A half-breed in a strange land [open to all]

Unknown Locale
In an alley
Akkrîdjô,
First Stryde in Fêbtûs, 1816 C.P.
(first month of the Spirit Journey)
This was a dream. It had to be a dream. He hoped it was a dream. Somehow, he suspected that it wasn’t. Translocation was not something he had ever wanted to encounter, but somehow, Gods only knew how, he had. He was not even sure if that fact he was in a town was for the best or not. He was armored and vailed, so nobody would be screaming orc and running… yet. The constant tickle of salt on his nostrils told him that he was near the sea, or a very large salt river, and the overwhelming stench of refuse told him he was near a the dumping spot for refuse and chamber pots. It was an alley, behind tall two story buildings, which were all a mix of willow wood and various types of stones. Perhaps the bricks were made of ballast stones. That would explain how only two in twenty matched. It would also explain their relative tightness, the type of binding material and all. It all confirmed a few things, his feet, both natural and crooked began to move along the cobblestones, which were as unequal in size and coloration as that of the buildings he was leaving behind. He was near the sea, but where? And in what locale? How far would he have to travel before he made it back to the holding?

The first smell too greet his nose, besides the smell of salt water, was the steadfast low notes of horse hair. Like somebody rubbed the barest hint of lemon peals into boiled down hay and nutmeg without removing the leaves from the herb. He rather liked the smell of horse, it was a good scent. Of course, the varied odors of human and elf and old stained wood planks tried to crowd in his senses for a moment, before a snort forced the sensation back to reasonable levels. The streets weren’t crowded by any means, but scents tend to wander where they will, and where the wind took them, unreceptive the presence of others. That’s when he saw the sign that said “tavern” and headed for it, determined to get some answers. A man coming out stared for just a moment, his bad foot often got that kind of look, and only his entering the establishment broke the man’s unabashed ogling.

Recently, she had been humming "by docks of the bay wasting time," but talking to a middle aged teifling, it was obvious she actually wasn't wasting her time.

"C'mon, sweety, don't youw want to tawk to me?" A redheaded girl, only a teenager, smirked as she interviewed a rather unamused, tired looking man.

He glared into his drink of beer, "... No."

The girl blinked, green eyes sparkling with mischief, "Why not?"

The bald teifling clenched his fist., grey lips curved into a growl, "I... just... don't."

The girl's smirk slowly changed into a frown, "You know why I want to talk."

The teifling reached down and tugged at the neck collar of her brown shirt. The girl continued, "My mentor wants the infowmation you carry on the Crimson Hand. So, I'm wunning ewands fow hew."

The man glared at her for a single moment, then drew an estoc from the sheath on his back.

When the sword was swung, it appeared as if the girl blinked out... she was unharmed when the man was done. The girl got out of the chair, sandals hitting the boarded floor. She took several paced ahead, braided hair bouncing as she confidently strood forth. She turned to face him, a smile returning to her face, "Wanna fight?"

The teifling got up, pushing his stool aside. His sword raised. The girl smirked, as if she was craving a good clash of weapons, and drew her own arming sword. The muscular man raced towards her. The girl utilised her training and stepped aside. She jabbed her hilt into her opponent's ribs. When he reached to clenched his side, losing his guard, the girl pulled a karate kick on his legs. However, the man wasn't as clumsy or drunk as she thought and sharply turned on her. Seconds later, the kid was flying back, blood shooting out her mouth as she choked a cry of surprise.

After she landed, she felt that familiar feeling. She got up, a bloody mouth baring her largest smirk yet. She let out a muffled chuckle as she walked up to the teifling, twirling her sword. Instead of using her blade though, a tightened fist collided with the man's jaw. He fell to the ground, clearly unconscious.

The girl twirled her blade again before placing it in her sheath. She wiped the blood off her face, smeering her white wrappings. She started to become conscious of the world around her again.

Cheering.

Apparently, these people had been bored out of their minds or something. They were clapping and shouting at the show she just pulled off. The girl gave them a more natural grin, happy to serve the public, and dantily bowed, "Fewicity Knopsnidew, at youw sewvice."

