Child of Darkness

Child of Darkness

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"Beneath the city, the belly of Ettermire groans with a growing population of grotesque and violent sewer-borne creatures. Late night disappearances have become alarmingly common and the residents are beginning to notice that something isn't right. With some digging, one might discover that this new problem isn't mere coincidence; something has affected the urban fauna, which means someone must be at fault."

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Rumor had it that a self-proclaimed fairy princess had set up shop above Moody's Ale Cellar down by the river in Radasanth. This would normally have been of no interest to Luned, especially seeing as she rather disliked the company of Resolve's rough-and-tumble crowd of drunks and prostitutes, but this quirky fey had a valuable talent: blink-of-an-eye transportation to any region and most major cities on the face of Althanas. The scribe needed to get to Ettermire and, after haphazard travels over the past year, she was inclined to take any shortcuts available, even if they required her presence at a brothel.

Prompt for her early evening appointment, Luned climbed the steps to the second floor above the bar. She knew the plain but clean main hall well, having visited her student several times before. Ahead was a second flight of stairs to Resolve's third floor apartment, to the right was the client entrance into Rosie's renowned parlor of trinkets and tricks, and to the left, what was once a coat closet was now labeled with a freshly painted sign in perfect gold on black block lettering:

Knock once for coat check
Knock twice for Princess Agnie Lar

Pale knuckles rapped at the door once, then twice, and with impressive promptness, the door opened. Behind it was a short, voluptuous blonde –– no, her hair wasn't blonde, that was certainly an inhuman gold, almost metallic in quality –– rosy and beaming, peering up to the scribe with anticipation. Luned wasn't surprised to see that behind her, instead of the musty contents of a rarely used closet, was a sunny, posh sitting room with foreign decor in gilded, luscious pinks. She was ushered in, door closed behind them. "Did you bring what I requested?"

"Ah, yes," Luned replied as she dug through the pockets of her coat. One of the quirks of Princess Agnie's service was the fact that she had little interest in standard monetary compensation and generally had strange demands in exchange for her service. Fortunately, the scribe was in a business that was equally valuable to a quick-traveling extraordinaire, and they were able to work something out to the satisfaction of both parties. She extracted a thick little envelope and handed it over. "There."

"Ooh, excellent! This will make things so much easier," the fairy accepted with busy hands, opening the package to reveal a substantial amount of plain standardized receipts with designated fields for names, dates, times, and locations. "Shall we test one now?"

With a nod, Luned extracted a fountain pen –– a most precious souvenir from her last visit to Alerar, she swore she'd pick up several more while she was there –– and handed it to Ags. "Luned Bleddyn, then today's date, location of origin, and destination, Ettermire. We both sign the bottom. Doesn't mean much, but I find folks like things to look official."

"You are the expert, after all," Agnie cooperated with ill-concealed glee, scribbling the information down in swooping cursive. Luned could often read personality through handwriting, and the fey's certainly fit.

"Now tear off the top layer, what you wrote should've copied through, and keep it. Give the second to me." Luned accepted her copy and the pen then demonstrated by ticking the corner, of which an identical twin mark faded into existence on the companion receipt. "When I'm ready to return, I'll request my pick-up on the ticket. Don't forget to check it often."

"Ooh, how clever!" Ags all but skipped over to a prepared wall of her parlor, many-layered, ill-matched skirts flouncing with each step, and tacked it in a highly visible location. Once satisfied, she turned and waved Luned back toward the door with a jingle of belled anklets. "Alright, then, you're free to go."

"Ah, I was looking to travel today, actually," Luned hesitated.

"I know." Either impatient or overenthusiastic, Agnie guided Luned firmly by a hand on the back, opened the door, and before she could think twice, the scribe was shoved through and it was closed and latched behind her. "Have fun!"

---

In the blink of an eye, as promised by way of advertisement, Luned was, indeed, in Ettermire. Everything was different and, for a moment, it threw her for a loop. The air quality was warmer and drier but laced with the pollutants of an industrious city in place of Radasanth's coastal humidity, and the intercontinental time difference caused her to squint unflatteringly in the early afternoon sun. She stood on a paved street in a vaguely familiar neighborhood, one she couldn't place off the top of her head, but a looming landmark tower blinked into focus against the smoggy sky as her eyes adjusted to the overcast light. Orienting herself, she realized she was close to the city center by just a few blocks, and that meant she was near her destination.

Gravebeard Cobbler & Sons was a tidy little establishment tucked away between a flower shop and a grocer just off one of the main streets. Its cheery yellow and green sign was welcoming, and Luned stepped through the front door to the creak of hinges and jingle of a greeting bell that was suspended via an intricate mechanism that disappeared into the ceiling and led, she believed, down into the basement. Inside was clean, some readymade products on display as samples of their work, boots and slippers and sandals in all the shapes and sizes one would expect of a reputable shoemaker.

In the back of the small shopfront was a desk and workbench occupied by an elderly dwarf, hunched over his project in impenetrable concentration. Luned approached and watched for a long moment as thick, stubby fingers manipulated a needle with such deft precision she was put to shame, rough hands gently stitching a vibrant posy on the toe of a soft white leather child's shoe. Immediately the scribe had respect for whoever individual this was, even if she was there for slightly unsavory reasons.

Luned stood before him and clasped her hands demurely in front of her, avoiding the temptation to fidget anxiously with the trim on her jacket, and cleared her throat in an effort to interrupt as politely as possible. Silence. She did it again.

Gravebeard sighed, setting down his work with utmost care on the countertop and looked up at Luned over his tiny, round spectacles. "Yes, I heard you. How can I help you, miss?" His voice was gruff through his bristly salt and pepper mustache.

"I'm here to pick up an order," she replied as naturally as possible.

He waited expectantly.

The scribe shifted awkwardly under his gaze. "The name's Arsal."

The cobbler's chair groaned as he stood with the grunt of a man with muscles stiff from long hours of work. Stretching, he hobbled toward a doorway that led into a dark hallway. When Luned didn't immediately follow, he glanced impatiently over his shoulder. "Orders are kept out back."

With a nod, Luned followed him into the corridor. There were several doors, but the one they took was expertly hidden in brick, a part of the wall which appeared to be the back of a chimney but yielded an entry as the dwarf summoned in a low voice. She was disappointed she didn't catch any of the words of that little enchantment. The steps leading down began in wood but quickly turned to stone and the portal closed behind them, though the passage seemed to contain some ambient lighting that kept their path visible. Their shadows crawled along behind them, slinking phantoms, and Luned felt a draft that chilled her in a way that reminded her just how sketchy this ordeal was.

As they walked in privacy, the dwarf apparently felt more chatty. "Haven't seen you before. Your first visit?" His voice echoed off the walls as the structure around them faded into a crudely carved tunnel. Luned estimated that they had descended about two stories.

"Yes," she replied, startled by how her voice sounded as it rang back at her. It was sharper than his and she dropped off nearly into a whisper. "But I was sent by an old patron."

Showing no interest in who this connection might be, Gravebeard halted at the landing at the bottom and knocked on the heavy wood door. A small window slid open at face level with the clack of iron and one golden eye stared out at them. "I imagine she's here for the latest shipment," the dwarf explained. The eye blinked at the scribe's freckled face, slot snapped shut, and the door opened. The cobbler hobbled back up the steps while Luned found herself ushered into what didn't appear to be a basement by any stretch, but a sewer.

"They're waiting just down there," the dark elf who kept security gestured, then bolted them in. "Don't wander off. Follow the torches." He didn't say anything else as he resumed his post, imposing frame leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

It appeared that this operation was founded in a forgotten corner carved out of Ettermire's endlessly complex sewer system, something which helped make it the most modern city in the world, but such a beast of a project over the span of hundreds of years lent to errors such as losing track of the many nooks and crannies. That was a convenient issue for organizations such as this, who needed secure and inconspicuous locations for storage and dealings.

As Luned started down the tunnel she noticed that there were many other open doorways that apparently led out into the rest of the honeycomb sewer system, and perhaps, she noted, other surface entrances, though she was specifically instructed to seek admission through Gravebeard's. She couldn't help but wonder what the other options might be, as well as speculate how many others had access to this particular space.

It was obvious where she was going even in the vague, shadowy dampness of the sewer. Lanterns studded the walls of the passage just far enough apart that she could see the smooth texture of the stone floor with every lonely, echoing step, washed out gray warming into a weathered tan as Luned passed each light. Up ahead, she noticed a glow emanating from one of the tunnels and knew it to be the place. With a deep breath she smoothed a crease in the skirt of her slate gray dress, then checked that her embroidered jacket was straight and crown of braids intact. Her appearance didn't matter, she was simply giving into routine in an effort to find any last inkling of confidence stashed away in her marrow, anything to feel less like a fish out of water. As an educated young woman she was good at many things, but her advanced ability to psyche herself out was by far the most vexing of her talents.

The term for an organized criminal element in the Aleraran language is literally “the low government.” There’s a good reason for that. The dark elves run everything the same way, from industry to monarchy: dirty, but efficient. And Swanra’ann was nothing if not the monarch in the low government.

Flint was working for Swanra’ann – the self-styled Queen of the Pit. He hadn’t had much choice in the matter, but he was good at not letting it show. That was the first thing he taught himself as a child: defeating fear, burying it so deep inside that sometimes even he doubted it was still within him at all. Doing so was wrong, he knew, and it stripped him of his humanity, but it was better than the alternative. The world is full of predators, and predators can smell fear. It’s how they tell one another apart from their victims.

Flint Skovik would never, ever be prey again.

So he worked for Swanra’ann, hard-eyed and cold, and soon he had her favor because he always did as she asked without hesitating, no matter how cruel, and because he was dangerous. A predator, like her.

He pretended that deep, deep inside him – buried alongside the rest of his humanity - there wasn’t a growing black lump of fear of Swanra’ann. He was good at pretending.

----


“It’s here,” Gareath said.

The alley was cooler than the open street, and there were still puddles gathered in the bowls and gaps between bricks and cobblestones. The water in Ettermire was tinted black with soot, and rainbows reflected on its surface when the light struck it. Flint privately wondered if it was the water that had darkened the elves’ skin over the centuries, and looked at the back of his hand curiously. It would probably take a long time to affect him, he told himself. Longer than he’d live.

“Here, Runt,” Gareath said, handing the crate over to Flint. “You carry it from here on. Nobody’s like to even look at you, so it’s safer.”

Flint said nothing as he took the crate, but he rattled the vials within a little more than necessary as he shifted it up onto his shoulder. Gareath was about to say something, but Flint locked eyes with him in challenge. The dark elf backed down first.

“Let’s get this done, eh?” Gregor said. “I gotta piss.”

“That’s nothing new, old man,” Gareath said, leaping on the excuse to tear his gaze from Flint’s. “You’ll wait until the job is done, or Swanra’ann will hear of it.”

The old man sobered up at that, and made a sour face behind his beard. He was a Salvarman, like Flint, but at least twenty years older. The other three, Gareath included, were dark elves. Their opinion of humans was no secret, but Gareath did most of the talking. If he weren’t so precious to the Queen, Flint might have considered breaking some part of him to send a message.

The five of them were to oversee a delivery of rare goods – vials of some liquid said to be rare, exotic, and no doubt illicit. It looked like water to Flint, but what did he know of wizards and alchemists? Swanra’ann said they called it Swaysong in Salvar, but he’d never heard of it. The Sway were as unknowable as the elves' science.

Gareath led the party through a crumbling archway and into a hidden garden behind a smoke-spewing factory. Once maybe there had been plants here, but now it was a flat, brick-lined square of packed earth. There was a tree stump in the center, with three empty glass bottles balanced on it. They were filthy, and may have been sitting there since before Flint was born. He casually nudged one of the bottles over when nobody was looking, and left it in the dust.

There was a low-set door on the far side of the garden, and Gareath rapped one knuckle against the wood in a slow pattern. A moment passed, and then the door swung open and the five of them shuffled in. “Good timing,” an elf inside said. “Our buyer arrived not long ago, it seems. Go in, I’ll oversee the transfer personally.”

“Yessir,” Gareath said, and Flint masked his surprise. He didn’t know this elf, but he must have been important for Gareath to show even the slightest bit of respect.

They were escorted into an adjoining room, which was brick-lined and moist. From the earthen floor and the moss gathered on the brick walls, Flint guessed it was a cellar. There was a small oil lamp set on the center of a basic wooden table in the middle of the room, but it was otherwise empty.

“I’ll watch the door,” Gareath said. “You four stay here, watch the box. Wait for the buyer. When she arrives, the Collector will oversee the exchange. Keep your goddamn mouths shut unless the Collector orders you to speak. Got it?”

The four of them nodded sullenly, and without another word Gareath stepped back out of the room and closed the door behind him. Flint shrugged the crate off of his shoulder, cringing a bit as the vials rattled against one another within, and then he set the crate down on the table lightly.

A cold thrill ran up his spine as he heard the tinkling crack of breaking glass somewhere in the room. He raised his head and looked to his companions wide-eyed, who in turn stared at him with the same look of chilled panic. He stepped back away from the table and scanned the floor, and immediately spotted a small, broken glass vial beneath the table.

Fear passed into confusion as it occurred to Flint that the vial on the ground was wholly unlike any of the vials in the crate. This one was larger, and bulbous on the bottom, and instead of being filled with a watery substance it seemed to be full of smoke. Indeed, the smoke now leaked out of its shattered container, and expanded as it reached up into the room, roiling lazily over itself. It did not dissipate as it expanded, but instead grew deeper, blacker, with curves and whorls that swirled inward and writhed like a handful of fat black snakes. Time stretched and lost definition as Flint stared into those inky depths, until the sway and sigh of the smoke began to form curves and take shape.

There was a face hidden within that shadowy, ethereal pillar, full-lipped and exotic, concealed within the smoke but formed from it at the same time, and she began to dance a slow dance that started from her hips and moved up through her torso over and over. The brute had seen such a dance once before, performed by a woman from Fallien. He stared at this woman as he had that one, mesmerized, but this time he did not fall in love. Instead his mind drifted across the width and span of thought, tossed on the waves of a mental ocean that ebbed and flowed to a belly-dancer’s beat.

And then the spell broke, the smoke cleared, and Flint blinked.

His eyes burned. He hissed and rubbed at them as the tears began to flow, and when he cleared them he scanned the room. Gregor and the pair of dark elves glanced between one another, all red-eyed and squinting, and then, one by one, they realized only one thing in the room had changed.

The crate was gone.

-----

Swanra’ann did not hire dull mercs. When it occurred to them that their charge was missing, the room immediately erupted into shouts and chaos. One of the dark elves pulled a knife, the other pulled his rifle. The blade came out quicker and drew a deep, ragged line across a one-time friend’s purple-grey throat, long before a shot could be fired.

Gregor crossed the room in one long stride and kicked the survivor’s left knee out from under him. When the elf went down, the Gregor grabbed the back of his head and forced it into the corner of the table twice. Head wounds bleed a lot, and this one was no exception.

When the big Salvarman turned to finish the last of his companions, he found himself staring into the dark. His brain filled in the details while his eyes adjusted: when the elf’s head struck the table, it rattled the lamp, sloshed the oil within, and had caused the flame to sputter for want of fuel. Now the shadows in the room were grown deep, and Flint – who Gregor had figured for the least dangerous of the crew despite his bulk – was nowhere to be seen.

Gregor felt a presence behind him and cried out, but too late. Flint threw three furious jabs in rapid succession from behind, and Gregor went down wheezing. Lazily, deliberately, Flint rolled him over onto his back with one boot and then dropped his knee down onto his kinsman’s throat and pressed.

“Wait,” Gregor said, choking and struggling beneath the shorter man’s weight.

“I am,” Flint said. He set his jaw, hardened his eyes, and leaned forward.

-----

When Gareath reentered the room, he stepped in blood first and found himself staring down the muzzle of a rifle second. Flint Skovik was kneeling on the other human’s throat with the rifle aimed steady, and the other two were dead or close to it. Nothing made sense until he realized the crate was missing, and he felt the color leave his face.

“Where is the box?” he whispered.

“Taken,” Flint said. “How long since you left us?”

“Minutes,” Gareath said. “Five, six minutes, no more.”

“Impossible,” Flint said as he moved slowly to his feet. He kept the rifle trained on the Aleraran.

“Did one of them…?”

Flint shook his head. “They panicked.”

“You can lower that, boy. I’m no fool, thinking I could put the blame on you or one of them. The Queen won’t care who done it, just that the delivery didn’t get to where it was meant to. We’re both fucked without that box, anyway.”

Flint unceremoniously tossed the rifle aside. “The thief couldn’t have come from your door, so he must have used this one. Where does it lead?”

“A rat’s nest of tunnels beneath the city,” Gareath said, already hurrying to the door opposite him. “They’re sewers, really, spreading out forever. Every minute we stand talking, the thief gets farther from us and harder to find, and we get a little closer to being very dead.”

The door was locked from the outside, but they forced it, and immediately split up running. The sewer air was blessedly humid compared to the smog-heavy atmosphere above, but it was also rank with rot and mold. Flint hoped these were not his final breaths.

As Luned approached, a tall figure clad in loose, dark clothing stepped out, feet silent and sure on the damp ground. It seemed to hesitate as it closed the door behind it and the scribe wondered if it noticed her, but it was difficult to tell as a black smoke she first mistook as shadow obscured the individual's countenance and blurred its movements, the shroud seeping from the room and trailing after as it dashed off down another tunnel. There was something large in its arms, but in the limited light, she couldn't make out the object.

Panic set in and Luned dashed up to the door, but when she realized the original glow of a lamp was gone through the small window at the top of the heavy wooden barrier and was replaced by curls of black fog, her stomach sank. Something was wrong, and if she wanted her share of the Swaysong, she needed to act fast.

"Hey!" Luned shouted, tearing a lantern off the wall and immediately taking off down the passage where the figure disappeared. She heard a shout muffled far behind her, likely the guard, but he was too distant to pursue as she could, so she continued with determination. The golden light she carried rippled strangely off the walls as it swung violently in her hand and the tunnel appeared to narrow as she went, eventually splitting into a fork. Luned cursed and slowed at this development until she saw that the villain's wet soles had marred the years of grime layered on the floor, footsteps leading clearly to the right.

In hot pursuit, Luned thought she heard something stir down the way and let it hearten her into believing she might actually catch this person, though she hadn't the faintest what she'd do if she did. She didn't even rightly know why she was following, save the fact that she was quite certain something was amiss, and she was desperate enough for this substance that she'd do anything she could to procure any usable amount. Her future depended on it.

Motivated by the bleak thought of life without the promise of Swaysong's power, Luned followed the passage as it dipped sharply and carried her further underground. As she splashed through an inch of stagnant water, mildew overwhelming her senses, she noticed that there were many openings along the walls, gaping mouths revealing endless esophagi to the unknown. To her relief these were too short to comfortably accommodate the escape of someone as tall as the figure she witnessed, more like oversized pipes, and she continued straight on until she entered a small chamber that functioned as an intersection of several larger tunnels.

Stopping for even just a short moment reminded Luned just how out of breath she was, heart pounding against her ribcage as her lungs struggled for air. She gasped and wheezed in the dank stench of the sewer, intensified by the dead water that now reached her ankles, and she tried not to imagine what was in it and soaking her best pair of boots. Perhaps she'd need to place an order with Gravebeard, after all. Considering his fine craftsmanship, she allowed herself half a second to desperately wish that the current circumstances allowed her to be excited about new shoes. Alas, no such luck.

When it finally seemed that the scribe had lost the fleeing figure, something caught the light of her lantern and glinted in the corner of her eye, far down the tunnel to the left. Emboldened, Luned took chase once again, splashing recklessly as she struggled to keep pace in sodden feet and drenched skirts, both beginning to weigh her down.

"Wait!" she shouted hopelessly, calling to someone who could not hear, as no one was there. Tiring, Luned's pace slowed and she cursed, choice words hollered back at her as echoes from the far ends of the tunnel.

Once again, out of the corner of her eye, the light of her lantern glinted off something quick-moving and much closer this time, a hot yellow speck flickering as whatever it was disappeared down another passage. Instead of feeling encouraged this time, Luned experienced an epiphany. That wasn't a person, and she didn't want to be there for the big reveal.

Of course, as she learned in Salvar only months ago, fate was rarely on her side. No sooner than she turned to go back from whence she came, her lantern illuminated the entrance of a nearby tunnel, and within it lurked the essence of nightmares itself.

For a moment all Luned's wide eyes could see was a pair of massive mandibles, large enough to pluck a limb from a man's body as if nothing more than a twig, dripping with an algae-green sludge. Shiny black eyes, big as her head, leered at her from a height well over her own, its arthropodal body reared atop more legs than she could see. They were coated in strange growths and provocatively violent spines that coated them like quills of hair, some large enough to puncture several major organs at once. Every inch of the scribe's body hurt just thinking about it.

Its monolithic form seized, tensed, and it let out a horrific hiss that nearly burst her eardrums, sending her staggering backwards and against the wall. She nearly dropped the lantern and could've wept simply out of gratefulness that she didn't, if she wasn't so stricken with fear.

It wasn't until the creature crept forward, previously collapsed body gaining a horrid amount of volume as it expanded to fill the larger tunnel, that Luned regained use of her extremities. With a shriek of sheer terror she took off, pushed to the limit as she struggled to run. She heard the growling scrape of the behemoth's exoskeleton against the structure as it followed close behind, too afraid to even consider looking back, to experience that visual again. She decided it wasn't facetious at all to speculate that she might drop dead on the spot from emotional trauma.

In mid-flight Luned remembered the smaller pipelines from earlier, too short to stand and surely too cramped for a giant roach, but conveniently large enough for her to hide. As she neared the chamber intersection she felt a glimmer of hope, but just as the light she carried reached the open space, her foot caught on something and sent her face-first into the water. The lantern smashed, light extinguished with nothing more than one last plume of smoke, and the tunnel was plunged into inky blackness.

Luned pulled herself up, coughing and peeling loose, wet hair out of her face, and took off running again in the darkness, knowing she couldn't afford to slow down. She felt frantically along the wall on the right, knowing all she needed was the next turn, hoping for salvation before she experienced an uglier fate than she ever could have imagined.

Flint was standing in a foot of green-brown water at the mouth of a metal tube, doubting. He glanced over his shoulder and considered his options, and told himself it wasn’t fear to run. There was cowardice, and there was prudence. Waste time chasing the unknown and getting lost in this wet, stifling hell, or get out and leave Alerar before Swanra’ann sorted out the mess and realized he was missing.

A droplet struck the naked flesh of his scalp and ran down the back of his neck. He snuffed the reek of that place from his nostrils and forced himself forward. He couldn’t risk going back and running into any of the Queen’s men. He was unsure of what death lay before him, but all too knowledgeable of the death that lay behind.

He followed two pairs of footprints. He’d been following them for awhile now. They’d been made by feet smaller than his, which meant neither could be Gareath. For awhile he thought there had been two thieves, but now he wasn’t sure. The second set never intersected the first.

The tunnels were dark, but not without light. Some eerie luminance shone on the metallic walls of the tubes, and reflected on the surface of the water, though Flint couldn’t discern the source. The moss itself seemed to be infused with its own sickly glow, casting just enough light to safely see by – until it didn’t.

Twice Flint had to double back after losing the trail in the dark, and both times he had to eliminate his own spoor. The second time was especially frustrating, because apparently he had walked over one of the trails without realizing it and marred it, and it took him a full minute to find where the proper set of footprints began again. They were wider spaced here. Were they running?

The brute tensed as something sounded in the distance. At first he thought it a whisper and cringed, imagining some drowned ghost lurking behind him, seaweed in her hair and crab eggs in her empty eye-sockets, but after a horrible moment he realized it was coming from far off, echoed through the tunnels. He told himself it was the wind, and did his best to deny his humanity.

“I don’t fear death,” he muttered under his breath. “I am fear.”

