingale, I can offer you a residence - a place to call home. I can offer you an opportunity where clientele are never short, and your power over man is infinite. You choose to work only when you desire, for your basic needs will be provided at my own expense. Aren’t you tired of drunken strangers who may or may not have deep enough pockets?”

He sat up, leaning in towards her.

“You’d have more gold than you would know what to do with, and all I ask is you be my eyes and my ears,” he rolled in a deep voice to counter her sultry tones. He saw a talent in her. She was not just a woman scrambling for measly coin in exchange for a man’s seed and false affections. She was cunning and in control. For this, he wanted her.

“So, Miss Nightingale,” he teased. “Is that enough of an offer for your services?”

Philomel tilted back her head as he leaned towards her, looking at him skeptically. Her eyes focused on his, thinking that for this sudden outburst of offering was some drug-ridden dream. It had to be, regarding this, or at the very least a misunderstanding on her part. She scoured his eyes for any sign of vivid red veins abused by weeds, or a quivering of the pupil caused by alcohol-abuse.

Yet his green eyes were as certain and sober as a holy celibate eunuch.

Blinking and taken most abruptly aback the faun-whore found her expression change to one of uncertainty.

“Who exactly are you, Mister ‘Jack,’ and why are you searching for such a creature? If the basis of the tales I am told are true, then it is not a beast to be trifled with. My clients often elaborate on the stories that they tell me, that is part of nature but,” she relaxed her chest, letting her breasts simply lie, unexaggerated, “What you offer is sudden indeed. With such claims how can I not know you are doing the same and just cheating me?”

The assassin stifled a smile and rose to his feet. Though she did not realize it, the faun kept increasing the stakes. If he were to get the truth out of her, he’d have to pay with the truth.

“Have you heard of The Order of the Crimson Hands?” he inquired.

[Lye]

As the words reverberated around the modestly private room, the tension, which tenderly relaxed within Philomel’s body in those few moments of mild conversation, returned. Her jaw clenching, she seized the hand nearest the dagger hidden in her belt. She stared at the stranger as he stood up, and all interest in portraying herself as the ideal mate for the night in that moment disappeared. She felt anger begin to rise.

“Excuse me?” she said harsh and sharp. She did not enjoy the idea of looking up to a man who, her instinct told her, could turn this quickly from an interview into an interrogation. “If you are making some sort of joke, then I suggest you go and find another whore to tease.”

Lye approached and stood inches from her seat in the corner.

“Do I sound like I am joking?” His voice was cold. “Though if you’d rather be on your way and return to your day to day, feel free.”

He took a few steps back and gestured to the door. His other hand slid behind his back, and he gave a slight bow. Discretely, he filled this hidden hand with two deadly needles tucked within his cloak’s sleeve. Uncertain to her reaction, he prepared for the worst but yearned for cooperation.

Philomel recoiled as Lye strode towards her, feeling instantly threatened. Her hand snapped automatically to the point where the hilt of her dagger lay, and she leaned back. She tried to avoid his glare, but kept the same ferocity in her own eyes. The faun made no move to stand up or take his invitation to leave, for it would be idiotic to leave such an opportunity like this one. Instead, she remained where she was with hand resting over her dagger.

She rapidly blinked a few times -an attempt to rip herself from the tension that dominated her thoughts. Forcibly, she dragged her hand off her hidden weapon. The faun's breaths were shallow, but it gave her enough stamina to calm her fighting spirit.

“In exchange for Gold, I will give you the information you seek.” Her voice quaked with ire, but she managed to choke the words out.

He relaxed his readied arm, and gave her his back to retrieve the satchel of gold. The metal rang out melodically in the room’s isolated silence, only complimented by the quiver in her breath. The assassin pulled out five coins and cinched the remainder back to his waist. Again, he loomed over her and placed five Raiaeran gold on the dimly lit table to her right. Each metallic disc displayed ornate filigree and engraving. The dings, dents, and chips that typically scarred any coin during daily travel were absent, and the coins looked as though they had been freshly minted. This brilliant permanence was a testament to its greater worth.

“Each piece is a standard twenty.” he commented, then returned to his on the mattress. The noble poise he maintained earlier became dominated by fierce eyes, broad shoulders, and rigidity. He no longer held the patience for tact. “Well, Miss Nightingale?”

The faun-whore watched each coin as it was placed to the side of her, trying for all her sake not to quiver under the domineering figure. She kept her back straight, her stature strong and still, focusing on the coins themselves. She counted five, then frowned when it stopped. Her brow creased, and she blinked, uncertain. She glanced over to the man, known as "Jack", who was already retreating back to his reclined position upon the bed as he gave his explanation.