The door opened at that moment, Felicity turned happily to see who it was. It was a heavily clothed man, too wrapped up in his armor to tell who... or what... he was. Curiosity got the better of the immature half-neanderthal, she immediately skipped up to the mysterious figure, "Hi!"

The smell of blood and beer assaulted his nostrils the moment he ambled in. Along with bread and bodies, washed and unwashed, intoxicated and unintoxicated, and one fellow, which both sight and smell said was out cold. The floor was uneven hued planks of elm, and the not quite mossy willow, and the joyous smelling wood of the maple tree. Nothing quite smells like maple; even sealed with bees wax you can tell it anywhere. .

So, what have we hear? Another half-breed like myself? Not orc I think, but what? If she will make no comment on my foot than I’ll not draw attention to It.
“Good day to you Mistress, always a pleasure to see a smiling face,” when it’s not affixed to a torturer, “I am called Drumheller if it pleases you, and by what name do you come by in these parts?”

He had not remained entirely idle while springing the first of his series of questions on the lass, whose lineage still aluded him. Perhaps she was the daughter of a human and a half-breed, if he were to have a daughter by a she man, than this might be what she would look like.

Blood still bubbled in Felicity's mouth, pain returned to her as her temporary berserk strength left her. The combination of the two made her speech impairment several times worse, "I Fewiwiwy. Wize due feet ya." She reached up to her forehead, slightly dizzy from the side effects of her powers, then smiled at him again. "Yew aw?"

The kid then motioned the man towards the counter, "Cawe fowa dwink?"

The tavern was getting back to its lazy self. The bartender seemed dead, slowly washing the counter with no care to the unconscious man just lying at the center of the room. Most of the people there were either mumbling amongst themselves or returning to their naps. The smell of various drinks restricted to her age was failing though, compared to the bloodbath drenching her nose. She already starting walking towards the counter. She looked past her lame pinky to the teifling she took out, I still have to interrogate him later, she mentally wrote down.

She sat down on a oak stool again, throwing a coin on it, "Apple cidew, pwease? A fwiend towd me it's good!" The emotionless, scrawny bartender silently took the order, getting the drink prepared. Felicity turned to see if the man followed, already asking, "Youw want awything? I'll pay."

The blood stains on her teeth were an attractive addition, any orc would agree. At least any orc back at the Holding would agree; he could not speak for orcs born elsewhere. Still he had to concentrate on her speech, to get the full gist of what she was saying. Perhaps the blow she had received was a mighty strike to her jaw.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintanceship Mistress… felity?”

He was unsure of the name. He lost some of the rest, and to be honest he was unsure of the name. Still he plodded on, both physically and mentally.

“Refreshment would be most excellent, but I shall pay myself thank you. No point on troubling yourself on my expense.”

He stated, trying to inject enthusiasm into his speech. He followed the strange girl to the bench, but did not directly sit himself down. Addressing the bar keep, he declared in tones that were as bold a disjunction from the stereotype of his race, all signs of which were well hidden,

“I shall have some Mold wine, but fill her order first, if it pleases you.”

Drumheller also paid in similar fashions, although the ginger manner which he placed his gold coin on the counter might make one think that the gold was as fragile as glass.

"Thanks!" Felicity smiled for a moment, then frowned, "And it's Fewi-Few-Fwici-Fe FeFeFe... Fewicity. Don't diss the speech impaiwment!"

The bartender gave Felicity her drink. Eagerly, the kid took a small sip.

"Mmm..." She proceeded to chug it down, not stopping once to take a breath. After she joyfully slapped the mug down, she looked over to the armored man, who now had his own drink. "Ashwa was wight. That was incwedibwe!" The careless mentioning of her mentor did not bother her a bit. She started tapping her mug lightly, playing a tune. Half neanderthal, she had this thing for music. As she tapped a beat, she looked around the muggy bar. It was shadowed in shades of dark. Cobwebs were collecting in almost every unattended corner of anything here. She once again looked at the stranger she just met. All armor, no face or smiles. She was suddenly hit with a wave of worry, "You suwe you don't need me to pay fow anything?"

Another thing bugged her though. Despite his choice of clothes and sturdy voice, he didn't seem all that shady. Why would you hide who you are? Felicity pondered, It's a beautiful thing, just being yourself.