He didn’t convince himself the first time, so he said it again. It was too dark to see the trail now, but he marched forward defiantly anyway. His boots squelched in what he hoped was mud, and the sound echoed all around him. Now the way before him was dark enough to be an outline, empty darkness held within a darker, tube-shaped, harder darkness. He refused to let himself stop.

Something made a scraping noise once, so Flint stopped to listen. The silence left a ringing noise in his ears until the scraping noise returned again, echoing so that it was hard to tell but he was sure, so sure it was getting closer. He did not know from personal experience what bone scraping on metal sounded like – not yet anyway – but he imagined that noise was pretty close.

There was no denying his humanity now. Flint turned, and he ran like hell.

----

The animal part of Flint’s brain craved light, and he scrambled after it like a burning man after water. He fell again and again, slipping on mud and moss, tripping on uneven cuts and grooves in the metal tubes, until he was soaking wet and filthy and panting raggedly. He didn’t care where he was going, just so long as it was getting brighter – just so long as he could see the ghost chasing him.

A moment came at last when he could stop and gather just enough detail from his surroundings not to feel utterly blind, and he let himself breathe, turning around in a slow circle. A new surge of fear welled up in him when he realized that he didn’t know where he was or how to get back, but this one he stamped down. He could see again, and as long as he continued moving toward the light –

And then he saw the ghost. She flitted across the opening of a tunnel across from him, trailing sopping wet ropes of hair, her muddy skirts trailing behind her. He doubted his eyes, denied it, but her ragged breath echoed around him, strained by fear and exertion. He tensed, struggling to pinpoint where she would come from when she attacked, but of course she was a ghost, she could come from anywhere and it would always be behind him.

He twisted, growling, sure to find her waiting for him, but she wasn’t.

Instead, a monster loomed above him, drooling a mixture of brown slop and quivering green moss like the leaves off a weeping willow. Flint’s shoulders drooped and he cocked his head to one side, and his brain struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Then it lurched toward him, raising two hard, hook-like legs to either side of him.

It had mandibles, and too many blade-covered legs, and its body was hard and glimmered, and its eyes were like large, black, solid glass windows that dominated the sides of its head. He’d seen its kin a hundred thousand times in miniature, but it was so unnaturally huge that his animal brain couldn’t make the connection. Instead of reasoning it out, he did what he always did when he was afraid.

He threw a punch.

His knuckles met the surface of its left eye, and it was like punching very thick glass. Man and monster recoiled from one another – the monster because it had never been punched before, the man because he just punched a giant roach. Flint tensed, wanting to run but wanting more not to have this thing behind him. The monster worked its mandibles, turning its head in a twitchy, alien fashion from side to side, and then it hissed.

The sound was deafening, crushing soul and body together, and Flint felt his legs go out from under him. The roach skittered forward opportunistically, its blade-legs clattering and thundering on the metal tube, and it loomed up again. Flint pressed his back against the lower part of the tube behind and underneath him and shoved both his feet up, catching the monster on the – what? chest? – just beneath its head. He grunted and pushed with his entire body, and in the process pinned the top of the monster to the ceiling of the sewer tunnel, and he held it there.

The roach didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. Its front legs worked uselessly in the air, and it tried in vain to bite his legs, but they were too low and the monster didn’t have a neck to speak of, and its body was hard and inflexible. For a moment Flint thought he’d bought himself some breathing room and a chance to think, but the unholy thing finally figured out how to push its front legs against the sewer wall above his head, and it pushed itself away from him, sliding backward along the ceiling.

“You fucker,” Flint growled, struggling to keep the thing pinned. “Stop it. Stop.”

But it didn’t stop, so he let out a ragged scream and pushed with all of his might just as the roach redoubled its efforts, and the oversized pest tumbled onto its back. Flint scrambled away from it through the shallow water, slipping on slime, and risked a glance behind as he started running. The monster was waving its tremendous, bladed legs in the air, scraping them on the edges of the tunnel as it struggled to right itself.

He took the tunnels at random, splashing and sputtering, until he turned a corner and caught sight of something moving in the dark ahead of him. He paused, and his eyes adjusted. He thought it was a dog at first, but it wasn’t. It had too many legs, and giant pincers attached to its head, and massive stalks that waved this way and that, and it turned to face him, and then he realized there were countless other stalks waving in the dark behind it.

“Nope,” he said.

He picked another way and ran, and got to the end of that tunnel before he collided with a smaller, softer figure. He bounced off the side of the tunnel, she fell in the water. It was the ghost, only she was solid, and the fear he felt inside was reflected on her face.

“Not that way,” he said firmly. “Don’t go that way.”

They ran together, instantly made family by their shared terror. They ran and ran, until suddenly they were sliding down a muddy hill, and they rolled onto cracked cobblestone beside a poorly lit warehouse. Flint was on his back and saw the sun shining dull yellow behind a layer of smog and he began to laugh.

Filthy, reeking, soaking wet, bruised, scratched, and shivering – but alive.

Luned barely registered the abrupt change in scenery when the man next to her burst out laughing, his voice clear and full as it raised to the sky. The sky! She blinked at it, never so grateful to see something so dreary and overcast with smog. Gradually the scribe uncoiled herself from the fetal position and peeled herself off the pavement, allowing herself a few slow, deep breaths to calm the tremors of fear, and wiped some tangles out of her face. Her braids had come loose and her long, dark hair was impossibly snarled, plastered against her soaked clothes with she didn't even want to know what, and she knew it wasn't even worth digging out her ticket home because it wouldn't take ink legibly until properly dried.

That, and she came here for Swaysong, and she was not leaving Ettermire without it.

With a few choice curses at the realization that she'd ruined this opportunity to obtain some –– hell, she didn't know why she chased that figure, other than a hunch –– Luned lifted herself to her feet, awakening all sorts of aches and pains as adrenaline wore off. She groaned as she attempted to right her clothing somewhat, wondering if any reputable inn would take in a drowned sewer rat, and then glanced over to Flint, her unlikely comrade in this bizarre situation. She didn't recognize him but his distinct silhouette certainly didn't match up to the mystery person who fled with the package, and he was obviously just as bewildered by this whole experience as herself.

Going out on a limb, as the laughing subsided and he composed himself, Luned spoke up. "They got it, didn't they?"

Her question reaffirmed Flint's suspicion of her identity. He pulled himself to his feet, not bothering to spend futile energy on tidying his appearance as she had as there wasn't much one could do when drenched head to toe in sewage. The man nodded simply to answer her question.

"Damn. I saw them," Luned explained with a furrowed brow, "But whoever it was knows the tunnels very well."

Flint contemplated briefly under an expert poker face. "Do you have enemies who may have wished to intervene?"

The scribe's gaze rose questioningly and it was apparent she was striving to maintain composure in spite of the chill that was settling over Ettermire with impending dusk, the breeze much sharper through soaked clothing. She hugged herself. "I can't imagine. No one could possibly know I'm here, anyhow."

Having hoped this entire ordeal was Luned's fault to save his own hide, Flint was somewhat disappointed in her response. She didn't seem the type to lie but, then again, she was certainly the type to purchase illicit goods from the black market, so who was he to assume such things? Either way, they had a common problem. Before he could speak up, she continued.

"We have to get it back." Her words sounded pleading, but there was something behind those concerned blue eyes that hinted at an unhealthy level of determination, the type of resolve that sent a scrawny girl into the belly of a strange city's monster-plagued sewers. Resolve that said, without a doubt, she'd go back to get what she needed.

It was amusing, and Flint humored her as he checked inventory of his belongings. "We were caught in a smoke illusion, and when we came out of it, everything was gone. The thief must be a wizard or––"

"Smoke? Did it smell like anything?"

This question surprised Flint and he considered it carefully. "Sulfur, perhaps? Subtle, but recognizable. It came from a vial."

Luned's lips moved as she mentally ran through what she remembered of an alchemy text, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if attempting to hold in whatever warmth was left. She was shivering. "Alchemy. So, how are we going to track this person down?"

Flint could've laughed again. We? Before he could articulate a response, however, there was a sound from the pipe opening nearby, and both of the unlikely duo tensed and crossed their hearts through clenched teeth that they hadn't led anything to the surface.

Flint tensed, poised to run like hell. There was just a little surge of adrenaline now, enough to chase off the fresh aches and pains but not enough to cause panic. After all, he was outside those horrid tunnels now. If anything from down there came into his world, he was convinced he could easily escape it on the city streets.

He whipped around, expecting to see waving feelers or the front pair of the roach’s bladed legs to emerge from the pipe. Instead, a tiny silhouette stood there, still and staring. It was an Aleraran child, small and dressed in mismatched and oversized clothing, and she stood in the mouth of the pipe as if she’d always been there.

There was something off about her, but Flint didn’t particularly want to see a child gobbled up by a giant roach. “Hello,” he said. Even his greetings sounded like a threat. He inwardly winced, and he saw his new companion glance at him sidelong.

“Hi,” the girl-child said. “I’m Helethra.”

“Hello, Helethra, my name is Luned,” his companion said. “And this is…um…”

“Flint.”

“Flint,” Luned said, and nodded. “You shouldn’t be in there, it’s very dangerous.”

“I know,” Helethra said, in the tone of all children caught doing something they oughtn’t. “But all my friends are down there. We saw you running away.”

“There are more children in there?” Flint said, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” Helethra said, and she giggled just a little. “That’s stupid.”

Flint frowned behind his beard and puffed his chest out a bit, but Luned thankfully stepped in again before he could send the girl running straight into certain death.

“Helethra, do you live around here?”

The child nodded cautiously, perhaps sensing that these strange, filthy adults were trying to tempt her away from the sewers.

“Well, I’m not from around here,” Luned said, “and I think we’re lost. Do you think you could show us where you live?”

“Oh yes!” Helethra said, delighted to show off. “Come on, I’ll take you there! I know the way.”

The girl bounded down the hill from the pipe, drawing a relieved breath from the duo of adults, and then she began stomping in puddles down a narrow alleyway between two warehouses. Now that she was out of the shadow of the pipe, they saw that she was wearing an overlarge and mud-spattered cloak, and boots that must have been four or five sizes too big. She was very dirty, with large, dark splotches all over her hands and face, and just as they got a chance to examine her she abruptly stopped and pulled her hood up.

“I forgot,” she said. “Gotta put my hood on outside so I don’t get sick. Mom says. Come on, I’ll show you how to get home, it’s this way. I know how to get all over the place.”

Flint made a grumbling noise under his breath from behind, but when Luned began to follow the girl, he trailed along too. He saw in her posture that she was relieved, and he wondered if she realized how little choice he had. Swanra’ann would never have him killed in the presence of a buyer.

Flint chewed on that as they walked, silent as Helethra began to chatter on about who lived in what house and whether or not they were very mean. He glanced over at his companion, and saw that same unflinching resolve in her eyes, even as she shivered. He was safe from the Queen of the Pit at Luned’s side, and she obviously knew far more about alchemy than he could guess.

The problem was, this slight young madwoman would rush back into those sewers the second she had a chance. Flint suppressed a shudder.

Swanra’ann or the sewer? It isn’t often that one gets to choose the manner of his grisly murder.

----

Flint expected a child that played in the sewers to lead them to her home in a shantytown somewhere on the outskirts of the factory district. Instead she led them up out of the slums and into that strange place where the library neighborhood joined the factory neighborhood, where the people live in tenements on one street and in lofts on the next.

Flint and Luned, despite being filthy, passed fine and unnoticed amongst the factory-folk, but here they stood out strange, and not just because they were wet and coated in industrial sewage. They were human, short, ill-dressed, and they were obediently following a child, who gleefully leapt into oily puddles with both boots no matter how many times she had to apologize for splashing them.

Ultimately Helethra stopped at the stoop of a large, stately building, all tower windows and hulking marble pillars. “We’re here!” she announced. Then she paused and looked at them, and put on a thoughtful face. Flint looked at her closely while he could, and decided that the splotches on her face and neck stood out from her skin and were not dirt. They reminded him of the craggy bumps that sometimes grow on the roots of trees.

“You guys are really dirty,” Helethra told them. “We should go in the back way, or everybody’s gonna get mad at you. Come on.”

Luned and Flint traded a look, and then followed Helethra down the side of the building, until they came upon a recessed door low in the foundation. Helethra opened the door, and then turned around and said, “Wait here, okay?” and then disappeared inside without waiting for a response.

“Come with me,” Flint said. “I have some money stashed away. We’ll recover it, and then plan our next move.”

“Wait,” Luned said. “Didn’t you see the sign above the front door?”

“I don’t read elf,” Flint said bluntly.

“This is a museum of medical oddities. It said they have an exhibit on the effects of the city’s industry on underground wildlife. Doesn’t that sound familiar to you?”

Flint shrugged, and said, “How does that help us recover the –"

And then the door opened again, and a very tall dark elf stepped forward.

“Valsharess keep us,” she said breathlessly.

“I know, they’re really dirty,” Helethra said. “That’s how they were when I found them in the sewer and I told them it’s really dangerous. They were lost and I helped! His name is Mr. Flint and her name is Missus Looney.”

“Luned,” Luned gently corrected. “I apologize for our appearance, ma’am, we’ve just…”

The dark elf woman glanced from Flint to Luned and back again, with eyes wide and breath held, and then she exhaled and seemed to regain her wits. “Not at all,” she said at last, “I owe you my gratitude. Helethra has been told to stay away from the sewers…”

“I wasn’t!” Helethra cried. “They were in the sewers, I told you.”

The mother sighed. “My name is Ezura,” she said. “Please, come in. Let’s get you warmed up. It’s the least I can do.”

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The back led into a narrow hallway, long and dark, the odor of a strange chemical heavy in the air. Ezura led them to the second door on the right which opened into a laboratory of sorts, the stench even more pungent within. When Luned saw the numerous jars lining shelves on the light-studded walls and a well-used work space with an elaborate setup of intricate medical tools, she knew exactly what it was: formaldehyde. Everything was well-stocked, and there was an open cabinet filled with various substances in vessels of varying shapes and sizes, all labeled clearly. Some Luned recognized, some she didn't, but many were familiar from medical and scientific texts she'd perused in the past. On a whim, she scanned it for the ingredients she knew to be in a basic smoke bomb, but wasn't surprised when she didn't see them. That would be too easy.

A corner of the room was set up as a cozy living space, complete with an oversized armchair and various forms of entertainment from toys to books splayed out on a plush rug, and Luned immediately understood their lifestyle. With a mother who worked long hours, she imagined that a bundle of energy such as Helethra could only spend so long cooped up in a lab before acting out and finding entertainment in the secret places of the city. She'd probably be tempted to do the same in that situation, seeing as the stink had all but knocked her socks off, but there was Helethra pulling her by the sleeve, not even noticing it. Perhaps the girl's sense of smell was permanently dulled from growing up in this environment, and that was why the sewers were more hospitable to her than regular folk.

Soon Helethra had Luned positioned in front of a metal contraption, held up by pipes that receded into the walls, which radiated a blissful amount of heat. She was accustomed to fireplaces but it made sense to avoid large amounts of open flame in a place where dangerously flammable substances were used in such volume. She held her hands up to it and felt she could've melted, it was such an immense relief.

"You too, Mr. Flint," Helethra insisted, strolling up to the man who'd brought up the rear with quietly concerned Ezura. He'd stayed toward the back, having made the mistake of looking at the jars close enough to identify the contents: the one closest to him, sitting on a shelf at eye-level, was an elven fetus floating in a clear solution, with little red eyes which seemed to watch him no matter where he was in the room. It creeped him out more than he liked to admit. Behind that was a similarly suspended corpse of a puppy with half of an extra head. "That's Bruno," Helethra explained, pointing up at it and tapping her little brown finger on the glass. "I wanted to keep him, but he died. Mom said it wasn't natural, but I dunno, I think he's cute. Look, he's smiling!" Sure enough, the corners of the lips on the fully developed head curled upwards into the grim grin of lockjaw, tiny teeth bared. When Helethra leveraged herself on the floor and used her body weight to shove Flint playfully on the back toward the heater, he allowed it, but he still felt the eyes of that fetus following him. It prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

Ezura was gracious enough, but not the warmest hostess. She stood, her willowy figure slightly bent over them with hands clasped in front of her as if not quite sure what to do with them. She seemed to be a rather uptight woman, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a severe bun, forehead creased from years of vexation. Her skin was beautiful, though, a few shades deeper than her daughter's with a warm purple undertone that Luned was desperate to remember for the next time she mixed colors. Meanwhile, the elf seemed to struggle with hospitality. "Would you like some hot tea?"

Refreshments from a rancid-smelling laboratory weren't appetizing in the least to either of the guests, both imagining something questionable served up in a beaker. Flint shook his head and opened his mouth, but as if afraid he might say something rude, Luned spoke over him.

"We noticed the sign outside," she volunteered, seizing this opportunity to get some information through small talk. "We've never been to a museum like this before, it sounds interesting."

"Ah, yes," Ezura replied. A soft smile played on her deep red-violet lips and her posture relaxed somewhat, as if relieved to speak on a comfortable subject. "Would you like to see it? If you come back tomorrow when we're open, I'd be more than happy to give you a tour as thanks."

"That might be nice, we'd appreciate it." Luned smiled back, polite but friendly. "What is the special exhibit like?"

"Well, Bruno here is a prime example," Ezura said as she nodded toward the deceased dog. "It was only a matter of time before Ettermire's technology began to work against the ecosystem, and at this point our city is ravaged by pollution." She reached out and ran her hand over her daughter's pale hair, smoothing it affectionately. "If we want to make it a safe place for our children, we need to create laws to improve conditions. Our research is the first step to awareness."

Meanwhile, Helethra stuck her fingers in her ears and wagged her head from side to side, silently mouthing words as if all too accustomed to her mother's speech.

"That's not very nice, Hel," Ezura said, sharply this time. She gently pried one hand away from her daughter's head, and in the better light, Luned and Flint finally got a good look at the strange, bark-like protrusions in the girl's skin. "You know I do it for you."

"Yeah, yeah," Helethra sighed, plopping to the floor where she organized her toys on the carpet. Her dolls were all creatively mangled, limbs transplanted from one to another and drawn on with strange patterns, but all wearing exquisitely sewn dresses. She selected one with several heads and a dozen threads tied to her clothing like little tails, and tugged on Flint's muddy pant leg. "Wanna meet my friends?"

The hulk of a man grimaced as he looked down over his crossed arms, hoping whatever was wrong with her wasn't contagious. "No."

"How about when we come back tomorrow," Luned said, smoothing over the wrinkle in friendship Flint had caused with his gruff response. "Right now we have to go home."

"Yeah, you guys really need a bath," Helethra nodded with certainty.

The scribe crouched down briefly to meet Helethra's green gaze. "Thanks for helping us out. You be careful and listen to your mother, alright?"

This struck a note and the silly smile left the girl's face. She pursed her lips, little brow furrowed, and looked back down at her toys in avoidance.

A bit stumped by Helethra's reaction, Luned shrugged it off as she stood and looked to the other adults. Lack of mention of giant monsters when discussing the exhibit had her second-guessing whether she should ask Ezura about them and the last thing she wanted to do was entice a mother into that death pit, so she let it be.

"Speaking of baths, please go upstairs and get cleaned up," Ezura shooed her morose daughter. "I'll meet you in a minute." With a theatrical groan, Helethra obeyed, but not without gathering her dolls into her arms first. It was quite a bulk, but she managed as she awkwardly toddled out the door without dropping any. The child didn't bid her new acquaintances good bye, evidence of a thoroughly darkened mood.

Ezura walked them out as Helethra scampered down the hall in the opposite direction. When the girl was out of earshot, she spoke quietly, looking between both of her guests. "May I ask how you came to be…?" Instead of elaborating, she glanced to their mussed clothing.

Flint spoke up this time, less interested in treading lightly than Luned. "We were hired to map the sewers and encountered an... obstacle. Are you aware of just what exactly is lurking underground?"

The woman hesitated, resting her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, then nodded. "I have heard some strange things, stranger than the specimens we collected for our exhibit, though I haven't seen them firsthand. I didn't believe them at first, but now that you mention it, I wonder…" She trailed off, but it seemed she was preoccupied by the thought of something different than horrific creepy crawlies the size of livestock.

"It's not pretty down there," Luned said, frowning. "I know it's not my place to say this, but you might want to take more drastic measures to keep Hel safe. I can't bring myself to imagine what would happen if she got down there."

Instead of becoming defensive in receiving child-rearing advice from someone less than half her age, Ezura merely sighed and nodded in defeat. "She's got her father's spirit, that's for sure, and it feels wrong to dampen it... but you're right. And please, if there's anything I can do to help –– not that I can imagine what –– let me know."

Flint nodded and stepped out the door, but as Luned followed, they were interrupted one last time. "If you find anything and manage to get it under control," Ezura ventured, her hand insistent on the scribe's shoulder as she looked to Flint, "Could you bring it back here? I think that's what this city needs –– evidence of something truly terrible. Then they'll wake up and understand what we're doing to ourselves. We will compensate you for your trouble, of course."

The request made sense, and Flint nodded again. "We'll see."

The door closed behind Ezura and the snaps of multiple deadbolts could be heard from the other side as she locked up for the evening. It only took a few moments outside for the chill to set in through damp clothes once more, and Luned hugged herself as they walked around the building back to the street. A vague amount of color was visible through the smokey clouds on the horizon; it was getting late, and Helethra was right. All Luned really wanted at this point was a bath. She was patient and tired enough to wait until tomorrow for the next leg of the investigation, all the while unaware of the serious debacle Flint had found himself in. Apparently she was still trusting and naive enough to welcome a team effort when, normally, she'd be shit out of luck. Well, either that or roach feast.

"I have some money," she said, keeping her voice low, "But where's your stash? Is it easy to get to?"

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Flint absently wiped his palms on his pants as he considered Luned’s query. The museum left his skin feeling dirtier than the drying sewer-water, and the smeared mud was, at least, something that could be washed away.

“That’s a good question,” he told her after a moment. “We won’t know until we try.”

Luned might have thought to question that, but Flint was already wandering away, abstractly studying one of his hands. He was muttering to himself, but she didn’t catch any of it except the word “smiling.”

----

Flint led her back into the slums while the sun finished setting, and the sickly yellow sky blackened. As night fell it might have become easier to forget the smog, except for the eerie street lamps. Ragged children ran the streets with strange candles affixed to long poles, which they used to light the lamps one by one. The light from them was anemic and shivery, and they were high enough above the street to reach into the lowest layer of smog. Behind the haze they looked like tiny, malnourished suns suspended in uniform lines above the streets.

The brute began to take the back alleys, and without realizing it he adopted a full swagger. Looking at him, it was easy to believe he owned the dark corners of Ettermire. The truth was, he was searching the dark corners and doing his damndest to look too hard to be worth the effort. This is where the predators lived.

He slowed his pace and half-turned, waiting for Luned to catch up and come closer.

“Stay very close to me,” he said lowly. “You look…vulnerable.”

Her eyes tried to argue with him, but her flat hair, waterlogged dress, and tightly crossed arms supported his point. He hoped he wore his own layer of grime better, but he always had a hard time figuring what people saw when they looked at him.

“Head down,” he said, and then he plunged in.

They rounded the corner out of the alley and onto a street filled with loitering dark elves, each swarthy hide smeared with soot, except for the women closer to the building they were approaching. Their skins were clean, and most of it was bared. They had painted smiles for Flint as he passed, but only sneers and leers for Luned.

They slipped through a doorway then, and into a noisy general room with more cigar smoke than oxygen. Someone inside that cloud was playing the piano to one side of them, and to the other someone else was playing a string instrument, and each seemed determined to drown out the other with different songs. It was a tavern of sorts, or an inn, or a brothel, or everything all together, or perhaps what it was had never been defined. Alcohol and more illicit things flowed freely, and they weren’t halfway across the room before Luned saw one dwarf stab another with a broken bottle.