Keeping her expression refined, Philomel answered with poised words. “The three men I was with tonight have heard of reports of such creature roaming out to the Northwest. Last night I bedded a client who showed me a scar made by talons of the creature you talk of, and claimed he had killed it with his own bare hands. There have been stories told to another couple of the girls who work privately of similar cases in the other inns around here. Everywhere the rumors follow so do death reports, however.”

“Death is of no concern. How long ago did they say the sighting was? Did they mention any landmarks that may have come out in conversation?” Lye was short and direct. He finally got some of the vital information he came for, and the day would soon be night. This headway needed to be maintained before the day became night.

The faun-whore twirled a singular dreadlock, too short to be tucked into her plait, around her index finger. “You are a man who does not worry about death?” she said bemusedly, “Such a man usually ends up being the one who dies.”

Her red-painted lips curled at the corners, watching the way the stranger reacted. He seemed almost permanently on edge, as if something was bothering him beyond measure. There was a deepness in his eye, a meaning she could not comprehend, Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he had mentioned the Order of the Crimson Hands, that elite guild of assassins she could only dream of. She tilted her head before his ire got the better of him, due to her evasion of an answer, and thus answered soon after.

“Northwest, as I say. There are supposedly strange tracks just beyond the North Gate of Underwood. Follow the line of ash trees there. After that, try the path that leads west, the rangers along that way have reported strange animal corpses left behind: badgers without heads, deers with splintered hooves and so on. There is a ruined temple of some sorts, that they call the Temple of the Dead Witch. Some superstition or other of a witch who was hung there some centuries ago. Most of my clients talk about the creature dwelling there very close to that.”

She stood then, rather regally, and swept the coins from the table into her hand. Tucking them into the pouch that was, in turn, tucked into her belt she twisted and started for the door.

“Miss Nightingale,” he started. She stopped with her hand on the door and looked back to the man. “Thank you, and please consider my offer. A woman with your… skills is much desired. Should you change your mind, I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled at her. She gave him an acknowledgement of her understanding, with a short nod as he finished, then continued her journey to the door. Sliding back the bolt, she let the man be alone. She was somewhat confused, however, in how he had not asked her to stay and bed him, but she was satisfied in the fact she had enough money to last her some weeks now.

[Lye]

The absence of conversation allowed the cacophony below to permeate through the floorboards. As he contemplated his next move, he was reminded of humanity's heard mentality. Their blind day to day of escaping reality through the pursuit of vanity, entertainment, and pleasure was a waste of air. These fickle animals were a boring prey - they were more of pests or parasites than a useful existence. Every time Lye felt one of their hearts come to rest, it made his existence as one of them much more worth while.

The gut-wrenching cackle of an inebriated woman and charming fellow grew more prominent. The assassin glanced to the door his faun guest had exited and seconds later, a merry couple staggered through. Like deer in the face of imminent danger, they froze in silence with wide eyes towards him. Lye chuckled at the comical similarities.

"Just sacks of meat with faces," the killer muttered.

"Sorry?" the male slurred, struggling to react in the awkward situation.

"Nothing," Lye rose to his feet. "I was just leaving."

He strode past them, locking his fierce gaze upon the bewildered two. His lips turned at the corner.

"Enjoy," he mused and without blinking, he broke eye contact with the click of a closed door. The silence persisted for a brief moment. Then, as though the event had not occurred, the giggles and squeals resumed. He shook his head.

A visage of disgust remained plastered on his face while he continued down the steps to the crowds below. Like a blade cutting through the air, he made his way through the masses. As he left the pub, he felt a set of familiar eyes upon him. With a moment's glance, he met eyes with his half-human informant. Her face held a hint of bewilderment, but Lye knew he had her on his hook. He would certainly see her again. With a smile, he turned and bid this cesspool farewell.

The silver haired assassin left the establishment and entered back into the fresh, earthy air of the deep forest fortress. Since his arrival, the foot traffic had died down substantially. What was a bustling port of commerce between Radasanth and the three surrounding cities, was now but a casual bystander or two. The sharp orange light on the horizon gave clues to the reason for the drastic change. Night threatened to snuff out the sun, and the locals knew that only foul things come out to play in the dark.

Foul things like an assassin with ill intentions and a deadly beast to slay.

"Only a few minutes," Lye thought as he staved off the few beams that gleamed through the thick forest canopy with his hand. "Time to move."

With a hurried pace, Lye began towards the North Gate. Strong strides grew into leaping bounds and soon, a full sprint. The gate grew into sight and not a moment too soon. A solitary bell of the night watch rang strong and true. As his footsteps pounded the packed dirt roads, one bell became a choir from the four cardinal directions. They spoke to each other in song; a signal to close the gates. Lye's charcoal cloak snapped wildly behind him as his chest heaved to keep his pace. The same massive constructs that greeted him into Underwood now threatened to keep him locked within. The thought of containment put a wry smile on his face.