Purplish orbs blinked once, at this revelation of her name, “Felicity, your pardon for my error. “ He repeated in the waterfall of honey that was his accustomed vocalization. In an unhurried motion he worked at the bottom most set of interlocking rings that bound vail to half-helm, and a metal clink-pop, declared that the two had been separated. The vail had been loosened, but only enough to allow him the pleasure of drinking, while still allowing him his anonymity.

The wine mug was half-way to his lips by the time she had utterly conquered hers and clunked it down on the bar. It hovered there, untasted, in part due to her repeated query regarding his desire for her to expend coin on his account.

“Your generosity goes before you like a Herold good Mistress, announcing thy benevolence to all that have the sense to perceive it.”

Granitic, the mountain that surrounded her form as she sat upon the oaken stool was Granitic In structure. Full of the myriad cracks and fishers and pock marks that one would expect of the earthen substance. No, not a mountain, a volcano, he realized, the funneled opening appearing above the lass’s reddish slightly curled locks, the roiling molten innards simmering inside merely awaiting the circumstances that would cause their destructive release.

“Again I thank you for your offer, and again, if you shall pardon me, I shall decline. You honor me with the willingness to share those hard earned riches of your own, but I have coin enough to see to my wants,”

Drumheller replied in the harmonious tones that had been the hallmark of his speech thus far. The steady flow of his utterances giving no hint that he was, at that very moment, perceiving more than the mere ordinary; the main aspect of his enhanced perceptions he knew and understood, and while the viewing of the rocky bubbles – a common phenomenon in such material that served as the primary feature of the image – did not surprise him, it was their contents that confused them. The nature of the eerie greenish fog, and its significance to the overall image eluded him. He knew with absolute certainty that this lass was a Berserker, for he had perceived images of its like before, but as for other aspects of her character he knew no more than any other man viewing the lass for the first time.

“Your first time here?”

Giving his words a physical punctuation, he indicated the room at large by a revolution of his free hand in the air to indicate their surroundings. Words would no doubt provide him with clues that his innate mystically enhanced sight would not.

Turning after he spoke Drumheller leaned back against the bar, taking his ease, at least giving the appearance of taking his ease, he was in truth scanning the bar again.

Over against the right wall, so close in fact that one couldn’t have even pulled out the chairs all the way because of the wall’s nearness – the planks there were as tightly packed as the floor and of the same interlocking alternating squares – a quartet of smiths sat.

One could tell they were smiths by their leather vests and aprons, as well as the tools hanging from the belts they wore. The two closest to the bar were wagon writes, while the pair closest to the door were silver smiths. His enhanced sight told him that the youngest of the grouping was the master silversmith and the oldest, a near balding man with a thick curly Curtin of a fiery red beard was the apprentice. While he could not have told you their names, he could have told you that the wagon writes owed a fair amount of gold to a heavy handed lender, that the master silver smith was smitten with a lass well above his station, and the apprentice had been a caravan guard before a wound to the leg forced him to retire from a trade he’d worked most of his life.

The next two tables told him more the same kind of story, with one in three owing money to someone, even though most of the men at these tables being caravan guards, except for the lass sitting in one half-elf’s lap, the two flaying each other’s lips, while the others made teasing comments from the side lines. The woman was a paid lover.

His roving eyes went elsewhere.

At another table he saw a trio of merchants haggling over who would work what trails and when, the one with a ring in his ear with a ruby the size of a chicken egg was addicted to some kind of narcotic, but drumheller couldn’t have told you what. The fellow as skinny as a rail and with a heavily oiled forked beard wanted to raise enough money to buy some slaves at of salvar… that one would bear watching.

His eyes continued to move elsewhere.

Another pair of paid lovers, these two without customers sat at another table, in clear view of anyone that entered. One looked to be no older than six and ten. She sported a shy look about her, a modest scarlet dress, well-worn with a few fraying threads here and there, and her leaf green eyes were aimed at the table top in as demure a fashion as one would expect on a bashful maid. One might think her shyness was born from her companion, who sported a black and gold dress that was so tight about the bosom that she might as well be naked for all the flesh it revealed – he knew it would be tight in other places besides – it was the kind of garment that a certain seducer back home would wear. He knew why she wore it, just as he knew that the coyness the other one wore was as much a part of her trade as the tools were of the smiths.