Every time they passed someone too close, Flint slowed his pace a fraction of a degree and pressed his back against her before twisting to allow the stranger to pass. It happened twice before she realized he was shielding her from sight as much as possible. It was not an easy feat, because most of these patrons were tall elves, and he was not much taller than she. Still, it seemed to work. She knew better than to look over her shoulder to be sure.

They reached and ascended a staircase, which was densely populated with people, and it was impossible to go unnoticed. “Hey there,” someone said in her ear, speaking Aleraran. Flint shoved him back, and they ascended a little faster. The crowd thinned at the top, and Luned could see more of the scantily-clad dark elves leaning over the railing there, calling to patrons below.

They turned a corner down a long hallway, and the discordant noise from below was just slightly muffled. Flint risked a glance back at her, and gave her the slightest nod, eyes hard. Almost there.

They stopped in front of a wooden door. There might have been numbers on the doors once, but they were long gone, and the discolored white paint was peeling in long strips. How Flint chose the door was beyond Luned, but he did, testing the knob. It was locked, but it took no effort at all for him to force it. Had he asked her, Luned could have done it.

They entered a dark room, which looked as if it had suffered a minor fire once, but had never been repaired. There was no furniture, and the mirror on the wall was so deeply coated in soot that it could be mistaken for a painting. Flint didn’t bother closing the door, perhaps because the only source of light came from the hallway, which illuminated a bare mattress in the corner. There was an Aleraran elf passed out on it, soaked in cheap booze and vomit but breathing, and still clutching a bottle by the neck. Flint dragged the mattress off to the side and the elf did not stir.

Once the mattress was out of the way, Flint tore up a loose floorboard and reached beneath, and then produced a handful of long, rectangular papers covered in tight script and stamped sigils. He flipped through them, stuffed them into his belt and then, with some great effort, opened the window.

“You first,” he said.

Luned looked from the window to the man and back again, thought about going back down through the bar, and then promptly crawled out through the window onto the roof. Flint glanced over his shoulder, wondering if Swanra’ann’s headhunters spotted him in the tavern, and then followed her out.

-----
“You know,” Luned said when they were good and far away from the tavern, once Flint stopped looking over his shoulder every four steps, “when you mentioned your stash, I was worried you kept it in the sewers. Now I think that might have actually been preferable.”

“Apologies,” Flint said. He either didn’t mean it, or didn’t apologize very often. Or ever.

“Next time, I think I’ll find a nice quiet spot and wait outside.”

“Wasn’t safe.”

“Yeah, it would have to be a few blocks away, but still…”

Flint shook his head. “For me,” he said.

“What do you…?”

“Come.”

----

Luned might have considered giving Flint a stronger piece of her mind, imposing though he might be, except that he took her straight to a train station. The noise from the steam engine and the rattling tracks prevented any mind-sharing, and he didn’t seem to understand dirty looks, and the need was supplanted by curiosity when they left the train on the posh side of town.

Once they reached the inn, she forgot why she was angry with him. First she was afraid they were going to be thrown out for tracking sewage on the luxurious carpet, and then Flint handed over one of his strange slips and they became “Sir and Madam” and were whisked to adjoining rooms, and they were informed that their baths were ready, and would they like dinner delivered, and please, allow us to supply a change of clothes, how dreadful.

Before she knew it, Luned was submerged in the largest bathtub she’d ever seen, and the friendliest elves she’d ever met were scrubbing her back for her no matter how much she protested. They washed her hair with sweet-smelling shampoos, combed it with exactly one-hundred strokes over three sections, dried it with a terrifying elven contraption that spat hot air, and then braided it just the way she liked. They fed her a three-course meal right after her bath, and would have brought more if she hadn’t insisted that she was full.

It was a whirlwind of unexpected, all-too-sudden events, and at the end of it she found herself sitting in the fluffiest bath robe known to the civilized races at a table across from Flint. He was similarly attired, which was objectively hilarious. The robes were robin’s egg blue, and he looked very sullen.

“That’s…that’s some stash.”

“Yes,” Flint said. “I’ve done well for myself in Alerar, especially in the boxing houses. The elves seem to equate height with strength; it gives me a distinct advantage. Nobody bets on the short man. Good odds.”

“Thank you,” Luned said. She was much better at being sincere than he was.

“Hmm,” Flint said. He didn’t tell her that he’d chosen this place because it was the last place Swanra’ann would look for him. Best she didn’t know how much leverage she had over him.

“We should have some sort of plan,” Luned said.

Flint shifted, and looked up at her. He frowned when he saw that now-familiar look in her eyes. The resolve. She was going into the sewers, and he was not going to be able to stop her. He briefly wondered if he could somehow convince her to accompany him to the docks first, or the trans-Salvic train station.

Instead, he said, “we’ll need light.”

“Lamps won’t do. Trust me.”

“Perhaps something alchemical,” he offered. “You seem familiar with the art, and there are dozens of supply shops in the area.”

Luned brightened at that. “Of course! I’ll need to make a list of ingredients, and I’ll need supplies...”

Flint nodded thoughtfully. “The bill of exchange I gave them was enough for two nights. If we forgo one, I’m sure the staff would gather everything you need in the morning. If the potions are common enough, we could have them purchased directly. I would prefer to enter the tunnels as early as possible, if we must.”

Luned furrowed her brow. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done already. Honestly, I don’t really know why you’ve come this far with me. I can’t ask you to go down there…”

“But you are going,” Flint said.

Luned nodded.

“Then we are going.”

“Why?”

“Call it professional courtesy. It will be difficult in Ettermire with a black mark like this on my reputation. The closest thing we have to a lead is down in the sewers, and I don’t know how we’ll get the Swaysong back without returning there.”

“This time we’ll be ready,” Luned said. “And hey, maybe we can catch one of those things and they can put it in a giant jar and…”

Flint’s eyes got a little wider.

“That’s a joke.”

“He was smiling,” Flint said distantly, and he slowly shook his head.

---

When they finished discussing their plans for the morning, Flint returned to his room to find a message waiting for him. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper folded into thirds. When he unfolded it, there was a single line of text written in fine, thin, simple letters.

Gareath sends his love. See you soon.

Flint turned the letter over, and began writing a list. When he finished, he summoned one of the inn’s staff and handed it over.

“Add this to the lady’s shopping list. I know these things are outside your normal purview,” he said, “but there’s extra in it for you if you find it all before morning.”

And then he went to bed and, to his later surprise, slept well.

Luned didn't sleep quite as well as Flint did. The moment she hit the down comforter she was out like a light, not even making it underneath the blankets, and she was dead to the world for several dreamless hours before the anxiety in her subconscious sent her tossing and turning. The scribe was jolted awake well before sunrise, the unfamiliar bed all it took to bring her back to Salvar, and she opened her eyes gasping for air as the all too real feeling of the baron's weight on top of her brought back all the reasons she'd come to Ettermire in unnecessary detail. Sitting up retrieved a vision of his face skewered against the pillow next to her, hot, crimson blood pouring vividly from a gaping tear in his cheek, and she scrambled out of bed with the sudden urge to vomit.

She collapsed onto the chair at the nearby vanity, leaning over the porcelain wash basin, but nothing happened except some chest-rattling coughing as labored breathing caused her to choke up. Deliberately slow, counted breaths calmed her after a few long moments, and when the overwhelming embarrassment and frustration subsided, she dared to look up and view herself in the mirror.

In the dim streetlight filtered through cracks in the heavy curtains, everything was bathed in a murky gray-blue that reminded Luned of her old faded uniform. It made her skin look paler than usual, almost translucent, and what substance her figure had was diminished under the impossibly plush robe. Dark circles made her eyes look bigger, younger. Flint had called her vulnerable, and she was angry to admit he was right. The person who stared back at her wasn't the person she desperately wished it could be.

She was haunted by the previous day's failure but today was the day she would obtain Swaysong, the means to absolve her past and liberate her future.

Luned Bleddyn would never, ever be helpless again.

---

After a solid eight hours of perfectly restful sleep, Flint blinked awake to the disturbance of a voice on the other side of the door across from his bed. It took about a quarter of a second to remember where he was, half of one to recognize the offensively colored robe he was tangled in, and about two more to register the identity of the distant speaker and what she was saying.

"No, no, no…" Luned wailed, panicked but hushed, the whisper of someone in imminent danger. "No, stop!" The last word was frighteningly high-pitched even when muffled through a wall and, convinced a blade commissioned by Swanra'ann was at her neck, Flint flew out of bed with speed he didn't know he had in him. After grabbing the closest weapon he kicked in the door, unwilling to afford the time to see if it was locked or not, and barged in ready to set fury upon whatever offender was on the other side.

Instead of impending doom, he found Luned doing an astounding impression of a deer caught in the headlights. She had stopped what she was doing just to gape at him in astonishment, then quickly resumed smothering a minuscule chemical fire on a coffee table with one of the hotel's undoubtedly more-expensive-than-she's-worth pillows.

It was too early for this, and Flint was not amused. He was so visibly infuriated that Luned thought he might go after her with the blade he was white-knuckling as he failed to lower it from ready position.

"Wait," she said, tossing the charred pillow aside to continue her experiment. "I've almost got it."

"What do you mean, almost?"

"Just wait!" Luned knelt back down at the table where she had an array of supplies set out, tubes and solutions and bits of metal and funnels and other such things he had no use for, and went about crafting a potion in a fresh vial. It was at this point that Flint noticed the shards of broken glass strewn across the floor about her workstation, the dark stains from smoke plumes on the ceiling above, and the heavily singed corner of bed canopy nearby. She seemed not to notice any of it, every bit of her concentration gathered in the contents of whatever vile concoction she was mixing. Ammonia was not a refreshing scent to wake up to.

Flint briefly contemplated that being this disgruntled mere seconds after waking couldn't be good for his health. They were already entrenched in a dire mess and here this woman was, digging them deeper. "And how will we pay for these damages?"

Not bothering to look up from the task at hand, Luned gestured to the vanity next to the door. On the table were her belongings, meticulously laid out to dry properly, including a battered leather journal, even more tattered red book, what appeared to be the mangled remains of a ticket of sorts, and some scattered writing utensils. There was also a rather bulky-looking coin purse. Flint picked it up, found it surprisingly heavy, and turned it over to dump some level of ransom of gold onto the polished wood. It wasn't enough for a king or even an ugly princess, but maybe a favorite minstrel, and that was a hell of a lot more than he'd pegged her for, that was for sure.

"You said you had some money," Flint said with a stern glare.

Luned didn't notice the pointed look; she was busy sealing the vial, a precise procedure which consisted of installing a cap and then dipping it in wax to make it completely airtight. "Well, I was thinking, and if I have to go looking for that stuff, I should at least get a discount. I mean, seriously. So I don't need all of it now." When finished she fanned it to harden the seal, then stood on bare feet and picked her way in a successful but cringe-worthy manner over the shards and wreckage to where Flint stood. He was still glaring.

"Here. For you." She was afraid he wouldn't let her, but she was able to pry the knife from his grasp and replace it with the vial. It contained three carefully layered liquids of different colors and viscosities, as well as some metallic shavings that floated in a merry patch of glitter on top. "Shake it."

After seeing the disaster area caused by her previous experimentations, Flint was more than skeptical –– he simply wasn't going to do it. "No."

With an exasperated sigh, Luned took it back and did the honors. Within a few seconds it began to glow, softly at first, but after about thirty seconds it rose to a staggering level of brightness, all elements thoroughly incorporated. She offered it again, and this time Flint accepted.

He looked at it suspiciously. "How long does it last?"

With a shrug, Luned tightened the tie on her robe-turned-lab coat nonchalantly. "We'll find out. I'll make a handful of them for each of us, as many as we have supplies for. Just be careful if you break one by accident, the fumes will knock you out faster than... well... you know."

Suddenly the vial began to radiate an intense amount of heat. Flint inhaled sharply and involuntarily dropped the glow stick like a hot potato, which landed with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. "What the fuck? They're useless if we can't carry them without––"

"No, I can fix it! I just used too much by accident, I'll try half an ounce this time," Luned trailed off vaguely as she stooped and picked it up with the sleeve of her robe to carry it back to her makeshift lab.

At this point Flint was reflexively rubbing one of his temples and made the executive decision to remove himself from the situation. "I'll go order breakfast. Make sure no one gets in and sees this mess, got that?"

As he departed he saw Luned take a swig from one of the vials from the corner of his eye, then did a double-take just in time to see her refill it from a miniature teapot. The actual serving cup appeared to be filled with an unidentifiable substance that had bubbled over into the saucer, likely the dumping grounds for the failed tests. Flint groaned, feeling queasy at the thought of Ezura's lab, and shut the door behind him.

http://imageshack.us/a/img502/4407/s...30130at125.png

---

To Flint's relief they got out of the hotel before the damages were discovered, though they left enough of Luned's hoard to cover that and more. They just simply couldn't handle more confrontations in this already complication-filled day.

Breakfast had begun surprisingly light-hearted, Luned the victim of a few harsh competency-related jabs which she quickly turned back on him, and included a riveting retelling of her distressing encounter with the hairdryer the night before. Flint left her in suspense when she asked if they used it on his beard to go back to his room to get ready, and she did the same after she had her fill of the rib-sticking spread that had been laid out for them.

Clearly that intermission was simply the culmination of denial over their destination, and getting changed into their new sets of clothes and donning their clean equipment was enough to completely change their mindsets.

Something Luned had snuck onto the shopping list the night before was a small amount of waxed canvas, which she used to tightly wrap her paper-based belongings into a water resistant package. This she tucked into the most secure pocket of her new Aleran-style jacket, something she knew she would be sorry to ruin, but the inn help had reassured her that her original garments did not made it through the wash in a wearable state. Such was the fate of impractical clothing, she accepted with a sigh, and vowed never to choose vanity over utility again. Her "pretty" days were short-lived, and she'd mourn them appropriately when she got home… if she got home.

Mood suitably darkened and prepared for the horrors that laid ahead, Luned met up with Flint, and they were off for round two of the sewer investigation.

Flint was pleased. These were undoubtedly the most comfortable boots he’d ever owned, and perhaps the most functional. They still needed to be tested, but he’d been assured that they were fully waterproof and, as a bonus, the treads would help him keep his footing on slippery surfaces. They’d brought him trousers too, stuff normally reserved for the Aleraran military, and was said to resist tearing and staining and dry quickly. They’d taken more than the clothing’s worth, to be sure, but Flint believed them when they said it was difficult to find things in his size. And that was ignoring the more…unethical goods he’d requested. He made a note of the inn’s name for the future.

Luned was similarly attired, and the brute was quietly impressed. Sans five pounds of muck and water, and suitably uniformed, the little scribe was the picture of health and vivacity. He was sure it helped that she wasn’t slowly freezing to death, too. She wore her elfish jacket well, or at least better than he did his – it was tight at the back and shoulders. He forgave himself for being unfashionable, because his jacket was covered in pockets, and those pockets were full of useful things. He hoped the things in Luned’s pockets were going to be useful too, but it wasn’t just his boots that were untested.

The sky did not mirror their youthful resolve, being yellow-grey and dark. Flint wondered if that meant rain. He hoped not. Ettermire was a dry place and unaccustomed to any precipitation at all, which was why puddles gathered so readily and refused to fully evaporate. Even a little rain would undoubtedly form murky rivers in the sewer tunnels, and Flint did not want to imagine what grotesqueries might make their home in the waterways under Ettermire. Trying not to think about it made him think of looking down into one such sewer river and seeing Bruno float past.

“I wonder how busy the train station is today,” he muttered suddenly.

“Hmm?” Luned said.

“Nothing,” Flint said. “I wish the Alerarans weren’t so possessive of their firearms. I had a rifle in my hands yesterday. I should have kept it.”

“It wouldn’t do us much good in the sewers anyway,” Luned said. “Too hard to keep the gunpowder dry.”

“More rules,” Flint sighed. “I don’t know how you keep it all straight. What must be kept dry and what will kill when swallowed.”

“Gunpowder for the first one,” Luned said. “Swaysong for the second.”

“And here I was just thinking about how refreshing it looked in those little bottles.”

“Vials.”

Flint muttered.

-----

There were surely many ways to get into the sewers, but they knew firsthand how easy it was to lose one’s way down there. They knew of three entrances that were at least relatively safe and close to where the Swaysong was lost: the secret way beneath Gravebeard’s, the little room behind the factory, and the naked metal tube jutting out over a hill where they’d narrowly escaped the night before. There were a number of good reasons not to use the first two options, not the least of which was that Swanra’ann probably owned or knew of both. Luned had given her own reasons for not wanting to return Gravebeard’s way and Flint had agreed with them readily.

In the full light of day, the area around that little muddy hill looked mundane: brown-red and grey, surrounded by stout factories and silent warehouses. A large pond formed nearby where another set of grated tubes released steady streams of sickly green water. Stray cats lapped up the muck, pausing to glare as the duo passed. Flint found a heavy led pipe jutting up out of the mud not far from the tube, and after some struggle he managed to disconnect it from whatever it led to underground. He gave it a few test swings, and then nodded his approval.

“If I see our severely overgrown friend again,” he said, “he’s going to suffer some regrets.”

That seemed to make Luned hesitate, but only for a moment. She took a steadying breath, marched right up the hill, and then stood at the tube’s opening peering into the dark. Flint came up behind her as she was producing one of her glass vials. She gave it a vigorous shake.

“Why are you holding your breath,” he said.

The vial began to glow, and did not catch fire, so Luned smiled and said, “I’m not. I’ve got this. See?”

“Yes,” Flint said. He produced one of his own vials, gave it a shake, and then slid the vial into a loop on the breast of his jacket, which held it in place. This left his hands free, which he rectified: he hoisted up the metal pipe in his right hand, and produced a chunk of dyed chalk to hold in his left.

“I am fear,” he said to himself.

He looked at Luned, as if expecting her to say otherwise. She just stared at him all wide-eyed and freckled, maybe thinking he was crazier than he looked – which was a feat - but she said nothing. That pleased him, so he nodded once, turned, and marched into the dark. At the first intersection he looked at his companion for direction. When she chose a way, he made a mark on the wall of the tube denoting it, and that’s the way they went.

The sounds of the city streets faded, bells and horns and shouts defeated by dripping water, metallic clangs, and the subtle wail of the wind rushing to escape past them. The muted sunlight dulled until it was entirely consumed by the alchemical light thrown off by their vials, and the smog relented before stifling humidity and the ubiquitous reek of wet rot. Flint told himself that the city was all around them, that people walked the streets above and that mothers were with their children and somewhere far to the north, snow was falling on his familial home in Salvar.

It didn’t feel like that though. Every step brought them farther away from anything good until their lives before these tunnels seemed like a distant, childish dream. They were going deeper into another world, and every subsequent step was heavier than the one before it.

Soon, Flint was sure: they were descending into Hell.

Aurelius leaned back in his chair, heavy boots up on the heavily scarred table puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette. The tiefling glanced around at the rest of the patrons of this seedy little brothel-- no, seedy didn't adequately describe just how scummy this little shit-hole was. The women looked clean, but were crawling with diseases, only slightly less foul than the men who paid to catch them. And yet, this cramped, dank little place was packed to the brim with cutters, all looking to spend their money on strong booze, cheap women and generally have a good time.

The half-demon was the same as any of them.. with the slight exception he had better taste in women.

One of the other berks seated there, a swarthy Aleraran elf, banged his fist on the table, grunting and swearing. The warlock turnd his attention back to him, and the other three men- not to mention the game they had going of three-card brag. So far, he had claimed the vast majority of their money- cheating, of course- and the dark elves were eager to try and win it back.

But the young anarchist's attention was caught by the pair who entered the bar, making their way through the crowd, obviously trying to stay unnoticed. A short man, trying to shield a shorter girl from the gaze of the predators in this crowd. The pair looked filthy, and Aurelius' heightened senses managed to detect the smell of sewage on them. Though why ahyone would choose to go swimming in the sewers was beyond him; especially with all the rumours of the barmy shit down there these days.

The smirking tiefling flicked his serpentine eyes over the three of them as he showed his cards- three threes; a winning hand.

The Dark Elves growled and muttered to each other, not aware that Aurelius could understand every word out of their mouths. They were planning on knifing him, apparently, and taking their money back by force. Let the sods try, he smirked to himself, running his forked tongue over his teeth. Laying down his cards and grabbing the rest of his winnings, Drak'shal stood up, ignoring the nudges and glances between the three addle-coved berks who were planning on bobbing him.

Something better had caught his attention. Two men had detached themselves from the crowd, and were following the pair of sewer rats up the rickety staircase to the first floor. His quill-like hair prickled at the back of his neck.

"Somethin' ain't right..." he muttered to himself, sensing something bad going down.

The two men- An Aleraran and a Salvaran- were talking to each other, quietly, impossible to eavesdrop over the massive crowd in the building. Aurelius knew who they worked for, of course. As a member of the Revolutionary League, the tiefling made a point of knowing who the political and criminal players on the scene were. These two cutters worked for one of the latter; a big fish in this scummy little pond. Some blood by the name "Queen of The Pit". And why would a blood like her be sending her goons after the filthy swamped pair who were now entering one of the rooms upstairs?

There was only one way to find out.

Smirking to the three Dark Elves, he spoke in fluent gutter-Aleraran- "Oh, by the by boys, I'd keep the pig-stickers where they are if I were you," he kept the arrogant grin on his face, watching their surprise when he invoked two balls of swirling black flame in the palms of his hands. "I'm too busy to put you in the dead-book tonight." The three elves sprinted for the door, upending the table, leaving Aurelius to chuckle quietly, as he slipped through the crowd of bubbers. The patrons seemed a bit more eager to get out of his way after seeing the display of pyromancy.

By the time the warlock reached the top of the cracked and sagging stairs, both the two berks and the sewer rats had walked into a room along the corridor. He could hear the pair of hired blades muttering to each other in there, but he didn't hear any reply. Maybe they turned the sewer rats into deaders, he reasoned. Again, he reasoned, there was only one way to find out. He was just about to charge into the room, when he heard one of the men- the Salvaran, he thought- say something. It sounded like.. Swaysong? The tiefling wracked his brain-box, trying to find any reference to such an item in his head.

He was drawing a blank.

".. Aye, the boss-lady is in a big tizzy 'bout this cock-up. Apparently heads are gonna roll."

"Yeah," sneered the nasal little Dark Elf, "they say it's nasty stuff, but powerful. She don't like the idea of someone having that much power without payin' her for it. Sets a bad.. what's the word?.. precedent!"

So, this stuff is powerful, and if I can't put it to good use, might be worth a bit o' jink from this knight of the cross-trade bitch..

The warlock grinned viciously to himself, sauntering into the room as if he owned the place. Instantly, he noticed the layers of soot all over the place, and where it had been disturbed by the sewer rats going out the window. Apparently, they had grabbed something stashed here, and ran. Canny sods, he admitted. Did they know they were being tailed?

But he turned his attention to the two men in front of him, both already drawing weapons, though neither was making any move yet. He looked the room over again, noting the only other exit besides the window, was the door he was currently in front of.

"What do you want, boy?" the Salvaran said, crossing his brawny arms over his barrel chest, a wooden club held casually in one fist. The Dark Elf had drawn a nice little stiletto blade. Drak'shal kept his hands at his sides, making sure he made no threatening or sudden moves. Aurelius gave the men the once over, his serpentine eyes taking in every detail- from the way the Salvaran kept most of his weight off his left leg, to the fact the Dark Elf kept raising his head repetitively, resembling nothing more than a clucking chicken. They were hired goons, but certainly not the sharpest tools in the Dusties' kit. Perfect, he chuckled in his brain-box.

"Boss wants to know what you've found," he sneered, blowing a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, staring down the men like a wolf among dogs.

"And just who do you think you are, comin' in here an' orderin' us about?" the Aleraran chimed in, obviously feeling a lot tougher with the brawny sod on his side.