Time's silent challenge motivated his pace and Lye sped closer to the encroaching wall of iron and wood. Warning from Cronian Rangers sounded overhead, but his speed did not waver. The space for escape grew narrow and the groan of weight climaxed with a mighty roar against the soil. Loose dust took flight into a mighty cloud. The earthen haze gave way to the assassin as he emerged.

"You could've gotten yourself killed!" shouted a voice from an archer's nest atop the wall.

Lye slowed, and came to a stop. He paused to catch his breath with hands on his knees. Between each gasp slipped a chuckle, followed by a cough, then back. By now, the last of light had vanished from the sky. Lye righted himself while drawing his arm across his damp forehead. His eyes adjusted to the darkness easily, for the light of the moon was a more familiar source of light than day. Then northbound, he continued.

[Lye]

Trees as high as castle towers loomed overhead with branches outstretched and mangled in a subtle war for moonlight. Only the scarce surviving rays of soft white successfully made their journey to the ground below. Under each footstep a myriad of muffled crack and crunches sounded from crisp, brown foliage - the unfortunate fallen from the war above. The moist dew of nature's tears and blood filled the air with their earthy aroma. As the assassin cautiously ventured deeper, the occasional scamper of a rodent meeting its untimely demise to a predator broke the silence. Lye could feel the eyes of fellow assassins and murderer's tracking his every move while remaining just barely out of sight. The songs of crickets playing a elegy to the dead sounded continuously, only paused when a presence grew near. Even the slight haze of chilled air hung close to the forest floor like a fog over shallow graves.

This place was a battleground.

In the limited light, Lye navigated westward on the narrow road past the ash. He continually monitored the shifting shadows with a single wakizashi drawn in his right hand. So far, the faun's information was accurate, which meant the epicenter of strange sightings would be fast approaching. The last thing on the list was a ruined temple.

"The Temple of the Dead Witch," Lye whispered upon the crimson scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of his face.

Just the outline that came into view, but the sharp lines on either side and mixed organic shapes along the top matched perfectly for a silhouette of ruined architecture. As it drew closer, the crickets grew increasingly quiet until they stopped singing all together. A scent of copper permeated the forest's natural musk - the smell of blood. The hairs on the back of Lye's neck began to stand on end, and he drew his second blade. The aroma became an overwhelming stench mixed with the sour, yet familiar scent of decay. He slowed his pace. What was intended to be a routine step followed by the crinkle of leaves sounded off a wet slap. Lye stopped.

His gaze turned downward, and the grip on his blades tightened. Where the black leather of his boot now stood, a human head should have been. Though the lack of light made it difficult, Lye could make out the lower half of a Coronian Ranger. The standard military grade equipment and familiar pattern from the packed pub upon the remaining cloth gave away its origin. The assassin glanced his emerald eyes through the surrounding shadows . The coast was clear. Lye knelt down, and his knee pressed against a spongy substance. The moonlight graciously revealed the culprit to be a part of spilled entrails. Lye curled a lip.

Like a hunter tracking prey, he examined the wounds. Flesh had been cleaved in an arch, slightly torn around the edges. The ground beef texture meant that more than a single row of teeth was responsible and worse, the culprit was strong, abnormally strong. Lye searched around the corpse, prodding through pieces of wet meat on a suspicion to such an odd injury. He confirmed his hunch when his brow furrowed upon his hands discovering the soldier's blade still sheathed to what was left of his side.

"You didn't put up a fight," Lye remarked.

He had seen enough. The assassin ran his hand across his cloak to rid his gloves of the sanguine fluid and proceeded to stand. Just then, a passing cloud or sway of wind permitted just a brief moment of light upon the ruin's exterior. Lye froze, and he grit his teeth. Not one, but several scattered human remains littered the surrounding area. Between splotches of red, pits of churned earth resembling mortar impacts speckled the ground. Though similar in size, a slight directional displacement of dirt wretched at the back of the assassin's mind. He took a deep breath, and the scene returned to darkness.

"There could be one," he thought, "or a pack. For this much damage, it'd better be a pack."

Regardless, he felt exposed to the elements and at a disadvantage to whatever was lurking in the night. Still, Lye sought this exotic beast for a purpose and he would be damned if he left without something to show for it. Though just as ominous as the surrounding woodlands, something told him the temple ruins would be a more defensible position. Hesitantly, he stepped from the remains of a midnight snack and pressed onward to the crumbled stone remains. For the first time in a long while, the bloodthirsty assassin remembered what it felt like to feel hunted.

And it exhilarated him...