Sparing this pair no more than a brief glance his eyes went elsewhere, and stopped.

A lone man sat at a table, his shoulders slumped, his back hunched, his gaunt frame covered by a coat so thread bare and mouth eaten that it hardly served as a coat at all. His boots were in only slightly better condition; no more of his garments could be seen. The hair that crowned the aged wrinkled skull was an inverted bowl, with more salt than pepper in the wispy locks. What was more while he couldn’t smell the man, he was too far away, and there were too many scents in the room besides, he knew that this man was terrified. Drumheller knew generally what the issue was, if not the particulars, the problem was related to a debt.

If he was not so occupied, he might have gone over and inquired, but at that moment his nose was busily engaged with gleaming what it could of his overly generous companion.

Her aroma bore a heavy corollary to that of her aura: resolutely arid boiled down earth that was, with just the barest hint of tangy copper intermingled with not quite burned honey one expect to find in solid workman’s stone; add to this the warm aroma of the faintest of month old pine resin and elm ash, waiting in the wings of the base note if you will; with just a hint of sultry coal; and you had her scent. It was a homely hearth regularly used kind of smell, the coals still warm and ready to be teased into life once more… heaven help the being that did that. Since, as lively as it smelled right now, as full of relaxed good cheer,

fire could burn.

Felicity smiled eagerly, attempting to push her doubts behind her. "Oh, yes. I'm wunning ewwands fow my mentow. She wants to know mowe on the Owdew of the Cwimson Hand." She briefly looked towards the unconscious teifling, on the dusty floor below them, then back to the mysterious man. She slightly leaned in, her voice hushed.

"They'we a bunch of cweeps if you ack me... paid awawin-" her speech impairment caught her tongue again. She shook her head and continued, "Paid mewcenawies who enjoy bwood and woh." She slightly paled when she remembered the day she learned of their most atrocious act, which really hit her home. "They dewtoyed hawf a countwy about a yeaw ago..."

That country was Eiskalt, her home in her first eight years of life.

She shook her head again and caught the attention of the bartender. She lightly wove to him. When the half looking dead came over to her, she requested another cider. She looked around the bar again. Several things that made a modest teen grimace, several paid lovers, caused her to roll her eyes. The smell of ale and pipe smoke tempted her to step outside. She stayed seated on her stool though: she still had to interrogate the teifling...

She coughed on her wrappings, a tiny splotch of pink blood making yet another stain. She then looked towards the armored man again. He really picked at her curiosity still, one question linking to another. She desperately wanted to know about who he was. Was he an experienced warrior, or a trainee like her? Heck, there was so much covering him, was he human or something else? A half-breed herself, Felicity was completely okay with whatever he was. As long as he wasn't just a cold blooded killer...

The kid tilted her head, "How about you? Youw fiwst time hewe?"

“The Crimson Hand.” He repeated slowly, softly, as if engaged in some verbal personal musing, “I have heard of them.”

He had also entertained the joining of their membership at one time as well. That was around the time he had considered running away from the Clan and his bondmasters. He had discarded the idea long before he had heard the rumors related to the groups actions in the country of Eiskalt. He had previously reached certain conclusions that made him understand that joining such an organization, being privy to its actions and partaking in duties in assisting them in their goals would be detrimental to the overall proof that he had achieved. That meta-proof in a great degree was responsible for his every action from that moment forth, and were responsible for them at precisely that moment.

At that moment a two edged flaw manifested within the half-breed, one that was much a part of him as his skin and his name, his thought processes split, one continuing to observe his surroundings, with all the care of the diligent, to carry on his conversation with the good woman Felicity on his right, while the other part began to work on a proof of some consequence.

if Zyx than Drp A
If and only if Pvt A 2

“Assassins, yes,” a nod punctuated this statement,” and like most they often dabble in matters less than pleasant.”