Aurelius sighed, visibly irritated, and assumed an air of authority. Glowering down at the pair before him, he slammed the door shut behind him, rounding on them with a snarl, his many piercings rattling and jangling as he did.

"I'm the one who got called in to make sure you berks could manage your jobs. I'm the one who got dragged to this little rathole, because the boss-lady doesn't trust either of you idiots. And," he growled, yellow eyes glinting in the dim light of the fire-blackened room, "I'm the one trying to find out what you know, so I can go tell the boss something other than you two were very soddin' uncooperative. Choice is yours' lads, but make it bloody quick."

A tense second passed, no-one making a move, before finally, the thugs put their weapons away, relaxing visibly. Aurelius smirked to himself. They were making it too easy.

"The pair of 'em made it away with something from under the floorboards, 'fore we got up here. They were quick. From what we saw, sewers might be a good place to start looking for 'em. Boss lady says we've to cover the usual ways in and out. We're just headin' off now to go cover the drainage pipe outside of the industrial sprawls. Swanra'ann has men covering the rest, as far's we know."

The tiefling nodded slowly to himself. He had a name for their boss, more than the pseudonyms he'd heard whispered across Ettermire; he had a name for a rare substance that was apparently extremely powerful and worth a bob or two; he had a lead to follow up on the two sewer rats, who were somehow connected to this 'Swaysong'; and he had two berks just begging for him to nick them. It was shaping up to be an entertaining night.

Without warning, the warlock lashed out- he hammered his fingertips into the neck of the Dark Elf when he clucked his head higher, crushing his windpipe in one vicious hit; even as the dark-skinned knife ears was registering the fact he could no longer breath, Aurelius spun low, hammering his fist into the Salvaran's left knee, dropping the man to the floor, screaming. Attention was the last thing Drak'shal wanted, so he jumped on the man, clamping a hand over his mouth. The big sod squirmed beneath him, and Aurelius knew it was only a matter of seconds before the big bloke had the better of him. Grinning maliciously, the warlock summoned Shahab's Lash, forcing the black Hellfire down the bearded thug's throat. His body bucked under the tiefling, wracked with hideous spasms as he felt his internal organs being immolated in his chest.

Without hesitation, Aurelius got back to his knees, drawing one of his green-steel knives and plunging it through the Dark Elf's right eye-socket. Both men dead, the half-breed wiped his knife clean, inhaling the smell of char-grilled human deeply. He opened the door a crack to make sure no-one had heard the commotion. Sure his murders had gone unnoticed, the tiefling closed the door again, before dropping out the window.

It didn't take him long to find the tracks of the dirt-soaked pair.

---

The next day, as the girl and her minder cautiously entered the sewer drainage culvert, they were not alone. Keeping out of sight further back, utilising every sneaking skill he had picked up over the years, Aurelianus stalked after them, waiting for them to lead him to the Swaysong.

"I read about Ettermire's sewer system once, a while back," Luned said as they embarked on their miserable journey. She spoke softly, almost in a whisper, as she didn't like the way her voice came back to them down the tunnels in sharp echoes. "I don't remember much of use, but I do recall that it was built to mirror the city above. If I'm projecting correctly, I believe that large intersection from yesterday may have been one of the crossings in the industrial district that we passed through while bringing Helethra home. It would make sense, as that was somewhat between Gravebeard's and where we came out…" She trailed off, knowing she was rambling, but anxiety urged her to fill the silence with something, anything at all.

Flint didn't have much to contribute to the conversation. He was busy listening to the silence, the very thing Luned was avoiding so stubbornly, and every distant noise sent his heart racing.

Part of their trek was a slightly uphill climb and their high-quality boots held footing considerably better than their muddy, flailing bodies had the day before when they rolled out onto the cobblestones. It was trivial, but perhaps out of desperation for something to dwell on other than giant roaches, Luned found herself very distracted by the feeling of wearing pants. Fortunately the inn staff had found something equally functional to Flint's ensemble and slightly more fashionable due to her more common size, but even so, the shirt ran a bit long and lacked a quick hem like she'd noticed on her sleeves and pant legs from their rushed request. It was splendidly awkward, but really she was happy to focus on that feeling and the gratefulness not to be wearing layered skirts this time around, than whatever other emotions were creeping up on her instead.

They reached the top of the incline and took a moment for Luned's homing pigeon instincts to orient them before taking another passage. Soon enough they were back at a recognizable location, both to their relief and increasingly wracked nerves: the large chamber where several pipelines interconnected, alarmingly close to the origin of the gargantuan bugs they'd barely had success in fleeing. At least their fancy boots were keeping out a miraculous amount of water.

"I'm certain the thief came this way, but which direction?" Luned whispered, at a loss without obvious clues.

Her companion had a touch more experience in tracking people and set about searching for signs of the thief's route, as well as toeing through the muck for anything they might have dropped. "We'll have to check the tunnels and see if there is more to work with further down," Flint eventually conceded, then strolled toward one at random.

"Nooo, no no," Luned halted him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him toward another. "Let's try this one." She felt it might be taboo to speak aloud of the monstrous bugs, so she left it to his imagination to fill in the blanks. She remembered quite well that it was the turn she took when she found the creature-who-shall-not-be-named, and if the thief had gone that way, chances are it wasn't worth finding what was left of them anyhow.

With a shrug, Flint marked the entrance of the new tunnel and they explored that one until they met a split in pipelines and decided to go back. There was no clue of the thief, to their dismay, and Luned realized just how foolish it was to think they could possibly accomplish what they set out to do. This "investigation" was a joke, simply a foolhardy attempt for them each to retrieve some long lost modicum of pride.

The duo traced their way back to choose the other unexplored tunnel, and for a tiring length of time met with similarly disappointing results. Luned was about to start in with a lament when something on the floor became visible within the circumference of their lights, glinting gray and low in the stagnant water. They both immediately hesitated and waited a painfully long moment, as if anticipating something horrendous to happen, but the object remained still, and Flint gathered enough courage to put the chalk in a pocket and raise his pipe in preparation. He tiptoed forward, nudged it with his foot, and then waved over Luned.

It was a body, wrapped in what they both knew to be a much thicker cobweb than a normal spider's. Flint nudged it again and pushed it on its back, his boot getting stuck on the sticky threads, and in a moment of true heebie-jeebies he detached himself with a frantic kick. By the time he finished scraping leftover spider gunk off his sole, Luned had the opportunity to get a well-lit look at the corpse and was immediately and thoroughly spooked. She looked away in revulsion, latching onto Flint's sleeve again as if for moral support.

Now, dead bodies weren't really something that gave Flint the creeps at this point in his illustrious life so his first instinct was to brush the woman's reaction off as silly considering the circumstances, but when he took a look for himself, he understood. The dark elf's skin was puckered like a raisin, wrinkled and clinging to his stringy musculature like a ghoul. His eyes were wide open in permanent horror preserved by rigor mortis, irises glowing a unique golden hue under their lights.

Luned trembled. "It's the guard from Gravebeard's," she managed to choke out. "I thought I heard him follow me here yesterday, but I didn't see him. Later I figured I'd just heard you, but…"

“He doesn’t stink,” Flint said dumbly, tearing his eyes away from the corpse to look at Luned.

“What does that mean?” she asked, incapable of doing more than glancing away from it for the briefest second.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

She was beginning to breathe heavier, transfixed by that gruesome puzzle, and Flint made a muttering sound, glancing from her to the corpse and back again. At first he wondered if she’d known the man better than she had implied previously, but no, it was the place, he knew. This was solid evidence that their shared nightmare had been real, and that there were true and deadly consequences for coming back here.

“He was surprised. Ambushed. He didn’t know what was down here,” Flint said. It was a lame attempt at comforting her. Indeed, she did not acknowledge that he’d spoken. Or maybe, he realized with some frustration, he’d made it worse.

He glanced down at the corpse, and then up at her again and said, “Stop that. Look at me.”

When she didn’t – couldn’t – he reached up, hesitated for a notable fraction of a second, and then very, very gently lifted her chin up until she had to tear her eyes away from the corpse. He withdrew his hand quickly, not for fear of hurting her, but to preempt her inevitable attempt to push it away first. He had killer’s hands, and anybody with sense didn’t want them close to their head.

“We control the fear,” he said to her, firmly. When she tried to look away again, he leaned so that their eyes stayed locked. “Stop. Focus. Whatever did this surprised him, it controlled the fear. But you and I know better. These things are in our world now, and they are new to it. They are smelling alien scents, seeing alien sights, eating alien…nevermind. You see my point.”

Luned nodded thoughtfully, and her breathing began to steady as she considered it. “They’re just animals.”

“Yes,” Flint said. “Animals out of their natural habitat, and therefore they must be afraid. You can use that.”

Luned narrowed her eyes at her strange companion, studying him, fully realizing for the first time that he was not the cruel dullard he presented to the world. In the face of horror and violence, he’d just shown that he could empathize. With monsters, sure, but it still counted.

She wanted to call him on it, but then she detected just the vaguest movement in the shadows behind him, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks all over again.

“It’s behind me, isn’t it?”

Flint saw the panic pass over her face, and he saw her immediately contain it, all in a fraction of a second. Everything in her denied body language implied that she wanted to raise her finger to her lips and firmly hush him, so he shut up and tensed. He was transported to his childhood, when a giant cicada had lighted upon his shoulder one afternoon, and his mother had been terrified of it and ordered him to stand very, very still until it flew off again.

Only this time there were things emerging from the dark behind him, long and extremely thin, like skeletal fingers stretching slowly, so slowly outward, stroking the edges of the tunnel. The more they moved, the longer they got, and Luned began to fear that they would soon enclose the pair of them.

Flint watched as her eyes hardened, and then began darting about, searching for something. She saw it, glinting in their shared, eerie light: a thin, metallic strand of webbing running from Flint’s boot into the dark behind him, taut and shivering, and every time the fingers stretched the line quivered.

“There’s a string,” she whispered, “on your…oh no, don’t move, please don’t move. Okay, there’s a string on your boot, and there’s something behind you, and I think it knows we’re here because we disturbed the body, and you got a little on your boot when you touched it, and it’s…I think it’s going to pounce on us, and it’s big.”

Flint tightened his grip on his pipe and took a slow, steadying breath, staring unblinkingly at Luned. “Whatever happens,” he whispered, “don’t run. We control the fear.”

And then he yanked his foot forward.

---

It happened so incredibly fast, and the brutality was such that the mind could not register the events individually until long after it was over.

Flint had yanked his foot forward, and in the midst of the first motion he’d twisted, raised his pipe, and attacked before he saw or knew what it was he was attacking. Luned would never know that if Flint had seen what he was attacking, he probably would have tried to run instead.

When the string went taut and then snapped, the darkness fell away abruptly, and the owner of those gargantuan fingers emerged. They were not fingers, but were in fact legs, attached to a spider the size of a horse. Its legs stabbed outward in every direction as if to pierce the tunnel from eight ways outward, and then it surged forward to meet its intended prey, fangs quivering in anticipation.

Flint had been wrong, Luned thought at first. They did not control the fear – how could they?

But then the pipe came down, came up, and then down again. The spider tried to withdraw, bending one of its front legs. Flint brought his pipe down like a smith at his forge, and the leg cracked like a lobster’s, complete with a glimpse of moist, white meat within. The monster didn’t make a noise as it was butchered. It tried to back away in vain until it collapsed onto its side, and its functioning legs curled inward reflexively and it shuttered its last, fangs twitching slower and slower as it bled out.

Instead of blood it was full of something brown and viscous, which did not flow or gush as much as ooze. A bubble formed in the ichor, and then it popped. Flint’s breathing was the only sound, every other exhale coming with a bestial growl. He began to pace, looking the spider over from one direction, and then the other, until he was positive it was done.

“You ruined your pipe,” Luned told him.

He looked at her, wild-eyed and panting, and then he looked at his pipe. She was right. It was bent out of shape in four places. He stared at it for entirely too long.

“It’s dead,” she said. It almost sounded like a question.

“Yes,” he said. “Now we can permit fear.”

----

They spent a long time staring at the thing, despite the overwhelming, instinctive sense of revulsion and fear it instilled in them, even in death. Now that it was still, they could see how it worked: it had formed a thick shield or plug of densely packed webbing which it wore on its abdomen. It must have placed the plug over an opening in the tunnels, and waited for unsuspecting prey to pass. Indeed, it was possible that the creature had been asleep, fully sated on its first meal when they’d disturbed its rest. Flint privately shuttered to think what might have happened if Luned’s guard hadn’t preceded them.

He threw his pipe at it viciously. It didn’t move.

Satisfied, he opened up one of the pockets on his jacket and produced the first of his illicit goods: a set of brass knuckles, which he wiggled his fingers into. He did not enjoy the thought of getting as close to these things as he would need to in order to make good use of them, but they were better than nothing.

“There’s a light down there,” Luned said.

She was right. As the light from their vials steadily darkened, it became increasingly apparent that there was an eerie glow coming from the spider’s tunnel not unlike the cool blue from a full moon.

“Someone could live down here,” Flint said. “If they knew how to navigate the wildlife, it would be the safest place for stolen goods. How many guard dogs are spiders?”

“Hopefully not more than one.”

They shook their vials again until the circle created by their combined luminescence stretched as far out as possible, and then they edged around the spider’s corpse and descended into its glowing lair.

---

The architecture changed as they crept deeper. Thin metal pipes ultimately emptied into crumbling earthen caverns, which were held in place by stout pillars placed at seeming random. The caverns gave way to stonework hallways, which were undeniably Aleraran but older than anything else either of them had ever seen in Ettermire.

“These must be the original sewers,” Luned surmised. “They must have built over them as the city became more industrialized.”

She pointed out distinct arches to Flint, and explained how certain etchings used archaic words and phrases. He grunted in response to remain polite. He was relieved that these tunnels were simpler than the tubes and pipes above: they were organized in squares independent from the city streets on the surface, forming their own logical roads and alleys. It was difficult to become lost now, or turned around, or to go in circles.

It was also easy to see where the spider had come and gone – the places where it had created nests out of that steely webbing, each still full of strange bones. Flint was inclined to avoid these nests and go anywhere but where the spider had been, but Luned suggested just the opposite.

“I read once that spiders are fiercely territorial and independent,” she explained. “They only tolerate the presence of other spiders to mate, and even then the female usually eats the male afterward.”

“Lovely. What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That.”

“Oh,” Luned said. “Um, well, I also read that after spiders mate, the female lays her eggs in large sacs of web, which the young spiders…you know, burst out of. When they hatch.”

Flint stared at the offending bundle of web, which was set firmly into the upper right hand corner of the hallway they were currently traversing. It was undoubtedly moving. He looked at his knuckleduster, and then he looked at Luned.

“How many eggs do they lay?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Five, perhaps? Ten? No more than ten.”

The bundle of eggs moaned, and Flint tensed before his capacity for reason returned to him.

“That’s an elf,” Luned said.

“Thank the striking Sway.”

----

It was, in fact, an elf. Flint was inclined to leave her, and said so, but Luned would not have it. He claimed not to have a knife, which was a lie, but Luned still insisted that they find a way to save her. Muttering, the brute produced the knife he wasn’t supposed to have and attempted to saw through the strands holding the bundle of web to the walls. That did no good. Ultimately he resorted to yanking the strands off of the wall, which was difficult but far more effective, and the elf dropped heavily to the ground.

She was so well-encased in the webbing that it was difficult to discern any details about her person. She seemed to be strangely dressed, but it was difficult to tell what might be clothing and what might be metallic detritus stuck to her.

“She’s not waking up,” Flint said.

“The spider must have poisoned her.”

“Then it would be best not to disturb her further. She is effectively dead. Let’s not burden ourselves with dead bodies.”

“No,” Luned said. “She’s just paralyzed, it should wear off. Spiders store their food. It must have discovered her recently, after it finished with the guard, and it was too full for…well, you know. A second course.”

No matter how much he muttered and grumbled, she made him carry the sleeping elf.
---

Farther on, they encountered more oddities. The first was discovered by Flint, who touched Luned’s shoulder to get her attention, and then pointed near her feet. There she discovered a single tall mushroom, which was emitting a pale blue glow.

“That’s where the light is coming from.”

“Damn it,” she sighed. No manmade light source meant a secret hideout became more unlikely.

The deeper they went, the more of the mushrooms they found, gathered in tight clusters along the sides of the hallways, on the walls, and in the corners, growing wherever water flowed or gathered. Soon they did not need to renew their vials, as the mushrooms were numerous and bright enough to light their way alone.

The next discovery was less wondrous, and swung firmly back into the realm of horrifying. There was a crack in the wall some fifteen feet ahead, no more than three feet across and, as they approached, long feelers emerged from it, swaying fervently in the air. They immediately stopped and watched as a centipede as long and thick as a man’s forearm fully emerged from that crack, its illimitable legs all working in a sickening rhythm. That was bad enough. It became worse when the centipede demonstrated the ability to jump, leaping instantly from the wall up to the ceiling of the tunnel, where the front third of its legs tried to catch the bricks there. It failed, and fell, making a loud cracking noise as it fell to the floor. Both Flint and Luned groaned and recoiled without reservation.

The third discovery came immediately and blessedly thereafter. It darted out from a side tunnel and caught the centipede, and it had eaten half the horrible thing before they realized what it was. Beady black eyes regarded them over a perpetually twitching nose, and even though it was the size of a dog, the mouse never fully stopped moving. Its cheeks stretched, full of its unholy meal, which was doing all it could to crawl back out again even while the mouse greedily crunched away at it.

The rodent did not stop staring at them as it ate, crunching and swallowing until the centipede was well and truly and blessedly gone, and then it went on staring at them, and they at it. It was Luned that summoned up the courage to act.

“Hello,” she said.

The mouse cocked its head to one side, and then the other, and then it made a high-pitched sound that distinctly mimicked the greeting.

“Did it just…”

“Yes.”

The talking mouse tweaked one of its ears, spun around, and darted off.

----

The tunnel opened up into a sort of central chamber, a hub from which all the paths branched outward. The ceiling was high there, the floor was marble, and faded paint decorated the walls. There were arrows and words, but Luned could not read or decipher them either because of their age or the age of the paint. Each of the four walls had two exits: one that led upward, and one that led down, and there were stone pipes to either side of each of those openings, accepting a constant flow of rushing water, which ran inside depressions all along the outside walls.

Luned sighed and her shoulders slumped. Flint let the web-wrapped elf drop from his shoulder and hit the ground, where she moaned and stirred just a bit. That annoyed him even more, as it did not appear that she would die after all, and he would have to continue carrying her.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Luned said. “We haven’t seen any sign of a thief or anything since we got down here.”

“Maybe she was the thief,” Flint said, pointing at the elf.

“I don’t think so,” Luned said. “The thief was taller, I’m almost positive. And the spider would have caught the thief first, not the guard.”

“Perhaps it did catch her first, and the guard had more meat on him.”

“We’re not leaving her behind.”

Flint hushed, and if Luned didn’t know better, she might accuse him of sulking. She took advantage of the reprieve and looked the chamber over one more time, hoping some revelation might occur to her – some unseen thing that might convince her to press on despite the fruitlessness of their effort thus far.

In answer to her search, a clicking noise began to echo through the chamber, quietly at first and then steadily louder, closer. Flint flexed his fingers and stepped out in front, leaving his elven burden behind but shielding both her and Luned, to his credit. The clicking paused, and then resumed, and then paused again, only to return closer than ever – heavier, harder, faster. They wanted to deny that it was legs – far too many legs – but the sound was already too familiar to them.

----

The roach emerged without fanfare or hesitation, its head twitching this way and that just as it had the night before, and it was no less nightmarish – their minds had exaggerated nothing. It had suffered some defeat since parting with them: one of its rear legs was missing, and there were gaping black holes in its carapace, but its injuries did not seem to diminish it. Flint was reminded of tales of the walking dead in the Corpse War: men who were dead and disassembled, but came on still, single-minded and unfeeling except for hate and hunger.

He could not control the fear here, because nothing akin to fear resided in this creature’s alien mind. At best, Flint hoped that pain served as a momentary deterrence. Some things had no fear, that was true, but all living things knew and hated pain.

Or so he hoped.

He roared and charged, braced in case the roach hissed. It didn’t, but it did rear up and twitch its relatively small head away from him. It remembered him, and it apparently did not care for being punched. In fact, it did not care for anything about Flint Skovik, as evidenced by the way it lunged forward and attempted to skewer him on one of the barbs on its front legs.

He dodged, just barely, and managed to land a solid punch on one of the beast’s joints. The roach did not react, and there were no marks on its armor-skin. Flint backed away, growling. He did not know where to strike this thing. The roach twisted its head to the side to regard him with one eye, and then it swung around to examine him with the other. It liked what it saw.

The monster surged forward, rearing back and parting its mandibles, intent upon dropping directly down upon his head. Flint stared death in the face, caught between the urge to punch and the urge to run, and that might have been the end of him if a small glass object didn’t strike the roach on the shell just behind and to the left of its head, and leave a hissing patch of bubbling chemical burn.

Flint danced under one of the roach’s front legs and leapt out to the side as the horror backed itself up just slightly, confounded by this turn of events. The fact that it could feel was encouraging, but its reaction to pain was muted at best. It seemed more curious than hurt, and the curiosity faded quickly.

Now the roach had decided that Luned was a bigger threat than Flint’s fists, and it turned itself around to find her. She was caught red-handed, poised to throw another glowing vial, now frozen wide-eyed and mid-throw. The roach was good and ready to charge her when Flint finished crawling up onto its back. Its shell was very slippery, but thankfully covered in grooves and segments he could hold onto. He hammered his reinforced fist into the patch of discolored carapace, praying that the chemicals were at least weakening it.

His prayers were answered as the roach twisted and reared up, reacting in what was most certainly pain, and then those prayers were immediately dashed when the monster bucked him off. He hit the ground rolling, slid a short distance, and then slipped into one of the rushing streams of water that ran along the outside of the room and disappeared.

The roach stared at the water, twitching that way and this, and when it was sure he was gone it turned itself back around and looked at Luned.

What she needed, more than anything else in the world, was fire.

----

Flint crawled out of the outwash, coughing and sputtering and shivering in relief. He had thought himself dead for sure, caught in the pitch black, churning rush of water. He now knew beyond a doubt that he did not want to die by drowning, and certainly not by drowning while blind.

He searched his pockets desperately for a vial of Luned’s mixture, but every one of them was broken. He stripped his jacket off, fearful of getting the chemicals on his skin, and then he continued searching the pockets desperately, cursing the dark.

He didn’t know where he was. Water was rushing and trickling all around him and the air was cold. The ground felt like stone and dirt, uneven and malformed: natural earth, nothing shaped or flattened. Some sixth sense told him that he was surrounded by a vast, empty space, a cold void, and a fresh terror gripped him. He could be at the edge of a bottomless pit and never know it, except somehow he knew it was worse than that.

Somehow he knew he wasn’t alone down here.

Finally his fingers closed around an unbroken vial, and he hugged it to the wet, naked skin of his chest and let himself breathe for a moment. Something moved, and it wasn’t him. He crawled to his feet reluctantly, shivering in the infinite nothing, and then he shook the vial. The glow was born small, a spark at the bottom of the ocean, but it brightened until it was a lone star in an empty sky at the end of the universe.

He held the vial high above his head, and its light reached into the void and revealed nothing but the featureless grey stone he was standing on, and the waterfall-fed pool he’d emerged from. And then, one by one, other stars began to ignite in the distance far above Flint’s head, and surrounding him, some closer than others.

He knew immediately what they were, and groaned.

They were reflections of his own light, glinting off dozens of malevolent eyes, all looking down on him from on high.

The light from his vial surged with a sudden blazing heat, and then the glass popped and the light went immediately out, and darkness rushed in around him again.

“Gods damn it, Luned,” he said.