Assassination is just one tool of state craft, an ugly one, a disagreeable one, but sometimes a necessary one. Still the group’s leadership had shown signs of being rather… unstable. That had served as a powerful deterrent for Drumheller, but it had not been the only one. The lass had mentioned that her mentor was someone named Ashla. Now, why did that name ring a bell? Hadn’t there been a woman with that name connected to the country so mentioned by the good woman mere breaths gone? Yes, but what was her connection?

… line 32 Sub-proof 1 (-Dez) ampersand (Sdr) negation introduction/ elimination…

Someone had just stirred the coals; or rather a memory of past happenings had stirred those coals, and put a stew pot of sorrow on to simmer, if his nose did not betray him. It seldom did. A lid was clamped down on that grief as quick as you please and the coals had been scattered to cool as well, so in a breath or two, the lass was back to her cheery self.

… line 47 return to main proof -{(Pdt or (Sdr) ampersand (Des ampersand Rsx)} negation introduction/ elimination lines 32-46…

His mind divided again; three lines of thought working simultaneously.

A thought is a strange thing: the simple modicum of data, sending the mind into a quest for understanding, layers of contemplation folding in on one another and themselves, redefining understanding and perception. Eventually the original data and the thought it provoked could be convoluted to the point that a thing you thought you understood was non-understandable. The belief in your own wisdom becomes your realization of your foolishness, your truths become convenient fictions, and your victories become your defeats. The mind was at once the greatest ally and greatest enemy an individual could have, it was this sort of paradox that always brought a strange, morbid sort of near smile to Drumheller’s lips. More of an up-turning of the corners of his mouth than anything else, but for him that was as close to the genuine article as one was likely to get.

Of course with the vail up, who would know.

Logical argumentation was useful in tempering the mind, in testing mental processes, in verifying lines of thoughts, in pruning useless ideas and discarding irrelevant schemas. Tautologies were to be used in authenticating held assumptions, and sub-proof theorizing utilized for the development of plans to be further tested.

All this in the establishing of a system that aided him, Drumheller, in achieving the great goal. The goal that he strove, whenever possible, to prove more to himself than to anyone else that his existence was justified. To vindicate the ideals that he held dear. To establish the lever that would alter events and happenings to an improved outcome.

“A bad business what happened in Eiskalt; I have heard only rumors, but even if half what I heard was true, than a most tragic occurrence indeed.”

Even if the rumors were true, they did not drive him to hatred of those answerable. That emotion he had discarded long ago. It had not been difficult. To him, war was a necessity that, while grim in execution and end result, had its own beauty. He had never been able to hate…not people, the other orcish clans, those who sought to destroy him. He knew that he held unorthodox views. Unlike most orcs, most orcs he knew at any rate, Drumheller was not merely a passionate being. His passion drove and was driven by a constantly employed rational framework that, while sub-elements of which altered slightly over time, the overall character of which never changed. His passion was not of a sexual character, nor merely gluttonous, nor motivated by acquisition…no… his innermost fervor, all of them, were of life. For life and all the endeavors that it entailed…even if it meant death. After all, was not death also part of life? Yet, if some of what he heard was accurate, than it had been more than a war. It had been a slaughter.

But enough of these sundry ruminations.

There were other matters to contend with now. Namely the lass beside him and her interest in the “Hand” and her mentor. The Guild of assassins had not been the only group of which he had heard, at least heard of by rumormongers.

“Oh, yes,” this response held just a bit more warmth than his previous ones had, “this is my first time here, both in this establishment and on the island.” He took a sip of wine and rolled it around in his mouth, letting his tongue absorb the simple flavors of a wine that had been made in late autumn, the grapes having just lightly tasted the early frost of winter before being picked and processed. The light touches of the barrel after an agreeable aftertaste that was all together most delectable. The little bit of grit that said that the wine had come from the bottom of the barrel did serve as a slight detractor, but one must learn to deal with such minor inconveniences from time to time.

“Mistress Felicity,” the honorific was not entirely necessary, but he used it anyway, “your mentor… “A brief pause punctuated this half question before he continued, “did you by chance meet your mentor in Eiskalt? Do you yourself hail from that country?”