The man and woman in front of him were completely unaware of his presence. He watched as they prepared themselves for the ride ahead- chatting among themselves, readying equipment, even finding whatever weapons they could in this desolate little urban industrial wasteland. Aurelius quirked an eyebrow as the brawny man hauled a lead pipe out of the dirt, giving it a few hefty practice swings. The tiefling had, as always, his little arsenal about himself- two Baatorian green-steel knives, Herzaa's dagger, his shurikens and strapped to his right calf, the brutal cleaver; it's broad steel blade was as long as the warlock's forearm, and while slightly notched from the use it had seen over the years, still held a razor edge. He had no doubts, if he had to murder the pair he was trailing (and by the Hells, he did plan to do just that), he was far better equipped for the job. Preparations finished, the unlikely companions set off down the dark motuh of the entrance.

Aurelius followed the pair silently into the underground labyrinth, keeping his serpentine eyes locked on them. The chant was you could easily get lost down here, and seeing as the tiefling had no intention of spending the rest of his life wandering around a sewer, he followed the chit and her vertically-challenged companion- maybe 'e's a tall dwarf, he mused. He noted how they marked their way with the coloured chalk, marking them as canny at the very least; at least he could look out for the markings if the adventurers met a grisly demise down here. And if they lead me to my Swaysong, I'll make bloody well sure they do, he thought, smiling.

They wandered for a while, taking tunnels seemingly at random, or doubling back ways they had already came. Aurelius had to be careful, because every time they turned back, he had to practically run to keep out of sight, while still trying to keep track of them. A few times, the warlock almost got himself lost, but somehow, he managed to stay on the sewer rats.

For a while, at any rate.

The half-breed had the feeling, from the moment he had turned down the first tunnel branching from the entrance, that they weren't alone- he could practically feel eyes on the back of his neck, even as his bored holes in the back of the two berks in front of him. His senses were higher than those of your average human (a fringe-benefit of his tainted blood), and the further they got into this dank little vision of Hell, the more pronounced the feelings became. More than once, he caught movement out the corner of his eye, or heard... things scuttling and scampering about. The tiefling knew the sounds he was hearing weren't anything even remotely human; after all, the chant he'd been hearing lately had clued him in as much, but no-one could actually give him a real answer as to what was down here.

Still, as long as he kept an eye on the sods--

Drak'shal stopped dead, crouching at the corner of a tunnel intersection, cursing viciously. I bloody lost 'em!! he snarled, banging his fist against the damp stone wall. He'd been too busy looking over his shoulder at every noise. They must have taken one of the other paths, or doubled back the way they'd came, or he'd taken a wrong turn... 'Unamused' did not even begin to cover it.

Gnashing his fangs in rage, the tiefling stood up, straining every sense for any sign of the sewer rats- a scent of their fear, a glimpse of their odd little lights. Nothing! Absolutely sodding bugger all! He turned on the spot, not sure of what to do now. He may very well have ballsed up his chance at finding this Swaysong everyone was so interested in. And to top it all off, he had no clue where to even begin looking for an exit. The gloom down here was thicker than the smog that covered Ettermire, and even with his eyes, he was having a hard time making out any detail. Anyone else in his situation might have started to panic by now, but the plane-traipsing tiefling had been to places far worse than anything he'd seen in Alerar. Spitting one last curse in the deep, guttural Infernal tongue, he picked a tunnel at random and started walking, pulling his coat around himself a little more.

***

He wasn't sure when he had realised it, but Aurelius knew he was being followed.

Every now and again, he would stop dead and just catch the sounds of his stalker at the very edge of his hearing. But, judging by the harsh scrapes and clicks behind him, whatever it was had lost patience, and was moving in, fast!

Whirling round, he spread his palms, a ball of black flame hovering in each hand. But, even as he turned, his mind stalled for a moment at what he saw: there were two of them, each clinging to a wall of the curving drainage pipe, scuttling toward him at an alarming rate on eight bladed limbs. Spiders, easily the size of dogs. He barely had time to reply with a "what the fu--" before they pounced at him. Instinct was all that saved his life in that moment, as the former street-ganger dropped into a roll, ignoring the muck and filth that slid over his coat. The first spider sailed overhead hissing malevolently, but the other was luckier, catching Aurelianus with one of it's bladed forelimbs; the sharp chitin sliced neatly across his ribs, splitting the thick leather of his coat and armour like paper, and leaving a clean incision in his pale skin.

Before his black blood had even started to flow from the wound, both of the beasts were coming at him again. This time he was ready for them. Swearing in every language he knew, the warlock hurled a gout of black flame over each of the over-sized arachnids, blistering their chitin exoskeletons in seconds. The creatures recoiled, rising on their hind legs and shrieking a hideous chorus as they burned. Pressing the advantage, and trying to ignore the pain from his lacerated flesh, he hosed them with fire, walking toward them with pure rage burning in his yellow eyes.

"Come on then, you miserable little bastards!!" he roared, "is that all you got!?" He didn't relent, even when they finally collapsed onto their backs, legs curling toward their centres just like any other spider. Only when he saw rents open up in the spiders' armour, the vulnerable meat underneath crackling and hissing as they cooked, did he finally release the power of Shahab's Lash. His gloves were smoking at the edges, the skin underneath feeling raw and pink. Maybe went a little overkill there, he thought, sneering at the vile little beasts. He gave each a kick, sending their smouldering bodies into the foul water flowing through the centre of the tunnel. The current took them, and in moments, they were out of sight.

His sense of victory was short lived, however, as he saw shadows dancing over the walls behind him, hearing more sharp limbs skittering against the cobblestoned surface. The sharp pain from his ribs told him all he needed to know. He wasn't going to last going toe to toe with more of the sewer's denizens. For now, at least, he decided to run.

***

He wasn't sure how long he had sprinted through the narrow, cramped sewer system, but the fire in his lungs was telling him he had to stop. Now! He skidded to a halt next to a narrower tunnel branching off from this one, a tiny trickle of oily fluid dribbling out in front of his boots.

Aurelius, doubled up, coughing and panting. Each breath of the foetid air was like a gust of acid down his throat, but the feeling abated after several long minutes. He was a fighter, not a runner- he could last as long as he had to in a straight-forward scrap, but all this running away from danger didn't agree with him. Still, he wasn't an addle-cove. He knew how to pick and choose his fights, and if he could pick one he would win, then so much the better...

Then he heard the clicking from the tunnel entrance next to him.

You wankers have a nasty sense of humour, y'know that? he sighed, glancing skyward.

Before he could think to run, or do anything remotely useful, something immense started to haul it's bulk out of the cramped culvert. Despite his vast experience with the weird, bizarre and downright disturbing, even Aurelius had to admit- this was a new one. He would have wondered what had happened to the wildlife in Ettermire's sewers, but the sight of a cockroach bigger than a sodding war-horse stole any form of cohesion from the warlock's thoughts.

He wasn't sure what exactly a roach ate- demons were his specialty, not bugs- but after seeing glimpses of the rest of this little madhouse, he wasn't eager to find out. His green-steel knives wouldn't do much against the thick shell of the creature- truth be told, not many of his weapons would as far as he could tell- but he drew the cleaver from it's leg-sheath, backing up a few steps. The roach turned it's beady eye on the tiefling, obviously curious as to what it had happened upon. But, as it lashed out with a bladed fore-leg, Aurelius got the feeling it didn't like what it had found- he also would have got the feeling of being bisected, if he hadn't thrown out an Eldritch Blast to absorb the force of the blow. The bug was stronger than he thought, however, and the impact still sent him rebounding off the hard brick wall, grunting colourful curses as his ribs cracked.

He dragged himself to his feet as the roach advanced, antenna waving almost hypnotically. It's black eyes betrayed no human emotion, and Aurelius could well believe it would slaughter him and feel absolutely no different. That thought sent an absurd anger through the warlock. It's goin' to try and kill me and it ain't even gonna enjoy it!? You can sod right off mate!!

The overgrown insect scuttled forward, legs clacking against the damp stone floor, mandibles going like the clappers. Aurelius stood his ground, cleaver held tightly in his fist. Without hesitation, the tiefling sprinted at the roach, roaring out profanities in fluent Infernal, thin coils of smoke drifting from his mouth at the sheer wrongness of the things he shouted. There were no words in Tradespeak, Aleraran or any other mortal language to translate what he shouted at that insect- the insults were simply too vulgar. Whether it understood him or not, the bug retreated a few steps away from the charging half-breed, waving it's front limbs defensively.

It didn't help.

Drak'shal dropped into a skid, the slick mud (he hoped to Hell it was mud) letting him pass under the waving blades, straight under the roach and out behind it. The creature's glossy carapace caught his head as he passed under, opening a shallow gash across the tiefling's brow, but he shook it off, already going on the offensive.

Springing up, now behind the giant cockroach, he hacked at it's legs viciously, his cleaver sparking off the thick armoured chitin covering the monster. It tried to turn and face him, but the enclosed space of the tunnel made it impossible for the roach to turn it's bulk. On the sixth swing, his cleaver found a weak spot at the base of one of the thick, shiny limbs- biting deep, milky, thick ichor pouring out around the tarnished steel, the cleaver sank half-way through the leg. Frantically yanking the weapon, Aurelius managed to saw through the rest of the softer meat, laughing manically as the leg thumped to the ground, spurting more of the milky blood into the dirt. His bloods up, Aurelius kept attacking, even as the roach took off, fleeing from the attacker behind it. Hurling more obscenities, Aurelianus gave chase, hammering the brown-black of it's shell with black fire balls. The Hellfire charred smouldering holes through the thick armour, and every unholy missile elicited a screech from the mutant-beast. But, Aurelius was on it's home-ground, and after a few twisting intersections, and confusing junctions, he lost sight of his quarry.

"It's not over, you miserable big bastard!" he roared down the pipes and tunnels.

But, he had found something just as good. There, not three feet ahead, was a dead spider- not one of the ones he'd torched, that was for sure. If he didn't know any better, the tiefling might have guessed it had been trampled by the passing of Gargantu-roach. But Aurelius had spotted the lead pipe lying next to the brutalised arachnid; the self-same pipe that the basher he'd been following had picked up outside.

So the smarmy bastards are still alive, he smirked, his luck finally taking a turn for the better. His ribs still hurt like a cast-iron bitch, but he had found the trail again- he knew the chit and basher could only have went down the slightly glowing tunnel behind the spider corpse, so cleaver in hand, he did the same.

***

It only took a few moments for him to notice the change in architecture, as well as the myriad of other spider nests along these tunnel paths. The itch that crawled up his spine every time he saw one was enough to make him throw a roaring cone of flame into each, instantly incinerating the web, and whatever else happened to be in there. The fire he summoned had an odd effect on light, the black flames both lightening the tunnels, and deepening the darkness simultaneously; the odd, paradoxical nature of the flames didn't bother Aurelius o'ermuch though- his power was born of the Hells. It didn't have to make sense.

He was torn from his idle pondering by sounds from up ahead: Sounds of what was quite obviously a fight. And, if his deductive reasoning (and sheer bad luck) was anything to go by, it would be the pair he was following, being eaten by some gribbly big beastie. Grinding his fangs in irritation, he hurried his pace, angrily wiping blood from his eyes as his head kept bleeding shallowly.

Emerging from the same entrance as the chit and her basher companion had a few minutes previously, Aurelius was just in time to see the man thrown across the room, only to disappear into a fast-moving stream. That only left the chit.. and an elf? He shook his head, not concerned by the new arrival. For now, he had to make sure the chit lived. The anarchist never liked announcing his presence too early in the game, but if she died, so did his chance of finding Swaysong. Not a great set of options, he tutted mentally. And then he saw what it was they were fighting.

A feral grin spread over his pale countenance, as he saw Gargantu-roach advancing on the chit, beady eyes glinting with Powers-knew what sort of alien thoughts.

"Oi!!" he roared, stalking into the room, Shahab's Lash already coiled in his fist. "I told you it wasn't over, didn't I?" he snarled, putting himself firmly between the girl, the elf, and the roach. It definitely recognised him, it's front limbs thrashing in what was possibly anger. And to be fair, after having one of it's legs hacked off, and being set on fire, it had every right to be pissed off.

He hurled the black fire out in a wide cone, making the roach skitter back rapidly, clicking and hissing. Another quick burst of fire, and he dropped his cleaver at his feet, freeing up his hands long enough for him to remove his coat- the heavy leather, along with its armour plates and numerous straps and buckles, was covered in grime and dirt, and even spots of his black blood from his wounds. The roach had started charging as soon as the cleaver hit the marble floor, but Aurelius didn't turn to meet it. Instead, he turned to the chit, throwing his coat at her. He didn't have time to explain his plan (wasn't even sure he had one), but he couldn't risk setting his only lead on fire. Still, he didn't have many options at this point in time.

"Duck and cover!" he yelled to her, pointing at his coat before whipping round on the spot.

The roach was almost on top of him, bladed legs in the air, mandibles clacking loud above him. Now or never. With a wordless roar of fury, he unleashed a swirling orb of magickal heat, bursting forth from within the warlock's body before sweeping out in a widening ball. The heatwave hit the roach, Freki's Shield burning into what approximated a face- it's eyes bubbled, glazing over as the skin melted through. The rest of it didn't fair much better, it's carapace scorched crispy and black in the few seconds Aurelius could hold the invocation up. But this power always had to be used carefully, because it didn't only hurt Aurelius' enemies- the exposed skin of his right arm, and the side of his face were blistered and raw, smoke curling from the edges of his armour, and charred flesh. The warlock dropped to his knee, grabbing his cleaver on instinct.

The Shield had slowed the roach down, but it had by no means stopped it. And now, blind, but relatively unharmed, it ran at him like a chariot without a driver. It sent up an unholy clamour as it charged, inhuman clicking harmonics rebounding off the cold stone walls, but Aurelius couldn't hear it- his ears were still ringing from the magickal inferno.

He didn't even have time to see if the chit was alright before Garagantu-roach was on him. It was just about to thunder down on his head, when something smashed against it's shell. The smell of chemicals assaulted Aurelius' senses, and before his eyes, the chitin started to discolour and bubble, visibly softening.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him all he needed to know. The chit was alive, and she was fighting.

He saw her line up another throw, the roach bucking and spinning on the spot, unable to see where the attacks were coming from. Just as the glass vial left her hands, Aurelius threw himself back toward her, rolling as he landed near her feet. Throwing out a hand, the tiefling sent a burst of black fire into the vial, setting it alight mid air. It hit the cockroach, smashing against the hardened shell- but the chemicals inside poured out, spreading like necrosis, as the black flames helped them eat into the roach's armour. It was like watching it rot in fast forward, whatever concoction the chit had reacting violently with the Hellfire and melting gory holes into the beast.

A predatory light gleamed in Drak'shal's inhuman eyes as he dragged himself painfully to his feet. He looked to the chit, seeing she had several more vials ready.

"Light 'em up," he smirked, a ball of fire already in his hands.

Things were happening too quickly for Luned to process them –– Flint was suddenly gone, a strange, fire-hurling, reptilian-featured gent had replaced him, and the glow sticks apparently functioned as startlingly effective impromptu molotov cocktails. The scribe fumbled with a few more in her hands as Aurelius called for more, grabbed one, and pitched it straight at the approaching roach's face. It was close enough to be a direct hit, melting an unexpectedly large portion of its head and effectively blinding it, though it was still far from harmless in its impaired state. It hissed and shrank back, temporarily stunned from the sudden onslaught.

"I-I can't spare more, we need them!" Luned stammered to the newcomer, guarding the last three of her vials. It wasn't worth surviving this ordeal if she ended up trapped this deep in the darkness, as even if there was glowing flora in some parts of the tunnels, light was the only thing she felt she had control over down there. She desperately needed to maintain that control simply for the sake of what dignity remained, or all semblance of composure would break down into nothing. Even she knew that weeping puddles of mutant bug feast accomplished even less than a scrawny, deranged scribe with a death wish.

The roach reeled in pain, but Luned knew it was just a temporary setback for the beast and the buffer of time was a precious gift that couldn't go to waste. Even without vision, its remaining senses were nothing to underestimate in a place where it lived in near utter blackness. She looked around in an effort to plan her next move and the comatose elf caught her eye, discarded with little care on the ground, even more helpless than herself. The scribe realized that, without Flint to carry her, the poor soul was as good as dead already.

And so was Luned, if she didn't find him. Not that this new guy couldn't hold his own against the violent inhabitants of Ettermire's underbelly, but she hadn't the faintest who he was or if she could trust him. After all, it sounded like Flint was in trouble, assumedly with the original owner of the Swaysong he'd lost, and perhaps they'd kept tabs on him. It made sense… she hadn't gathered much about Bleddyn's black market connections, charging into her mission rather blindly, but it did seem to go without saying that someone as infamous as Swanra'ann wasn't one to mess around. Luned couldn't blame her, either, considering just how precious –– and nearly priceless –– that cargo was.

The elf twitched in its crumpled heap and Luned gasped, running over and kneeling next to her. Her skin was clammy but still somewhat warm, and from the way she trembled, the scribe wondered if she was coming out of the venom-induced unconsciousness. Two large and deep puncture wounds in her chest, black with congealed blood, made Luned wince to see so clearly in the light of her vial, but she reached out to the straining woman anyhow. "Hey," she called in a hoarse whisper, "Can you hear me?"

The victim flinched at her touch, brow knotting before her entire body began to seize. Thick, black blood oozed from the corners of her mouth and nostrils and Luned let go of her shoulder, immediately understanding that it was far too late to do anything to help, but her eyes remained transfixed on the dying face, just as she'd been unable to look away from the ghoulish guard earlier.

What did Flint say? She tried to remember, feeling it was important, but the memory was slow to break through her terror-weakened mind. After too long and too vulnerable a moment, she heard his voice in her head as he spoke his mantra before they returned to the sewers: I am fear.

Alas, these words of empowerment were lost on the frightened woman. Luned wasn't capable of being fear, not yet, and the only thing that brought her out of her spell was the feeling of something on her shoulder. She reached up reflexively to brush at it, only to feel her hand meet with something distinctly spidery. Luned stood with a shriek and the sensation of several more scurried over her shoulders, arms, and hair. She panicked as she tried to get them off and realized, horror-stricken, where they'd originated.

The abdomen of the deceased elf before her had burst open with her pink flesh, still warm, yielding to the escape of at least a dozen infant spiders, translucent white and spindly like many skeletal hands clawing their way out. As Luned struggled to rid herself of the few that clung to her clothing she began to hyperventilate, breath caught shallow in her chest and spots in her vision.

Run.

At this point she had two viable options: remain in this chamber and continue to participate in this horror show, or go after Flint and see what lied ahead. Somehow, anywhere but here was a more attractive choice, and she booked it.

Luned dashed into the water, finding it much deeper than expected, but she caught herself before slipping underneath by grabbing hold on the brick siding. The center of the open pipeline was almost waist deep and, though not frigid, the sudden chill shocked her, goosebumps prickling her skin. With a grimace she started wading, cradling the last delicate vials protectively in a chest pocket as she held the lit one up to see. The pipe was deep and pitch black ahead, only the sound of rushing water within. Not wishing to wait for the mayhem behind her to catch up, she stooped and walked in without looking back.

Having underestimated the psychological impact of a water-filled tube too short to stand in, it didn't take long for Luned's breathing to become shallow and nerves to overreact, classic symptoms of claustrophobia. The current was tenacious and only seemed to get stronger against her trembling legs the further she got, taunting her footing, threatening to take it away. One hand grasped at gaps in the bricks for hold, the other poised steadily ahead with the light. Everything was dark, so very dark, and she couldn't help but wonder with each step if Flint's corpse would float to the surface before her.

Luckily, it didn't. Unluckily, there was something else beneath the water, and all it had to do was brush against her leg to steal her footing and send her thrashing into the current. This made quick work of the journey into the next chamber where her companion awaited in the gloom, the feeling of many pairs of eyes sending shivers up his spine as he wracked his mind to come up with a plan.

Sputtering shrieks and gasps heralded the arrive of a glow from the pipe Flint washed out of, accompanied by the very person he'd just cursed. The current slowed inside this chamber and Flint reached out, grabbed Luned by the collar of her jacket, and plucked her out of the water, dragging her up onto the rough ground next to him. Shivering and distraught, she looked at him with the expression of a person who thought for sure she was the one who was on a rescue mission, but wound up rescued instead.

"Are you alright?" she managed to choke after coughing the dank water out of her lungs.

"Better than you," he replied, taking the light from her. "Do you have any extras left?"

The girl nodded, shaking fingers prying the buttons of her pocket open to fish another out. Miraculously, none had broken. She shook the new vial, and as she did so, registered that Flint's jacket was missing. "Where's your––"

"Luned," he interrupted, holding a hand out as if to quell her fears while the other instinctively went for a knife at his belt. "Now, don't panic, but there's something on your leg."

She froze, staring wide-eyed at him, and then, of course, looked. A slimy black creature as long as her forearm and twice as fat was curled around her ankle and up her pant leg, where she realized it had attached itself when she felt something in the water moments ago. How much could a leech that size consume? Just the thought made her feel faint with loss of blood and she looked away before the urge to lose her breakfast became too overwhelming, though the especially horrendous stench of this section of the sewer wasn't helping. "Oh no, ohhh…" she wailed weakly, as expected, but once her eyes focused on the shadows behind them, finally registering all the other eyes that watched back, it sank in just how awful this place was. "What the hell…?"

Flint had seen, too, and they both sat stunned as they gazed at the room around them. The underlying structure was indistinguishable behind a massive wall of ginormous rats, stacked like haphazard bricks, heads and tangled tails and grasping, clawed feet overpopulous and jutting out every which way. Their fur was clumped with feces and grime, cementing them together, and though their mass was great, their faces and limbs were boney and malnourished. Some had died and laid half-eaten and rotting, still part of the colony and cannibalized to sustain the others. They watched the two delicious humans hungrily with dozens of beady little eyes, just waiting for them to dare come within reach.

Something conjured Luned's memory of the medical museum basement, where the strange little girl lived, and something clicked. Helethra's mutilated dolls were cuddly, pocket-sized replicas of the creatures of the sewers. Just yesterday, the little girl asked Flint if he wanted to meet the porcelain and lace version of the rat king, and he'd declined. Now that decision had come back to haunt them both.

What lay before them was almost too grotesque to contemplate, and everywhere Flint turned his eye he found a new and ghastly detail. He reeled, overwhelmed by a noxious soup of unpleasant emotions and sensations: fear, awe, pity, revulsion, despair, and personal insignificance chief among them. He focused on the revulsion. Revulsion was the easiest to respond to and satisfy with some form of action. He groaned.

He flexed his hands, tightening them around the knuckledusters that yet hung on the major joints of his fingers. He tried to form a plan of attack, some action that would put him between this thing and Luned for long enough to ensure her survival, but the task seemed insurmountable. It took a long moment – too long – for the strangeness of that response to occur to him. Why put himself between her and it? It was her fault he was here. If not for her, he would be on a train. He should have fed her to it out of spite.

He looked down at the little scribe. She was still taking in the horror of their surroundings with wide eyes. The rat king was breathing, not one set of lungs but dozens, all labored, wet, and pained. The water flowed behind that nightmare cacophony, crashing, struggling to drown out the sounds that thing must be making – what if I had tried to move in the dark? What if I had stayed blind down here, and wandered toward it?

These hapless creatures were frail, broken, but also mad and desperate. He could only imagine how fast their thin, greedy claws could be, imagine the level of celerity madness and wild, uncontrollable hunger could confer upon them. Death would come fast, maybe even faster than she could scream, and the blood – they’d all be so distracted just by the smell, wouldn’t they?

Flint grimaced, and bent down to Luned, and pushed her to the ground unkindly. He traded the brass knuckles for his knife, and examined the blade.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without looking her in the eye. This time though, she could tell he meant it.

----

In the chamber above, Aurelius was witnessing his own special horror show. The elf’s corpse steadily deflated, spilling translucent spiderlings onto the floor. Somehow they sensed the roach’s weakness, and set upon it in a swarm, desperately seeking out some soft place to sink their needle-fangs. The roach in turn hissed deafeningly, lashing at the air blindly and furiously. It turned out that the monster was capable of fear, somewhere deep within its alien consciousness. It saw its eminent death, and wanted ardently to postpone it, and if it could not, it was determined not to go into oblivion alone.

---

The knife glinted in the light of Luned’s alchemical vial, and her eye tracked it as it descended on her. Flint hesitated, and looked at her.

“I told you not to watch.”

She closed her eyes, and Flint sighed before shifting his focus back. The knife came down, and Luned squeaked, and Flint growled at her.

“Maybe there’s another way?” she said.

One of her pant legs was torn off above the knee, leaving one white leg exposed. Well, white except for the mutant leech wrapped covetously around the lower part of her leg, with one end attached firmly to her calf. It was a shame to ruin her new Aleraran outfit, but Flint had insisted that he needed to get to the parasite. He could only imagine how much blood something that size could drink.

“Ugh.”

“What? What?”

“Calm down,” Flint said. “I just never realized these things have eyes.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Okay,” Flint said. “I’m going to try now.”

He looked at Luned, and she looked at him, braced herself, and then gave him the bravest nod she could. He hesitated before touching the leech, grabbing it as best he could just beneath the eyes. It tightened its grip around her ankle, and the attempt had been futile anyway – it wasn’t just wet, it was coated in a thick layer of snot-like slime that oozed between his fingers. His stomach turned, but he ignored it.

He pressed the flat of the knife against her calf, just to the side of the leech’s mouth, and she tensed at the feel of cold steel on her skin. Slowly, gently, he worked the blade toward the leech, taking the utmost care to cut neither the girl nor the monster attached to her. Instead, he worked the knife in between them until, without warning, the suction around the leech’s mouth broke with a loud wet pop.

The parasite writhed suddenly, snakelike and terrified, or perhaps incensed at the loss of its meal. Flint acted fast, though, pushing its upper half down to the stone floor, and he shoved the knife into it until the blade chipped on the rock on the other side. A gush of blood and bile rushed out of the thing’s mouth, splashing on the stone. Blood oozed around the knife, and the leech lashed about violently. It released Luned’s ankle in the process, which she swiftly dragged away from it.

“No,” Flint said, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back toward it. When she glared at him, he pointed out at the rat king surrounding them. “We can’t be sure how far they can reach. All we know right now is that they can’t reach us here.”

As the leech’s lashing slowed down, Flint turned the remains of Luned’s butchered pant leg into a bandage, or a tourniquet. As she watched him, she wasn’t sure what he was going for. When he tried to wrap it around the wound, she shook her head. “Above the wound. All those cuts and you’ve never tied a tourniquet?”

“I was taught to make them,” he said, “not to fix them.”

“I don’t know if this one can be fixed, anyway. Look around us, Flint. If the water down here is doing…this…”

Flint pointedly did not look, tying the tourniquet tight instead. His mind wandered, considering the blood, the effort, and the practical things he had measured and been unable to do. Instead, he felt shame at what he’d become – why? He tried again to summon up the anger at her, the blame, but it just wasn’t there to find. He thought back to when they first entered the sewers, when he found the pipe. Why hadn’t he clocked her over the head with it, instead of following her into this hell? He could have taken her to Swanra’ann and…

“The cats,” he muttered.

“What?”

“It can’t be the water causing all this,” he said. “The water is leaking out of pipes above the surface, and there must be hundreds of other outlets, but there are no monsters up there. There were cats drinking that water, and they were normal, or at least seemed that way.”

Luned nodded slowly, and as she considered it her strength seemed to return, if only just so. He didn’t have the heart to remind her that there were still any other number of diseases and parasites of a more worldly nature that were liable to be found in the sewer water they’d been stomping around in all day.

“It’s a shame, actually” he said. “I could stand to grow a few inches.”

----

“Down here!” Luned shouted up at the pipe through which they’d entered. “We’re down here!”

“She’s dead by now,” Flint said, slowly edging toward the rat king and then stepping away again. He suspected they knew how far he would need to be before they could grab him, and they wouldn’t be able to resist trying. He wanted to know how much space he had to work with.

“I’m not talking to the elf,” Luned said. “She is dead. She was full of…nevermind. There was a man, he was fighting the roach. Maybe he has a rope.”

“Hrm,” Flint said.

“What does that mean? ‘Hrm.’ Use your words!”

“He is most likely dead as well. Give me one of your vials,” Flint said, holding his hand out to her. He wiggled his fingers at her impatiently while she searched for one, and then she handed it over. He shook it until it was burning bright, and then he promptly threw it right at the rat king.

“No!” Luned hissed. “We need those!”

“Give me another.”

“No!”

“Look,” he said.

She moved over to where he was standing, keeping a careful eye on the monstrosity surrounding them. It was strange to walk on her leg, because she could feel the moist heat of her own blood leaking onto her skin, but there was no pain or sensation in the muscle. The leech must have numbed it. She tried not to think about it, following Flint’s gaze instead. The vial he’d thrown was lodged in the matted fur of a giant rat long dead, one of its ribs standing out from the rotting hulk of its emaciated torso. Beyond it was a deeper darkness, an arched shape barely discernable.

“A way out,” she breathed. “There’s a way out!”

“They must have gathered here, perhaps for food, and they grew too rapidly to leave again by that tunnel. Not enough space to move around, so…well.”

Luned nodded, staring longingly at that distant shadow.

“Can you run?” he said, moving back toward the pool.

“I…what?”

“You’re favoring that leg.”

“I think the leech numbed this one,” she said. “I can run though. There are a lot of them, Flint, and most of them…”

“Trust me,” he said, and that made him feel guilty. “We’re leaving.”

Luned hurried back over to the pool and cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted one last time: “We have a way out!”

When she turned around again, Flint was in the process of kicking the leech experimentally. When it didn’t move, he pulled his knife out of it. The blade was chipped off, and a long strand of slime ran from the leech to the handle and would not come free, so he threw it into the pool and sneered at the stuff smeared on his palm.

“Ready?” he said.

“I guess,” she said, warily.

Flint bent down, gathered the leech’s corpse up, and then got a running head start before throwing it as hard as he could toward the rat king. A ripple went through the mass, and then a pained groan, and then it erupted into chaos. Bones and dust tumbled from the gargantuan mats of fur, and there was an awful snapping sound as the rats struggled against their fused mass. Were the living breaking their own bones in their haste, or the bones of the dead ones, or…?

It was impossible to know, and terror was quickly surging up in both of them, removing their ability to watch the horrific scene objectively. The walls themselves were moving, tumbling over themselves. Skin tore and blood oozed, tumors the size of houses strained against albino flesh, and veins bulged and burst into bruises that spread like ink on a page. Rarely was there some piece that actually resembled an earthly creature: a skeletal claw stretched out, a gleaming red eye, a monumental mouth with a pronounced overbite and tremendous teeth fused together into a single yellow stalactite.

The rat king was battling itself for that tiny morsel, incensed at the smell of blood and death. Every time one of those horrid claws reached out for the leech, some other ancient appendage lashed out and prevented it. The cave trembled, and the vibrations of the rat king’s attempts at movement threatened to unsteady Flint and Luned. Some unholy fusion of fluids stretched gradually out from under the fleshy folds of it, reeking of ammonia and bile and the coppery scent of blood. A single ear-shredding shriek came from somewhere in the dark beyond.

“Now!” Flint roared, and he pushed Luned forward. Against every instinct, she ran.

It was only halfway to the creature that the thought occurred to her that Flint might not be following her, but by then one of the rats spotted her, and it struggled over one of the titanic corpses fused to it to reach her. Its head shot forward, toothless mouth gaping wide, but Flint’s shoulder collided with it and knocked it aside. It was big, but hunger made it frail.

Luned reached a wall of something indescribable – something that might have been alive once, and might encase something living, but wasn’t anymore, and it was impossible to say what composed it. The smell rolling off of it was like a physical force, and that there was nothing else like it in the world might be proof of at least one loving god.

“Flint!” she shouted.

“Climb!”

Everything in her being was repulsed at the thought of touching that surface, but she found herself taking great handfuls of what might have been fur once, and she began pulling herself up. The air left her lungs when she felt something pushing her upward, and then she realized it was Flint behind her, helping. She twisted to look down at him just in time to see one of the rats surge up from below him, open its mouth wide, and then chomp down on his shoulder. Before he could so much as scream, Luned shoved one of her boots down into the monster’s eye, which caused it to release her companion and tumble away squealing.

“Go,” he said, teeth clenched.

She ascended even as the wall trembled and flexed beneath her hands and feet, and there were deafening sounds coming from all around her – screams and rumbles, snapping bones and splashing blood, tearing flesh and cracking stone. She reached the top and spun around, took Flint by his good arm, and pulled as hard as she could, and with his help managed to drag his bulk up and over. They tumbled over the rat king, catching glimpses of its ongoing suicide by cannibalism – fuel for a lifetime of nightmares.

And then they were in a dimly lit tunnel. Luned wrapped one of her arms around Flint’s shoulders to steady herself, and he half supported her and half carried her as they ran, tripping over one another but never falling, and the sounds of death faded behind them until there was nothing but the sounds of their own pain and exhaustion echoing in their ears.

The situation was not getting any better.

The roach was backing off, hissing and screeching in pain as the baby spiders swarmed it- although "baby" wasn't really an appropriate term. Each of the arachnids was easily as big as Aurelius' hands, sinking their translucent fangs into the weakened spots of the cockroach's armoured form. The patches of Hellfire still burned all over it's body, but it seemed barely to notice anymore, with the sheer amount of pain flooding it's body.

More of the pale little buggers were crawling out of their elven womb every moment, and risking turning his back on the nightmare in front of him, the tiefling doused the corpse-mother with black flame, hearing the violent hisses and pops as more of the spiders cooked off inside the dead elf chit. As he did so, he growled in pain, cracked ribs flaring. Wiping another trickle of black blood from under his horns, the half-breed watched in part disbelief, part irritation as the girl he was trying to rescue fled the fight, heading through the same water duct as her male companion a few minutes before. Still, he couldn't follow just yet.

His raw skin chafing against the interlocking leather plates of his armour, the warlock turned back to the bug-battle. The spiders were winning, crawling over the much bigger insect and injecting their venom into it's flesh.

But they knew the roach was as good as dead, and turned back to the other flesh-morsel in the chamber.

"C'mon then, you little bastards," he snarled, twirling his wrist, loosening his muscles as three of the eight-legged creatures leapt from their kill, scuttling at him with speed.

The first spider jumped at him, legs out to grab his face. Aurelius knew that spiders masticated their victims when they bit, then sucked their fluids out, leaving an emaciated, dessicated corpse. He also knew that wasn't how he planned to spend his day. Lashing out with the machete-like cleaver, Aurelianus sliced it clean in two, watery, milky blood spattering the front of his bladed armour. The second skittered close enough for Aurelius to stomp on it, his heavy boot pulverising it's tender form.

The third didn't even last that long, impaled on a bladed leg as the roach stampeded around the chamber, dying slowly and in a great deal of pain. Now, while Aurelius was content to let the beast suffer, it was still a threat to him; the only option was clear enough- it had to die. Throwing another wave of Hellfire over it's spider-riddled frame, casting lunatic shadows dancing along the faded and cracked walls, the warlock closed in. The remaining spiders exploded in the heat, sending splashes of burning blood out like miniature fireworks.

The roach was staggering drunkenly at this point, but it wasn't dying quick enough for his liking; a running start had him leaping onto the now charred and pitted carapace, his boots cracking the compromised shell on impact. Reversing his grip on the blade, Aurelius let loose, stabbing it down deep into the roach. He fell into a lunatic frenzy, staggering up the bucking surface of the giant insect and stabbing in a storm of steel. Finally, as the roach dropped onto the knees of it's two remaining left legs, Aurelius reached it's head. The creature was hissing pitiably now, mandibles working almost as if it was pleading for death.

With one last swing of the ichor-soaked cleaver, Aurelianus gladly granted it's request.

***

Now, in the aftermath of the fight, Aurelius took stock of his wounds; his burned skin was starting to itch like a bastard; his head wound was still bleeding in a very slow trickle; his cracked ribs sent a dull throb through him every time he took a breath; the gash across his ribs left a little ache every time he twisted the wrong way; and after trying to catch hand-holds on the roach's carapace, he had nicks and cuts on his left hand.

All in all, he'd had it worse.

Still, he didn't have time to muck about- if he didn't catch up to the pair he was following, they were going to give him the laugh (to escape him), and he couldn't have that. Wiping his blade relatively clean against the edge of his boot before re-sheathing it, he edged closer to the water duct both had traveled through, looking for any track he could follow. But the amount of water made it unlikely.

**"...down here!”**

The tiefling blinked his snake-like eyes, not believing his luck. Was she really shouting for him? The chit he was tracking, possibly to murder, possibly to hand over to Swanra'ann, was shouting for him to join them? The irony was almost too much to bear, and he chuckled to himself darkly.

His predator's grin returned.

**“We’re down here!”**

It was definitely the chit's voice, echoing up from the depths of the tunnel in front of him. Quickly grabbing his coat, donning the slightly dirty, slightly burned leather, the street-ganger jumped into the waist-deep water. He started to wade in, the darkness closing in now that the chit had disappeared with her little bottles of light. As the shadows deepened, Aurelius could hear some truly disturbing sounds; the denizens of the sewers were emerging, drawn to the fresh food. There were things down here who were hungry... and by the sounds of it, bloody big! Sod this for a game of soldiers! he thought, hurrying through the murky water toward the sound of the chit and her minder.

**“We have a way out!”**

Her voice was closer, louder. He was closing the gap. As the warlock got deeper into the duct, he could hear the pair of them shouting, and.. something else. This day was just getting more and more of a pain in the arse.

**“Flint!”**

**“Climb!”**

Flint, eh? he thought, seeing a soft glow getting closer- that must be the short basher. There were things in the water with him, brushing against the heavy leather of his clothes and armour before disappearing into the murk. The noise of the feeding frenzy behind him diminished, much to Drak'shal's relief. He finally made it out of the tunnel, dragging himself up onto a rocky ledge, idly wondering what sorts of diseases he might pick up from the sewer water in his wounds. But those thoughts were instantly forgotten as he took in the room before him.

"What the unholy mother of fuck..." he muttered, serpentine eyes wide in surprise.

Now, for someone who had been to many different versions of Hell, it was uncommon for the warlock to be shocked; but really, how often did one see an entire army of rats fused into a singular, gestalt entity, filling an entire chamber in a sewer already full of mutants and monstrosities? And as he watched, Aurelius realised something- the.. well, he didn't know exactly how to refer to the beast, but it was tearing itself apart. More to the point, as his blood started to trickle from his wounds again, the creature took notice of him.

"Well..." he started, searching for an appropriate word to describe his current myriad emotions. "Shit."

A flicker of light in the upper reaches of the chamber caught his eye, and to his sheer exasperation he saw the pair of Sewer Rats climbing up the fused mass of giant rats, clambering onto a ledge up above. Are you pikin' kiddin' me? he fumed internally. His wounds were hurting, making the always short-fused half-demon even more irate than usual.

Spitting a string of profanities, he realised he had no other options open to him. If he didn't shift his arse, he was going to get torn apart down here, with no means of escape. The cacophony in the room, already nearing unbearable volume, increased in intensity as the Rat Thing smelled his blood. The conjoined rats were ripping themselves apart, each trying to kill the other to keep the food for itself, not realising they were all one. A rare shiver of apprehension running down his spine, Aurelianus took a deep breath.. and dived into the throng. He lashed out with balls and cones of Hellfire, scorching rats, both alive and dead, to crispy cadavers. The heaving nightmare tried to recoil, a grotesque shiver rippling through the mass as Aurelius sprinted full-pelt for the wall Flint and the chit had climbed.

As he watched, chunks of rock came away from the walls, stuck to the Rat Thing by tendrils of flesh, and patches of mutated muscle. If he didn't get out now, he was going to die here. While the pair above disappeared from view, the glow started to fade as well, leaving Aurelius in a half-gloom, getting darker by the second. He didn't know what thought worried him more- getting to see himself being torn apart by this abomination, or suffering the same fate, but in utter darkness.

Spurred on by that thought, he sprinted over the mass of muscle, flesh, fur and bone, only barely managing to keep his footing. Reaching the wall, he marked the way it's flesh was starting to come loose from the crumbling brick surface: yanking his twin knives from their sheaths, he thought on his feet. He stabbed the beast nice and deep, using the blade as a handhold to pull himself higher. The going was slow, and Aurelius knew he would never again have such an exhilarating time in a sewer... but stab by stab, he was managing to gain height, darkness closing in on the freak-show below. The sounds that followed him up from the unlit depths would stay burned into Aurelius' brain-box for the rest of his life, but for now he was trying to shut them out, focusing on reaching the top.

It seemed like an eternity before the tiefling went to bury his knife into the Rat Thing, and hit only open air.

With a last herculean effort, he threw himself over the top of the ledge, just as the tendons and sinews holding the amalgamated monster to the wall finally snapped with a hideous wet snap. He took a few deep breaths, ignoring the agony his climb had caused him, aggravating every one of his injuries, before he dragged himself to his feet. The noises below reached a fevered pitch, and instead of sticking around to risk his arse anymore, he took off into the darkness to find the Sewer Rats.

They hadn't got far. Staggering into the same narrow tunnel as them, he re-sheathed his chivs and put two fingers in his mouth as he let out a shrill, sharp whistle. He instantly regretted it, grimacing at the taste they left in his mouth- the pair up ahead obviously heard him, stopping up ahead.

Dragging himself along to meet them, Drak'shal spat into the muck of the floor, hand clutching the cut in his side through his coat.

"Do you have any idea how hard you bastards are to find?" he snarled, yellow-eyes shining against the light.

The sharp whistle cut through the tunnel like a knife in their ears and Flint immediately halted, tense, and the pair looked behind them to view the approach of a very battered, vaguely reptilian man. Luned exhaled a sympathetic sigh of relief that he'd made it out, which quickly caught in her throat when she registered what he said. Flint didn't need that split second to jump to conclusions, immediately wishing this stalker was rat feast instead of occupying this delightfully dank, claustrophobic tunnel with them.

"He made it," Luned said, almost questioningly. She let go of Flint's shoulder, able to stand on her own in spite of her numb leg. It was weird, she almost expected it to wake up to pins and needles, but none such happened and she didn't dare look down and check on the bleeding, that was for sure.

Flint donned an impenetrable expression, stony stare meeting the other man's gaze as he drew closer. At the very least, this questionable character seemed to be in at least as bad a shape as they were. "And who the hell are you?"

"I'm the bloke that nicked the two sods trying to pen you in the dead-book, mate," he spat, then sneered. "You're welcome, by the by."

Luned frowned. "When? Why?"

"Back in the brothel where your minder," he nodded to Flint, "Grabbed his stash. Why is my business, luv."

"It's our business if it was enough to drag you down into that hellhole with us." Flint was already reaching for his brass knuckles, stance shifting to something much more hostile. Luned reached out and touched his arm as if to suggest he should hold back, a gesture that he didn't particularly appreciate, but he also didn't know this fellow's unique trick.

Surely enough, the man summoned swirls of black flame in each of his nonchalantly upturned palms, brow raised. "I saved your sorry little arse, and this is the thanks I get? Well, you can go pike yoursel', mate. I only 'elped you out to send a big 'up yours' to Swanra'ann."

The scribe's brow knotted in frustration. "But, why were you following us?"

He smirked, then winced slightly from aggravating his burns. "Look at the pair of you sorry sods –– if Swanra'ann wants to get 'er 'ands on the Swaysong, do you really think you berks could stop 'er?"

It made sense that word got out and scavengers had come creeping from the dark corners of the city to get their hands on such a legendary substance, as if it was that simple, as if it was theirs for the taking. Flint could have laughed, this guy's version of their story and the hopelessness of their investigation amusing in a miserable sort of way, but he simply shook his head. "If that's what you're after, you're out of luck, mate." He shrugged with his hands open, communicating their unfortunate lack of any such Swaysong. He had very little interest in butting heads with delusional strangers at this point, his injuries desperately in need of tending, and from the shape they were both in, it'd be an embarrassing skirmish on both sides.

"Regardless," Luned said, wrapping her arms around herself as it was hard not to be chilled in damp clothing, even if this was certainly worlds of improvement over her last sewer-spelunking ensemble. "We need to get out of here."

The tunnel was dimly illuminated through a couple ventilation pipes in the ceiling and Luned looked up into one, missing the cheery blue skies back home as a gray dot of polluted light blinked back down at her. There were several smaller pipelines off of this one, but from the improvement in air quality, it was obvious that they didn't have much further to go before they were back outside. This instilled a sense of security, and while false as it may have been, it was enough for them to set their issues aside for a brief moment and commence in a weary, grumbling mass toward the projected exit.

It felt like she was limping but she couldn't tell if it was from true weakness or her own psychological crutch, recalling the sensation of the local anesthetic Petru used once when she needed stitches. She let that memory distract her from what remained behind them until, just up ahead, a flurry of cloth in a familiar shade of brown disappeared down one of the intersecting tunnels and into the darkness.

"Shit," Flint sighed before she could react, tipping her off that he saw it, too. The fiery fellow already fisted some balls of flame, thoroughly spooked in light of recent events, but Luned waved him off.

"Helethra?" she called out gently. "Hel, is that you?" Luned approached the entrance of the tunnel, but now that her eyes were adjusted to the better light, it was hard to see into the dense darkness. She held up her last vial, its glow beginning to dim, and leaned in to coax the child out. "We came looking for you, actually. We got lost again on our way to visit you at the museum, like we said we would. Could you show us the way?"

A mournful little voice echoed back, small and frail. "No," Helethra wailed. "You got me in trouble. Why'd you have to go tell Mom I was playing down here? She made me take that awful, icky medicine, and now I got a tummy ache that won't go away."

"If you're sick, maybe we can help you," Luned pleaded with her, tossing Flint a worried look over her shoulder, then looking back. There was movement nearly just out of sight in the pipe and she knelt down, reaching in with her hand held out in encouragement. "Will you show us the way home?"

There was a strange growl as Luned's hand neared her and there was a flash of bared pearly whites in the shadows, catching the scribe off guard, but it was too late to react. Helethra lashed out. "No! It's all your fault!"

Flint and Aurelius watched on as something yanked Luned into the pipe, sending her sprawling and kicking. Inside, hands much stronger than a child's pulled at her, and suddenly pinned down on her back, she found herself wrestling a taloned creature in the dark. She dropped the vial and desperately tried to avoid breaking it as vicious claws came down on her face, neck, shoulders, and arms, tearing her clothes and flesh to ribbons wherever they met. The scribe shrieked and thrashed, but somehow had enough sense left in her to find the small dagger at her hip. She unsheathed it, raised it in a desperate fist, and dug it blindly into the clawing mass above her.

Meanwhile, Flint grabbed at her legs in an attempt to pull her back out, losing hold the first try as it slipped through his grasp, slick with blood. Before he could try again, he was shoved back as Luned's foot met him with a fierce kick square in the gut. "Stop. Kicking," he demanded, unheard by the woman in question, but after another try or two he got a grip on her unharmed ankle.

There was a scream, a horrendous, murderous, shrill scream that carried on for several long, torturous seconds, then fell away into piteous weeping that echoed down the pipe. Luned stopped kicking and Flint panicked at the sudden stillness, dragging her out to the horror of the entire upper half of her body drenched in crimson blood. Much of it was hers but certainly not all of it, and clenched in her fist was an equally gory dagger. She stared up at both him and Aurelius, wide-eyed, unable to move as her hand trembled and dropped her weapon with a clink onto the ground next to her.