His gaze once more swept back to the young lass, who were the partner in his conversation, the steady almost flowing movements as he once more took a sip of wine adding only more emphasis to the refined heir that he had exuded thus far. “I am a salvarian myself, and even though the lands are neighbors, I have never been.” He stated by way of explanation. “Perhaps you will tell me some about it?” The argumentation had been concluded, the consequence had provided him with a logically valid end point, the question remained, was it sound?

Felicity froze when Eiskalt was connected to her backstory through a single question. She listened to his remaining words, but did not know how to respond. She had processed the words, but barely. At once, an explosion of sadness, hate, and bitterness swept across her, causing a weird face to form. She pressed her lips against each other, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. The halfbreed was on the verge of tears. She clenched her fist, a floodgate of emotions opening and drowning her. For a moment, she felt like she could scream. Scream at this man to shut up... but she calmed down and let out a simple sigh.

A silence came across the two as the armored man took a sip of wine. The bar around them went around like normal, the noises of clanging and voices ringing into itching ears.

Felicity finally spoke. "I was bown in Eiskawt." Once again, she let out a sigh, "I spent my fiwst hawf of my ife there. Hawf human... haf neandertha." She closed her eyes, unpleasant memories swarming in like ticked off hornets. She bit her lip, "Neanderthaws awe... a wot wike humans... but diffewent too. They awe unwanted, discawded, discwiminatet against in Eiskawt. I was awowed to wive, but I was tweated wike diwt. We eventuawy weft fo Cowone."

She looked down to her lame finger, a permanent scar from her suffering in Eiskalt. All the beauty of that place could not atone for her suffering there. She would never be able to move her left pinky finger in her life. The bartender came back with her apple cider. Four healthy fingers wrapped around it, the pinky hanging, as she raised the cup to her lips in a small sip. She steadily put the cup down and continued.

"Eiskawt was spended. Aw you couwd see was mountains. Mountains and that dazzwing sun wising evewy day. White snow spakwed in the sun. It was aways so mawve-ma-mawvew- pwetty." She heavily sighed as a dark thought crossed her mind, Almost makes me miss it...

Felicity remembered another question the man who was suffering her long ranting asked. She hastily changed the subject. "Ashwa? She is a gweat pewson, one of the best I eva met! I was comwete gawbage befoe she took me in. And now I'm aw wike-" she started making random karate chops in the air, her happy demeanor returning steadily, "Hiya! Ha! Dui! Ninja! Ooh! Ha!"

She took no notice in the several bystanders looking at her like she was retarded.

She smiled back at the person she was talking to, "Ashwa is awso the weada of a cwime fighting group, but that's not impowtant." She took her cup up, taking another sip as her cheeks turned bright red. She felt like someone was watching her... and not the judgmental bystanders. She put the cup down, smile faded, as she listened to the man's reply.

He listened, the cup of half-filled wine immobile in his hands. His eyes were still, for not once did he glance away from her as vapors of verbiage sallied forth to strike upon his ears. Her loquaciousness held more than mere words. The strings of the instrument of vocalization expanded, if however briefly, a melody of her history spread out before him – the summer of strife, the autumn of loss, the winter of discontent, and finally the glory of spring and of growth – there was more than a hint of corollary in this tune to that of his own experiences. He would not say so though.

“Thus we have the being between, the half-breeds, the proverbial mule of perceptive existence.” His speech lost some of the polished air that had comprised every utterance here-to-fore. The words just uttered and those that followed were hard as stone and as cold as the frozen as the land just being discussed. “Always, or near always, we are used by many, abused by many, loved by few, but almost never entirely wanted.”

Then as quick as a spark, the entire emotional character of his companion altered.

As the caterpillar becomes the butterfly, as the ugly duckling becomes the swan, as the cursed frog becomes the prince, winter’s harshness gave way to vibrant lush sunny spring. His eyes crinkled as one does when smiling and a hint of warmth went into them. Then He spied the other onlookers, their pernicious expressions, the condemnatory cast of their eyes, the hush-hush conversations that shouted that aspersions were being hurled his companion’s way.

It might have been a mere consequence of the geometry of the building, or the topography of the various furnishings, or perhaps of just an outcome of random mass conversational dynamics, but whatever the case was he clearly heard the bald red beard near the wall snort, and say to his companions

“Feast your eyes on the dunce lass at the bar, a real pig slopper for sure, what aye?”