"I-I hurt her," she choked, overcome. No matter what Ezura's strange medicine had done, no matter what this bizarre development implicated in their investigation, she was consumed by the horror of knowing she'd just stabbed a poor little girl. No matter what kind of monster she was now, that's all she really was. Helethra was nothing but a kid.

In the quiet, they could hear Helethra as she made her wretched escape, crying and sobbing and wailing as she fled back into the cold embrace of the underground, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

Everything was heat and blood and weight. Flint knew something was wrong: his thoughts were fuzzy, his feet too heavy, and his senses muddied. He realized the causes were blood loss and exhaustion, and then his mind wandered. He saw Luned beside him through a haze, all red and brown and black and white and wet, and he endured. He remembered marching through snow, and looked at his hand. Why was his shoulder bleeding? He thought of Helethra, and his mind dismissed it. It was some monster in the sewers, some evil trick.

“It was a trick,” he told Luned. She didn’t say anything. It didn’t occur to him that she couldn’t hear him - that he was just muttering.

The snow must have been deep here, because it was hard to lift his feet and he was very tired. Why was it so hard to focus? He realized the cause was blood loss and exhaustion and too much adrenaline, and then his thoughts wandered. He needed to get Luned out of the sewers, she was bleeding a lot. How did they get to Salvar? They were in Ettermire before. How was there snow in the sewers?

“Keep movin’, basher,” the tiefling said from somewhere behind, “or I’ll gladly pen you in the dead-book myself.”

Flint growled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t figure out why he was having so much trouble putting thoughts together. It was dark and the snow was deep, but he could see the sun rising ahead of them – just a tiny white circle, and for some reason the sounds of Ettermire were echoing out from it. He didn’t try to make sense of it; he just marched, because that’s what a soldier does.

A young boy sat on a broken fence at the roof of the world, eating goat cheese on bread. He was a plump boy, with a round face and a round belly, but skinny arms and skinny legs and shaggy hair, and he was mischievous and sharp and smiled always. The snow was melting and he’d run off from home without his jacket, but he liked the cold. Killers came up the road that day, hard men who’d been raiding in the south, dressed in boiled leather and carrying clubs.

“Hey boy,” the leader said. “Yeh wanna be a soldier like us?”

The boy shook his head slowly, suddenly wide-eyed and shy.

“Eh? Why not, eh?”

“I’m not a strong person like you,” the boy said.

“Lemme tell yeh somethin’ boy,” the man said, taking the bread from him. “T'ere ain’t a man born strong in the world, no. Yeh get strong by tryin’, and only by. So yeh see, yeh see, yeh ain’t a strong man yet. Yeh wanna be strong like us?”

The boy hesitated, and then he nodded his head slow.

“Course yeh do.”

“What have you done?” Flint growled, squeezing his eyes against the light shining in his face. Were they in a warehouse? It smelled like dust and leather, and he could hear Aleraran engines outside, and shouts in the dark elf tongue. His shoulder ached.

“Keep still, you soddin' leatherhead.”

“Calm down, Flint,” Luned interjected, steadying him with a gentle push at his uninjured shoulder. “Aurelianus is stitching you up. Be still.”

“Who…”

The boy cowered in the far corner of the yurt, edging toward the entrance. There was a man in the tent with him, which had been unexpected. The boy had come to loot, and had surprised the man. The man was badly injured and could not stand, but he held a knife out in his hand and the boy did not want the man to kill him. He was going to run away.

Kentigern entered the tent though, and the boy froze. The big warrior looked between him and the injured man, and let out a gruff bark of laughter. “Where yeh goin’, boy?”

“He’s got a knife,” the boy said.

“Look a’ ‘im!” Kentigern said, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and pointing.

“Look a’ the fear on ‘im, yeh see it? Look!”

The boy looked.

“The fear is yers, boy, see? Yeh control it, not ‘im. Yeh are fear. Go on, show it. Go on.”

The boy wasn’t fear, Kentigern was. The boy feared Kentigern more, so he took a steadying breath and he approached the injured man. He was bleeding badly, and tears were welled up in his eyes. He seemed very old and tall. He waved the knife, but he did it slow, like he was drunk, so the boy hurried. He cut himself on the knife, but he got it away from the man, and then he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, and he saw in the man’s eyes what he felt in himself.

The man was so, so afraid of him.

“I am fear,” Flint croaked. His throat was parched.

“What’d ‘e say?”

“I think he’s speaking Salvic.”

“The slavers’ll be on us in an hour, Kentigern,” one of the big men whispered. The boy pretended not to hear, which was easy because he did not understand.

They were hiding in a building that had been a house once, but now the roof was gone and there were holes in the walls, and the fireplace was full of soot. The boys were huddled in the corner, some trying to sleep, others too cold to make the attempt. The boy sharpened a knife with a rock, the way he’d seen Kentigern do it.

“Hey, boy,” Kentigern said. “Rauk, you c’mere, look a’ me. Good, now yeh listen. Me and this bunch're goin’ off fer an hour or two, but we’re comin’ back. We need t'is ‘ouse, see? So yeh gotta guard it. Yer in charge. Yer a big man now like us, yeh see? Yer like a big chunk o’ flint, cut right out a mountain. What are yeh?”

“Fear,” the boy said.

“Tha’s right.”

Kentigern left with the rest of the men. Some of the boys froze to death before the slavers came. Rauk fought with his knife, but he was so hungry and cold.

“That one’s going in the pits,” he heard one of the slavers say. “Mark me, that one’s a gladiator.”

They took his knife away and kicked him until he fell to sleep.

Flint woke gasping, and then clutched his shoulder, curled up, and squeezed his eyes shut, and he hissed as he buried the pain again. It took a long time. Come to think of it, it seemed to take a little longer every time he had to do it, but he managed to push the cold and the snow deep inside just like he always did. And then he made himself forget it was there.

That part was usually hard, but not this time. This time he turned his thoughts toward Luned and Helethra, and the memories faded.

Aurelius brought up the rear as they left the sewers tunnel behind, still on edge after what had just happened. The chit was walking, her and Flint supporting each other as they staggered in front. What the fuck was that? he thought, eyeing every shadow, ears parked for the hideous wailing, weeping that had followed the attack. It had had the voice of a kid, but looking at the slashes and tears on the chit's flesh... that weren't no pikin' kid.

As the pair of mauled little rubes staggered on ahead, Aurelius considered his options- he wasn't leather-headed enough to believe either of them had the Swaysong on them. But it also appeared they had a clue where to find it. So.. the tiefling could either make sure they got "lost" down here in the sewers, and keep hunting himself, or he could force himself to keep up the deception of friendliness until his moment presented itself. It wasn't a hard choice.

Friendliness? You!? the voice in his brain-box crippled itself laughing at him, the sound grating on his nerves.

Aurelius shrugged it off, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Sheathing one of his knives, he glanced over his shoulder at the pair, seeing Flint falter a little, his movements sluggish.

"Keep movin', basher," he snapped, "or I'll gladly pen you in the dead-book myself."

He reminded himself he was supposed to be playing the ally, the rescuer, etc. Taking a deep, calming breath, forcing down the urge to knife both of them and just call it a day, he walked closer, seeing the polluted ochre sky of Ettermire, knowing they were unlikely to get attacked again this close to the surface. Grabbing the more lucid of the two, the chit, he led her by the arm away from Flint by a few steps. Up close, he could see her wounds were mainly superficial- a few nasty deep ones that'd need stitching, but apart from a few scars, she'd heal up fine. Judging by the way he was dragging his feet, muttering, eyes glazed, the basher wasn't as lucky.

"Look, girlie, what's your name?" he asked.

Her eyes unfocused through sheer terror, and apparent horror, she mumbled a response. "... ed". Even with his heightened senses, the warlock had difficulty making her out. He asked again, and the response was louder this time.

**"Luned."**

"Alright Luned, I'm Aurelianus. Mark me, luv, you and your minder are in pretty bad shape. If you don't want to be deader's by nightfall, you're gonna 'ave to trust me, and 'elp me with 'im. You both need patched up 'fore you bleed out, so let's 'ave no if's, no but's. Do what I say, when I say it," he shook her lightly to make sure she was focused. "We clear?" he asked forcefully.

***

An hour later, and the unlikely allies were calling kip in a disused warehouse, far enough away from any sewer entrance that they could all relax a fraction. The ochre skies were darkening above, the thick smog and impending darkness making the sun a barely visible pale disc against the thick, dirty sky. Aurelius had made sure they weren't tailed, still wary of this Swanra'an tracking them. Was it her who'd sent the thing in to tear into the chit? So far, Luned hadn't really been in the proper mind-set to offer any answers, and Flint was barely conscious.

Aurelius had went out for a while, to gather some things they would all need, and to keep up the pretence of being "on their side". It wasn't difficult to find what he needed- a bottle of strong booze, and some clothes for the bedraggled pair back in the warehouse. The former, he'd bought from a nearby tavern, loaded to the rafters with labourers from the industrial district. But he'd had no trouble. The clothing, on the other hand, had taken a little while. But after finding two Aleraran elves (both male) engaging in some.. amorous activities in a darkened alleyway...

Well, Aurelius hoped Luned and Flint didn't notice the minor blood splatters on the dark clothing.

He slipped through the door of the warehouse, checking again to make sure they weren't being watched, before he headed to the little enclosed space he'd left the pair in. It was walled in by shippig crates, out of view of all the grimy windows in this shit-hole. Luned was sitting dejectedly, muttering about "Helethra", whatever the pike that meant, and Flint was passed out on the floor, in a cold sweat. A sorrier pair of sods you couldn't 'ope to meet. An' I'm the berk who 'as to patch 'em up, he sneered, setting out all his supplies on top of a crate as a makeshift table; needle and thread, bandages, the bottle of Aleraran T'keela, some gauze he'd picked up somewhere, and finally, from its strap at his belt, Herzaa's blade. The notched and curved dagger used to belong to Aurelius' only real friend, a long time ago, and was as much a surgical tool as a weapon.

"Right then," he grinned wickedly, toying with the razor-edged curving knife, "Who's first?"

***

Luned came first, and oh, but her screams were sweet when they came. Aurelius had sat her on another of the wooden crates, throwing a tarp over it to make it at least a little more comfortable, before he started working at her wounds.

"Stay still," he warned, "and 'ere," he added as an afterthought- he handed her a strip of leather. Seeing her understanding, the tiefling nodded- she's a canny chit, I'll say that for 'er. He tried to focus, and remember all the handy little tricks Herzaa had ever taught him for patching up wounds. He turned to the equipment laid out, picking up the bottle and popping the cork out of it. The smell of almost pure alcohol assaulted his nostrils, but he took a swig anyway before offering the bottle to Luned.

"Drink up, luv. You look like you could use it," he smirked. As soon as she handed him back the bottle, the tiefling struck, quick as a snake; shoving Luned onto her back, he poured a healthy measure of the bub over her face, soaking her wounds, cleaning them out in a wash of burning pain. She screamed, the sound caressing Aurelius' like a lover's fingers, sending a shiver up his spine. Oh, when he got his hands on the Swaysong, he would have fun with this one. Her hands shoved at him ineffectually, and he laid the bottle aside, pinning her down as the alcohol cleansed the injuries. It only took a few moments.

After that, he picked up the discarded strip of leather, standing over the whimpering chit. He waved the strip in front of her, "now, do I 'ave to tie you down, or will you grow a pair and sit still while I do this next bit?"

To her credit, she didn't move- besides flinching- while he stitched her deeper wounds. His bedside manner could have used improvement, but Aurelius managed to get her sorted, even applying gauze and bandages to cover the injuries. She looked like she'd been in a bar-fight with a Baatezu, but she'd live.

His own wounds had taken a fraction of the time, and after using a handy little incantation to repair his tattoos, the tiefling had donned his viciously barbed armour again. He was too peery a body to stay unprotected around anyone- even this sorry pair of addle-coves.

Now came the hard part- Flint.

***

It was another hour of work before Aurelius was satisfied with the short-framed basher, but he was done.

The basher's shoulder wound had been the biggest bastard- it had become infected, and when the fever peaked, the silly sod had been ranting incoherently, flailing at Aurelianus as he tried to clean and stitch the wound. Even with Luned there to try and calm him down, the berk had kept trying to fight Aurelius off, stopping him from performing first-aid. The tiefling had to fight off the urge to just nick his throat and be done with it, but he needed the sod alive- no matter how little he liked it, he had to pay the music.

He turned to Luned, raising his pierced eyebrow. "Do me a favour- when 'e wakes up, tell 'im 'e needed this."

Before Luned could voice her question, he turned to the delirious basher, and hammered a fist across his jaw- Flint's head snapped to the side, and he slumped down flat on the floor, out cold.

That had made the work easier, and he was now as healed as Drak'shal could manage. Once again, he mouthed a silent thanks to the long-departed spirit of Herzaa- if it hadn't been for the grim sod, the warlock would never have managed to wash out the deep shoulder wound, sinking the tip of his knife into it to dig out the chipped shard of rat tooth left embedded there when Luned had kicked the mangy animal off. After that, he had used a burst of fire to stem the bleeding, and sown the nasty gash shut. It wasn't as easy as his friend had always made it look, but he managed alright. And the sheer bloody satisfaction he had received from punching Flint in the teeth had helped assuage his temper for the moment.

Speaking of the bald bastard, a grunt from across the little space they were hiding in told Aurelianus he was waking up. The tiefling got to his feet, throwing a set of clothes to each of the Sewer Rats, as he turned his back.

"They should fit," he said over his shoulder, lighting a cigarette and puffing away happily.

After a few minutes, he sat back down, planting his heavy boots up on the crate. Resting an arm on his knee, he rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. It's been a soddin' long night, he mused, the exhaustion just setting in. Idly chewing on one of his spikes of hair, the half-breed turned to the patchwork pair, serpentine eyes darting between them.

"So," he said, after a few moments, "which one of you sods is going to lann me the dark of this ride?"

It took Luned's tired brain an embarrassing length of time to dissect Aurelianus' bizarre slang, distracted as she helped barely-conscious Flint into his 'new' jacket. It was a struggle with that awful shoulder of his, the work of getting his bad arm into a sleeve eliciting no small number of groans and curses from the poor, disgruntled man. "Ah, well…" she began, quickly piecing together a bare minimum of details that would satisfy his curiosity. "I was an intended buyer, but someone made off with the entire shipment into the sewers. We've been investigating, but obviously it's not there."

The serpentine fellow wasn't feeling especially patient. "Yeah, I tumbled to that, luv. I wanna know where it is."

The battered scribe attempted to arrange her clothing in a functional fashion, finding this new outfit was nearly the right size, but everything ran quite long. She knelt down and rolled up her pant legs, doing her best to ignore the irritation of the fact that even if she had a change of clothes, her hair was still soaked in sewage water and nothing would fix that except a bath that was out of her foreseeable future. At the very least, her leg had stopped bleeding and the feeling was mostly restored. "It's not for certain, but I think we've figured it out," she sighed. "So I suppose it's time to go deal with that."

Flint, beyond any desire for polite conversation as he continued to shake off those fever dreams, merely nodded. He knew. They both knew.

"Fine by me. So, who we gonna kill?" Aurelianus asked calmly, spitting out his hair and taking another drag off his cigarette.

This proposition apparently horrified Luned, earning an agape glare, but after a moment of consideration, she realized that maybe it's what Ezura deserved. She poisoned her daughter, induced chaos in the sewers, caused at least several brutal homicides, stole from Swanra'ann, and caused Flint and herself a traumatizing amount of trouble. "No one's killing anyone," she replied bluntly, but from the slight change in her expression, Aurelianus was amused to find that she might not be so averse to laying down justice after all.

---

The walk to the museum felt like it took ages. Flint was really in no shape to confront a thief –– nor was Luned, for that matter –– but he simply didn't have the energy to argue. If anything, this was just one last stop before he finally left Ettermire or found permanent slumber in the gutters thanks to Swanra'ann. At this point, the only thing forcing his feet into constant, sluggish motion was Luned's gentle urging and repeated promises that she'd find them comfortable lodging and antibiotics. She could see he was struggling, but they were this close to leaving this nightmare behind them.

On the way, the Aurelianus caricature insisted on hearing an account of their Swaysong-spurred adventure to date. Luned reluctantly told the morbid tale, lingering on the goriest details to entertain him so she could glaze over ones she had trouble putting into words, namely the specifics surrounding Helethra. In the end she was glad to have organized their story out loud, as laying it all out there put perspective on the whole thing that both felt conclusive and shameful. It had been so obvious.

"I looked for signs when we first went to the museum," Luned attempted to justify her ignorance. "There were a lot of chemicals on those shelves, but nothing in a standard smoke bomb. But of course they weren't on display… she's obviously not stupid." She glanced over to Flint, as if hoping for some validation, that he could somehow say or do something that would soothe the burn of defeat.

He remained quiet, eyes straight ahead as he struggled to remain upright. Luned wondered if he'd even heard her, but after a long moment he muttered a response. "She was sick. Those things on her skin…"

The trio commenced the last leg of their trip in silence, but Flint's words got Luned thinking. Out of the three of them, she most understood what Swaysong was; Helethra's symptoms were complicated and typical of the more tragic turns that ingestion of such a powerful substance could take. The sewer creatures, they were under the influence of something else, but Helethra was a textbook case... well, as much as textbooks existed on this controversial substance, anyhow.

Swaysong, after all, was a monkey's paw. If one truly believed it was a cure-all, it could heal any disease known to man. If a confident person took it believing it would bring him to his full potential, it could very well turn man into demigod. A conflicted child, however, was a can of worms and the last thing that needed was magical enhancement.

The thing that killed Luned most about this, though, was the fact that in order for Helethra to become a monster, she must have felt like one to begin with.

---

By the time they arrived at the museum it was closed, Flint was dead on his feet, and glimpses of a pink and gold sunset peeked through the dark clouds. Luned hesitated at the rear entrance, looking up and wondering what the sky above Ettermire looked like before the industrial revolution. She wondered if there was anyone left who even remembered. She also recognized that she was stalling, afraid of what they were to discover within, so she forced herself to gather the last fragments of her courage and knocked on the door.

It creaked open, having been closed without care. Recalling Ezura's heavy lock-up the previous evening, it was an ominous sign.

The hallway appeared normal, but when they reached the lab, it was barely recognizable. It had been ransacked, furniture overturned and cabinets emptied onto the floor, pools of chemicals mixing dangerously on the floor. The odor was overpowering, formaldehyde combined with even more toxic substances, and Luned nearly fainted from vapors as she stepped in first. "Don't step in that," she gestured to the mess, "If you'd like to keep the soles on your feet. Ugh." She picked her way over shattered jars, their previous inhabitants swimming in solution on the floor, and walked over to the living area where Helethra's things were strewn carelessly amongst random pieces of lab equipment. Stooping, she picked up the doll of the rat king and reflexively stroked the hair on one of its many heads.

Flint stepped in next, and in his nigh-delirious state he missed Luned's warning. He crunched through some glass until he stepped on something soft that popped like an egg. Looking down, he lifted his boot.

The crushed skull of Bruno gazed back up at him, still smiling. One of his eyes had dislodged and burst like a grape full of jelly on the tile.

"Watch it, basher," Aurelianus piped up from behind as Flint wavered on his feet. The tiefling shoved him upright again and stepped around him to enter the room, not bothering to tip toe around the remains of the red-eyed elf fetus that squished audibly underfoot. He was too in the zone to pay heed to the strange creatures that littered the floor; he'd seen far worse in Hell. "I repeat m'self: who we gonna kill?"

Luned looked up from the doll, shook her head, and frowned. Beast Helethra didn't make this mess; people did. "Swanra'ann got her."

That was all it took for every ounce of Aurelianus' oh so angelic patience and grace to fly out the window. "Of all the pikin', soddin', Powers-damned, whorin' luck!" The interior décor was already adequately destroyed but he seemed to disapprove of the job, as he picked up a metal stool and began smashing the glass out of several empty cabinets. The harsh shattering made Luned wince and she looked over to see Flint leaning against the wall next to the door, wiping feverish sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes were unfocused. He was sick, and she'd brought him all this way for nothing. There wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel, after all.

"That pikin' chit gave us the laugh!" Their fiery acquaintance brought her out of her thoughts with a tremendous clatter as he threw the stool against the metal sink in the back of the lab, then kicked the table against a wall with a hard thud that dislodged one of its legs. Coils of smoke rose from his clenched fists and, for a moment, Luned thought he might turn on them, right after all that effort of patching them up. This wasn't far from the truth, as if the pair of them turned out useless in his pursuit of the mythical substance, the half-demon figured he might as well get some enjoyment after all the trouble he'd gone through.

It was time to rein in their emotions. "Wait," she called out, holding up her hand defensively. "If they came for Ezura, they must have taken any Swaysong she had left. I imagine they still want my money for it, so I'll go find them and offer to hold up the deal." Luned hadn't planned on sharing it with a stranger, but after his help, she had a feeling he would end up with some in his pocket whether she extended an invitation or not. In her precarious situation, she hadn't much choice in the matter.

Aurelianus sneered, skeptical.

Luned didn't want to give him time to consider things too carefully, such as the possibility of killing her, stealing the significant amount of money she had hidden on her person, and going to get it himself. She continued talking to stall, setting down the doll and commencing a search of all the storage spaces in the room. "Just give me five minutes. I have something I need to do, and Flint needs water, and if I'm not mistaken, Ezura may have some things around that could be helpful in a potential confrontation with the Queen of the Pit."

The room had seen a thorough shakedown but Luned hunted anyhow. Alas, no sign of affirmation was to be found in any obvious location in the room, and whoever had searched for the Swaysong destroyed everything else in their path.

Then the scribe remembered something Ezura said to Helethra on their way out the night before. "Upstairs… it must be upstairs. I'll be quick, I promise! Flint, you hang in there."

The first two doors Luned tried in the hallway were locked, the third opened into a similarly ransacked closet, and the fourth led into a narrow, wrought-iron spiral staircase. She took it.

The door at the first landing opened up into the reception area of the museum, empty and dark, and Luned thought even her quiet breathing might echo in the impressively large, open space. Dim light filtered in through grand street-facing windows three times her height, glass panes held in place by ornate iron frames. She truly wished she was there on a pleasant occasion to get a personalized tour from Ezura, she really had intended to explore this museum at some point, but no such luck, and it was unlikely she'd ever return. She closed the door and ascended again.

The second floor was also occupied by the museum, but the third and final level opened into a living space. It could have been a beautiful home, really, set up like a large, airy loft. Bare brick and rustic beams formed the structure, large windows allowing plenty of light, but that was where the coziness ended. It seemed no stone was left unturned and furniture was thrown around, decorations destroyed, books and keepsakes knocked from shelves to lay despondently on the floor in the overcast gray light.

Luned realized, then, that this was her own private viewing of the wreckage that was Helethra's and Ezura's life together. What Swanra'ann's men destroyed only reflected the grave reality of the situation, but the relationship between mother and daughter wasn't as easily repaired as a broken toy. Standing amongst the fragments of what should have been the happy youth of a bright little girl and knowing what misery laid ahead for them, Luned felt an entirely new and increasingly unsettling helplessness. How does one salvage the potential of an ideal, anyhow?

The darkening sky outside cast deep shadows in the room and, looking out at the street, Luned was reminded of the fact that she had places to go, things to do, and ill friends to help. Was Flint a friend? She wouldn't be surprised if that revelation was one-sided, but allowed it on her part all the same. If she went home and told Resolve this story, she'd listen, but never understand. In a selfish way, it was comforting to know that there was someone else in the world who'd share the same nightmares after they left this godforsaken place.

Fortunately, Luned's time upstairs was made mercifully brief by the fact that Swanra'ann's men apparently found what they were looking for, and the mess ended precisely at a spot in the kitchen where a piece of artwork was torn off the wall to reveal a safe embedded in the brick. It was open and empty, and to Luned's pleasant surprise, the room smelled oddly of sulfur.