The table broke out into raucous laughter, as apparently they all agreed. Across the way, Drumheller spied the flamboyant harlot make a lewd gesture in the bars direction, followed by an exaggerated face, like the comic buffoonery of the idiot used by actors. The demure one at least had the good sense to cover her smile, or her laughter, with her hand. These actions were to be expected, he understood, but he also comprehended, on a near instinctual level, that he could not allow the current situation to continue given the high likelihood it would escalate. He needed to shut it down.

He needed to kill it, the idea of it, so it would not continue.

So he did. A common phrase that had thrown around the Holdfast was that he could let his eyes do all the talking. Kel’Kaush had been the one to coin the expression, and given that it came from him meant that the expression carried more weight than it would have had coming from most others in his relative age group. It was a simple trick really; he just let his true nature show. To do that his soul simply had to retreat. Return back to the hidden place deep inside that were his and only his. A place he had constructed when he was only five years old and desperately needed somewhere to hide, when he could not hide. He would not fully go there, only go there in part, as going there in full would be a disservice to his companion.

So he stood in his mind’s eye on the threshold of that secret inner place, while he tensed his eye muscles, just in time to match gazes with the gaudy strumpet. He witnessed her eyes go amazingly wide as her large painted lips opened slightly in slack-jawed fear. As from some indiscernible distance, his awareness catalog the sharp causticness of fear, not total panic mind – that putrid odor would have cut through all the aromas of the room in a heartbeat – as it was he only smelled faintly her anxiety over what he might do. His gaze swept across the floor, meeting the gazes of many of the jeerers, letting them all see the transformation that he had obtained, letting them all have a small taste of unease.

He knew precisely what they were looking at; he had once looked into a small mirror and witnessed the change himself first hand. The eyes were no longer gem like, no, but looked like the face of a frozen lake. They were more than that, and he knew it. They were not the eyes of a zombeefide corpse, the dried out husks of necrotized flesh, nor the altered animalistic orbs of the vampire or the Nether spawn; no, these were something alien in their own right. The soulless gaze of a fully living being, capable of who knew what.

Drumheller closed his eyes for a moment, and recalled the core of himself from that place where he had let it go; from that threshold of the hidden place buried deep inside. When his gaze once more fell upon his companion no oddity would be noticed. He took another sip of wine.

“I would very much like to meet your mistress someday. She seems quite the woman; no doubt you have learned many skills from her.”

He sat down his wine glass, which was now half full and bent down to snatch up the unconchus tiefling, and dumped him unseramoniously on a bar stool. He made no move to stop the fellows head from hitting the bar when he slumped forward.
“In a moment, we’ll take your friend for a walk.”

Lately, families lost their sons and daughters to the old thicket. A black abomination stalked the woods with the spindly gait of a soul's disjointed horror. It made fools of witnesses bold enough to recount their tails of a gaunt creature to the town's police, bony and bug eyed they swore. The eerie morass bore a healthy rise to such a quaint ghost story, its antagonist identified by eviscerating claws dragging bleeding bastards into a screaming death most deserved under the eyes of sanctimony. K-Zu-Ziro was the future's folk nightmare, feeding on the rendered fat and heated blood of the Peaceful Promenade's most inebriated patrons.

Crackling warmth, from a hearty fireplace, filled the tavern's hall with a secure aura, and the tavern in turn provided a crucial sanctuary in the chilling murk of the dank forest around it. Within, each soul felt the safety of their lost childhoods. Chattering, shuffling, music, singing and dancing, all together the sound rang out the din of reckless humanoid activity. Drunken antics were fundamentally conspicuous. Crouched in absolute darkness, nesting, K-Zu-Ziro presided over its collection of bones and dismembered limbs. Above the insectoid, the chorus of pleasure played on. And, though below, Ziro heard the noise through the muffle of a solid set of floorboards.

K-Zu-Ziro was nesting in the tavern's basement…

Congratulations!

Drumheller receives 485 EXP and 70 GP!

Flamebird receives 445 EXP and 55 GP!

K-Zu-Zero receives 95 EXP and 15 GP!

All rewards have been added!