On the area rug below scattered a handful of important documents, money, jewelry, all items commonplace in a family safe, but there was also a discarded cloth containing two vials, a third one broken nearby. Now that Luned was kneeling to collect these spoils she noticed specks of blood on the carpet, difficult to make out at first as they joined the woven design, but the oxidized brown that mingled with the geometric shapes was unmistakable. There'd been a struggle. The scribe imagined that, in one last ditch effort to escape the brutes, Ezura must have broken one of her leftover smoke bombs then faced the consequences when they easily overpowered her.

Luned wondered if she was still alive and, somewhere in the back of her subconscious, her Swaysong mission turned into the seed of an idea that maybe, just maybe, she could rescue Ezura both from Swanra'ann and her own ignorance of her child. This seed grew as she grabbed a mug and filled it with water from the pump; it grew as she dashed down the dizzying stairs; it grew as she reentered the lab to find Flint sunk down onto the floor and Aurelianus pacing wildly in her absence. Maybe their family had a future, and she had the power to give them that chance. Maybe there was a way to bring Helethra back. Maybe Luned's opportunity for redemption was in the future, not in rewriting the past.

"Drink," she insisted, forcing the cup into Flint's hand. There was a sheen of sweat on his ashen skin and, though he remained responsive and awake, Luned couldn't help but wonder how much longer that would last. There was an endless variety of diseases he could have picked up from that rat's mouth, and a raging bacterial infection was likely the friendliest amongst their many thrilling options.

From there, her attention turned to Aurelianus as she walked over to Helethra's toys to pick up a gas mask she remembered seeing mixed in with the dolls and books. "I found what I was looking for, and I'm pretty sure they got the Swaysong back. Just hold on, one more minute, please," she pleaded, then pulled the tightly wrapped package in waxed canvas out of her pocket. Even that hadn't kept the contents fully dry after her delightful swim with the leeches, but luckily she had enough foresight to hide the ticket inside the pages of her journal, and it remained crisp and dry. On it was a concerned message from Agnie.

Quote:

---

What's going on? I thought you were returning tonight. Touch base.

---

Luned wrote back, her rushed handwriting painfully messier than her usual level of quality, but it'd have to do.

Quote:

---

Rendezvous ASAP, please watch door.

---

The dependability of the fairy was questionable, but it was the best Luned could manage. She could only hope everything would fall into place as she packed up her things and replaced them into her pockets, keeping the fountain pen easily accessible in her breast pocket next to the smoke bombs. But... what would they do with Flint?

Flint tracked Aurelianus with his eyes, settling himself back against the wall near the door. The breeze from outside was cool and precious, soothing the stifling heat of his fever. He did not trust the tiefling. Aurelianus was the sort of man Flint pretended to be: a man in tune with the truth of the world, a predator, and thus he was beyond trust. Luned wasn’t safe.

The brute considered his shoulder, and figured he was already dead. It was an ignoble end, but he wasn’t surprised at it. Death was either fast or slow, but he always knew it wouldn’t be peaceful or comfortable – why should it be any different from his life?

Luned returned in a flurry of motion, forcing a cup into his hand with a command to drink, and then she rushed all over the room digging through who-knows-what to find who-cares. Flint drank slowly, and it felt as if his throat was trying to close up to deny the water. He decided he was definitely dying.

He was halfway through the cup before he realized they were looking at him. He glanced between them and lowered the cup. Aurelianus looked ready to cut his throat and be done with the dead weight, but it was the concern in Luned’s eyes that bothered him more. He tried to growl, but what came out was more a lame, annoyed moan, and that was even more infuriating.

“I’m not going,” he said.

“I know you’re tired,” Luned said, “but Swanra’ann’s men might come back.”

“No,” he said. “They have what they want. Go back to your contact. Tell him you still want to buy. They’ll bring the Swaysong to you. It’s over.”

“What about Ezura? What about Helethra?”

“Already dead,” Flint said. “Forget about them.”

Luned’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe that. We can set this right.”

“No,” Flint said. He looked past her to Aurelianus. “They won’t sell you the Swaysong. You know that. You need her. Alive.”

Aurelianus gave him a shrug that said we’ll see. Flint knew that was the best he was going to get.

“You don’t have to come,” Luned said. She had that resolve in her eyes again, the same look she got before she went into the sewers. “I’m going to fix this, with or without you.”

“Without,” Flint said.

“Fine.”

She left, and Aurelianus looked at him sidelong for a moment thinking unknowable thoughts before following her out. Flint sighed, relieved, and pressed his cheek against the cool surface of the wall.

He could tolerate being weak, but not with them watching.

----

It felt like he’d been walking for days, but Flint was only a few blocks from the museum when they caught up to him.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered.

“You’re leavin’ a trail.”

Flint turned around slowly to look. Sure enough, he’d been dragging his shoulder along the bricks, leaving a long line of blood. They may have been commenting on the pools of vomit he was leaving every fifty paces, too. Hard to say.

“She’s got what she wants,” he said.

“Yep. When has that ever mattered?”

“Never,” he admitted.

“Gonna fight?”

“No,” he said. “Might puke on you.”

“It’ll go easier on you if you don’t.”

“No it won’t.”

---

There was a place beyond the poorest quarter of Ettermire, where the factories exhaled the blackest smoke and belched fire. This was the tannery, a dozen sprawling structures densely packed and forsaken by all but the most desperate. The smog never thinned here, trapped in a rocky basin and by the shape of the surrounding warehouses, and so it never even experienced the off-color daylight the rest of the city got. No one spoke here, or laughed, or shouted, and there were no children to run or play in the puddles. Mothers cried in alleys over their stillborn, and men kept their heads down and lived mechanical lives: wake, eat, work, sleep, repeat.

Train cars arrived in the tannery every day, nine cars full of skins dried stiff with gore and dirt and other unsavory things, and a tenth car full of food for the workers, who ate before they unloaded. Tremendous vats surrounded the factories: vats where new skins were soaked in stale rainwater to soften them, vats full of urine and salt and lime to remove hair and fur, vats full of water and dung to make the hides supple, and heated vats where strips of hide were allowed to putrefy and become glue. Gangs of workers scraped and hammered rotting flesh and fat from the hides, or marched barefoot in dreary circles inside containers of animal brains and blood to soften the toughest hides. Hundreds of women lined tremendous benches inside the factories, where they worked in silence, cutting leather and creating all the fine Aleraran goods known across the north: boots and harnesses, luxurious handbags, scabbards, and straps of all sorts.

The tannery of Ettermire was the darkest malodorous hell on civilized Althanas, so of course that’s where Swanra’ann lived.

----

Flint was considering the quality of Aleraran leatherwork now, all in an effort to avoid breathing, looking around, or feeling. Indeed, he was hanging from a pipe overhead, suspended by a leather strap that would most certainly never break. His feet were a full foot off the floor, and his ankles were tied together by another leather strip, which was itself tied to a cinderblock. That had been overkill, because he didn’t have it in him to kick. They assured him that he would change his mind.

They’d taken everything but his skivvies from him, including his bandages. His shoulder oozed blood and pus, but they hadn’t cared about that. Flint was trying not to think about it, but it wasn’t going well.

The pair of dark elves that picked him up entered the room now, chatting. The room was dark and cramped – rusty sheet metal walls stained with blood near the floor, which was naked concrete. Two pipes ran along the ceiling parallel to one another. Flint was hanging from one, and he could see a silhouette in the dark hanging from the other. There was a metal table in the center of the room, covered in bloodstained cutting tools beside a single oil lamp – the sole source of light.

“Hey buddy,” one of the elves said. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine,” Flint said.

“That’s good; we’re supposed to make sure you’re comfy. The Queen’s on her way.”

Flint felt his face droop despite himself.

“Oh-ho! You didn’t know. Yeah, you’ve been a bit of a thorn the last couple of days buddy. She’s had us standing around the train depots, the inns, the flophouses, fucking everywhere looking for you and that damn box. And then we start hearin’ about this freak animal tearing out of the museum out there, and somehow Swanra’ann knew that’s where we’d find everything all neat together. Guess that’s why she’s running the show.”

“What did you do with her?” Flint said.

“Who?”

“Ezura,” he said. “The thief.”

“Ah, yeah. Ha, this’ll piss you off. She’s locked up not two doors down, hale and healthy. The Queen’s real curious how she makes monsters, wants to keep her breathing. Ain't that a bitch? She fucks you over and gets a job, you get…well.”

“Did you show him?” the second elf said.

“Oh, no, not yet. Hang on, turn the light up.”

They turned the lamp up, and the first elf dragged the hanging silhouette across the pipe and into the light. Flint braced himself, but still winced when the elf stepped aside.

“Yeah, it ain’t pretty. You probably can’t tell from over there, but he don’t smell too good either. Picked him up on the first night.”

Flint raised his eyebrows, and looked closer. It was a corpse so ill-treated that it seemed to be dried blood in the diminished shape of a man, and the shape was familiar: Gareath. Flint examined the corpse’s wounds, and felt his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. Swanra’ann had many nicknames, most unflattering, but only one of those names was spoken in hushed whispers.

Sometimes they called her Skinner.

“Yeah, I think he gets it.”

Flint didn’t feel ill anymore. Adrenaline and fear surged, and he tensed his arms and ignored the flare of agony from his shoulder. He lifted himself and roared, and then he dropped, struggling to yank the pipe free of its moorings. It didn’t budge a millimeter.

“Good luck with that.”

“Get on with it,” Flint growled.

“What’re you in such a rush for, buddy?”

“It’s hot in here, under all this skin.”

“Well, you hang tight,” the elf said. “She’s called dibs on you, buddy. Said something about doing the job right. Congrats, you’re going to be a nice white dress.”

Aurelius, his rage expended momentarily with the destruction of the laboratory, paced back and forth, his thoughts churning like a tempest in his brain-box. The warlock had, before last night, never heard of Swaysong, but now it was all he could focus on. The more of the chit's story he heard, the more he was sure the Swaysong was going to be his, and sod anyone who stood in his way. And the fact Swanra'ann had beaten him to it left a bruise on his ego.

Aurelianus didn't like it when people hurt his pride. Bodies had died for less. It don't matter 'ow well-lanned or high-up this chit is, I'm goin' to rip 'er pikin' soul out and rape 'er with it!

But, he managed to keep relatively calm while Luned hunted upstairs for whatever she was looking for. To pass the time, he toyed with the idea of just offing Flint while she was away; scanning the cutter over, it didn't look like he would make it through the night anyway, fever sweat breaking on his brow, skin as unhealthy a pallour as Aurelius' own, his eyes unfocused. It'd be so eeeeaaasssy, a sibilant voice whispered in the back of his mind, and he realised he was stroking the hilt of his knife, feeling the rough demon-skin that wrapped the grip. He could tell by the way Flint watched him that he knew the truth- Drak'shal would gladly kill both of them as soon as look at them. The stocky man knew enough not to trust the tiefling.

Even as he was licking his lips, imagining the taste of the man's suffering, Luned returned in a tizzy, fussing over the bald basher with a tin mug of cold water. A drink ain't gonna save the sod, he mused, imagining just what kind of foul diseases he must have picked up in the dank, filthy sewers. She proceeded to ransack the rest of the room, the pain from her bandaged wounds obviously forgotten in her inexplicable excitement. 'as she found somethin' upstairs? Maybe, but she's canny enough not to tell me, he thought, serpent eyes narrowing as he scanned her flitting around the destroyed room.

There was a slight change in the atmosphere, as both Aurelianus and Luned turned to regard Flint at the same time- the berk obviously knew what Aurelius was thinking. The guttersnipe made no effort to hide the relish he felt, as he imagined penning the cutter in the dead-book, nice and slow...

**“I’m not going,”**

The half-breed glanced sidelong at Luned, expecting some form of protest. She evidently held that her and her minder were "friends", but the Anarchist knew Flint was more pragmatic, like him- people were handy things to have around, useful at times, but never make the mistake of trusting them too much.

**“I know you’re tired, but Swanra’ann’s men might come back.”**

Luned's reply brought a ferocious shark-grin to the tiefling's face; he was keeping a lid on it for now, but he desperately needed to hurt something- if he didn't find any other suitable subjects soon, he would follow through with the dark fantasies her screams had awoken in him earlier. As much as that thought excited his lusts, Aurelius wanted to make that last, so for now he required something more brutal.. more visceral. Swanra'ann's thugs would be the perfect way to vent his frustrations.

He paid scant attention while the pair of them had their little argument- still silently raging over the loss of the Swaysong- until the half-dead cutter turned his way, looking up from the floor.

**“They won’t sell you the Swaysong. You know that. You need her. Alive.”**

Aurelius smirked to himself, eyes glinting with all sorts of depraved ideas, but he gave a casual shrug in response. Inside was a different story though; Drak'shal was fuming because the sod was right, and he knew it. If he didn't keep Luned breathing, he'd lose his only chance of getting his hands on the unique substance. The fact he knew he couldn't hurt her in any way just made him want to all the more. His fingers caressed the coarse demon-hide grip of his Baatorian knives, letting his mind wander through every little avenue of cruelty his twisted imagination could come up with. He could feel his control slipping and while he was keeping his anger in check for the moment, albeit barely, it would need an outlet soon.

When Luned and Flint finally decided they were going their separate ways, it didn't bother Aurelius in the slightest. In fact, leaving Flint behind would make it all the easier to knife the chit when the time came, and claim the Swaysong for himself. Really, they're just makin' it easier and easier, he thought, and if he wasn't so pissed off at the whole situation, he would've had a quiet chuckle over it all. He looked at Flint, cold snake-eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts.

He followed Luned out the door, seeing the chit's slender frame storming away with a sort of grim determination in her stride. He jogged slowly to catch up, eyes roaming over her slender form with a dark hunger.. soon, the voice promised. He matched pace with her, before he realised he was drawing one of his knives. No, behave yourself! he mentally chided himself, forcing down the urge to gut her here and now only by forcing iron bands of self-control around his murderous needs. Falling behind a few paces, he knew what he had to do. He whistled sharply, fingers in his mouth, before calling ahead to the chit.

"Back in a second, luv. Forgot somethin' at the museum," he said, keeping his voice neutral, nodding in the direction of the building they'd just vacated. "You go on ahead, I'll catch up."

She nodded, and he took off back to the forboding silhouette, stark black against the dim night.

When he entered back in the door, Flint was still there, trying to get to his feet. Aurelius stalked closer silently, debating whether or not to just stick a chiv in the berk and be done with it. But, he figured the bloke would be dead soon enough anyway, so why bother? Let him suffer just that little bit longer. He ceased any pretense of stealth, boots crunching the broken glass as he walked over to the short, bearded basher. Reaching down, he hooked a hand under each of Flint's arms, dragging him to his feet and propping him against the wall.

Seeing the look of peery mistrust in his eyes, Aurelianus sneered. "Don't worry, mate. I ain't 'ere to finish you off." He smirked, nodding to the blood and pus already visibly soaking through his bandages. "I figure the rat-thing saw to that already."

His eyes flashed, and he summoned a ball of Hellfire in his palm, before turning away from Flint. He growled deep in the back of his throat, seeing nothing else in this place than the fact he was outsmarted by some two-bit bitch, this so-called Queen of The Pit. The half-breed had seen the true Pit, and nothing in this world could ever be anything more than a pale imitation of that horror incarnate.

With a wordless snarl of rage, he hurled the fireball, the black liquid flame instantly igniting the chemicals and detritus strewn haphazardly over the interior of the lab. The Hellfire climbed higher, while Aurelius hurled more across the ceiling, the walls, and anywhere else he could. In moments, the room was roaring with black fire, simultaneously giving off and absorbing the light in the room. It was.. disorientating, to say the least.

He turned to Flint, casually running a fingertip over his horns, each about the length of a finger, and razor-pointed. Silhouetted by the raging Hellfire, he could only imagine what he looked like to the human.

"I'd clear out of 'ere right quick, if I were you cutter," he winked. Flint headed out the door as quick as his injuries would allow, and the warlock made to follow him before something on the floor caught his eye. It was misshapen, evidently trod on by Luned or Flint when they entered- an elf foetus of all things. Smirking, Aurelius recalled an incantation he had picked up years back, but never had an opportunity to test out. He took a sheet of supple leather from the satchel hanging at his hip, deftly wrapping the little lump of flesh before he made his exit.

He was just tucking it into the satchel when he caught up with Luned, the museum already visibly burning against the skyline, black flame licking at every inch of the wood and stone.

He saw her look of worry, and chuckled. "Don't worry, luv. Your boy-toy made it out 'fore I torched the place." He lit a cigarette with another small burst of fire from his fingertip as he walked on, gesturing for Luned to follow. They didn't know exactly where Swanra'ann called kip, but the Anarchist had an idea where to start looking, and who to ask.

"y'know, it's amazin' how much better that made me feel," he chuckled, hearing the shouts of alarm start to ring out into the night as people watched the museum burn in an unholy blaze.

Aurelianus' sudden change in mood would have been disturbing, considering his most recent emotional outlet, but the scribe only had to reassure herself that once she had the Swaysong, she could effectively protect herself from him. This thought was interrupted in sharp panic as she realized that she really was terrified of being alone with this man, but Luned also couldn't help but acknowledge the fact that he was likely one of the best people to have at her side going into Swanra'ann's. Logically, it would seem that the client would fall under some rules of protection, but little by little the young woman was losing what was left of her wide-eyed naivete and, with that, the ability to trust anyone. Still, she wasn't cutthroat enough to survive a mess with the Queen of the Pit if one arose, but Aurelianus might, and that was comforting in an uneasy sort of way that let her put off concerns about being left to bleed out in a gutter somewhere… or worse.

Speaking of gutters, the mental image of herself laying despondent in one was involuntarily replaced by Flint, and it took every ounce of will not to go look for him right then and there. He was smart, he'd figure out what to do, and while her trust in Aurelianus was nearly nonexistent, she hoped he'd at least proudly own up to murdering someone if he did so. That, and if she was still worried after everything else happened, she could go looking for Flint on her way to meet Ags. You know, just in case…

"We know where this chit calls kip?" Aurelianus asked, his voice dry as he spoke through a puff of cigarette smoke. He was awfully cheery about the whole thing and she couldn't help but grimace in response.

"No, but I imagine it's not difficult to figure out," Luned said, focusing on the road.

He noticed she was avoiding eye contact, found it amusing, and smirked. "I know a few cutters might lann us to the dark of it. We'll call in, see what the chant is––"

The scribe's response was quick, blunt, and surprisingly authoritative. "No. We're doing this my way." The first thing that came to her mind when he mentioned friends was that brothel from the night before, and that was the last place she wanted to take this romantic stroll of theirs. She didn't want to know what sort of people this Aurelianus guy consorted with, and she wasn't going to purposefully put herself in an even more compromising position by following him into whatever hellhole he had in mind.

---

Gravebeard's shopfront was dark, a closed sign placed prominently behind the glass in the door, but the duo discovered the entrance unlocked and let themselves in. The bell jingled just as it had yesterday, elaborate contraption carrying the alarm to unseen parts of the building, and there was the muffled sound of footsteps somewhere down the hall behind the workbench. Luned could tell from the thump of the lopsided gait that it was the old dwarf, and from how rushed it was, he hadn't expected visitors.

Aurelianus admired the shoes on display without much interest, serpentine eyes flitting around the shop without focus. The cobbler's fine craftsmanship was evident even under the shadowy obscurity of dusk, varieties of kicks lined perfectly on display along shelves, the painstakingly precise details testament to his skill. He used only the best materials and, of course, his source for high-quality leather was the one and only Skinner.

A door opened down the hall and the glow of a lantern emerged, carried by a hobbling, salt and pepper-bearded dwarf. "You," he glared accusingly at Luned as she came into sight. "Get out of here." As he neared, it became apparent that his limp was far worse than the day before, and a ripe new shiner on his left eye swelled a painful black and blue in the low lighting. Swanra'ann must have had a word with him before they finally caught Ezura, as anyone with access to that part of the sewers was likely suspect for contribution to the heist, whether purposefully or through negligence.

"We're not here to cause trouble," the scribe said, stepping up to the workbench where the old dwarf set down his lantern. It seemed there was something wrong with his left arm, too, as it nearly buckled under the weight of the object.

Gravebeard growled back, enough vindication in his gravely voice to compensate for its low volume. "You already have, lass. The Queen's got her eye on you. Thought you were the thief at first, sent her lackeys in here, tearing things up. Didn't believe me that you were just some stupid kid. If she was really after you, you'd already be in the midst of processing for my next shipment of raw materials. Best get out of dodge before she changes her mind."

This churned Luned's stomach as she wondered just how many children wearing his elegantly embroidered slippers with vibrant posies on their toes knew exactly what species of living creature provided the hide that covered their feet. "Actually, we were hoping you'd direct us to her. I'd like to have a word."

The old dwarf shifted his weight and leaned against the workbench, bracing himself with his right hand. It was heavily bandaged, splints wrapped in between his last three digits. Breaking the fingers of an artist was some of the heaviest punishment one could give, worse than cracking ribs, or shattering legs, or anything, to the point that it felt taboo. Luned visibly cringed, feeling woozy, likely from a combination of sympathy pain and blood loss. Gravebeard groaned as he straightened his back again, but then slumped back heavily against the table. "Buffoons," he grumbled.

Aurelianus, exasperated, let out a gratuitous sigh that served as warning to Luned that he was about to turn the mood of this floundering conversation. She spoke up, the volume of her voice likely louder than necessary in an effort to drown out whatever violent thoughts were leaking into that perverse brain-box of his. "Just tell us," she exclaimed, "Please. Then we'll leave."

With a tired shrug, Gravebeard relented. "Suit yourself. The tannery's hard to miss, once you get far out enough in the industrial quarter. Take the main drag through the slums to the very end, it's in that last cluster of factories. You'll know which by the stench."

---

The walk took an age in itself. Luned had been able to work through the soreness of her wounds with enough distraction, but after over an hour of dragging her sorry ass through the ghetto of Ettermire alongside a man who could easily change his goals at any point, she was exhausted and skittish. Her stitches raged, hot with pain and impossibly itchy, and she was too afraid to check them for signs of infection. She didn't want to know.

The final line of industry at the edge of the city loomed ominously dark and high within its rocky cradle, chimneys pouring never-ending black smoke into the sky like fountains, where the smog pooled and seemed to rain back down in a gloomy fog. The pair of intruders, equally mussed as the workers from their sewer adventure, passed uninhibited through the streets that networked the clump of warehouses and factories. And, as Gravebeard accurately predicted, they knew the tannery from the stench, a combination of rotting flesh and lethal chemicals that burned their sinuses just enough to suppress the trigger of their gag reflexes. They wove between groups of toiling elves where, in a place where little natural light fell, there was no obvious difference in day from night, and as soon as the main group of workers went home for a few precious hours of sleep, a new one emerged to tend to the daily batch of marinating flesh in each of the great vats. The area was strangely void of conversation one would expect from such large groups of people, the white noise of incessant labor and machinery filling the air to the brim with tension and giving a strange sense of consistent calm that was only occasionally interrupted by a coarsely shouted order from an overseer.

The plan had been difficult to formulate, something which Luned had intended to do with their walk, but it was impossible to fully concentrate with such aggravated injuries. At this point all she had was something half-baked, but it would have to do; she had her secondary intent in coming to Swanra'ann's lair and it was probably best to investigate that problem before they announced their presence.

"Listen," Luned said to Aurelianus, keeping her voice down as she pulled him off to the side. She didn't want their use of another language to tip off the Aleran-speaking workers around them, and against the crook of a couple structures she hoped they'd go unnoticed. They were close to what she suspected was the tannery's main building, the largest of the several and most hospitable-seeming, though it was a stretch to call it a cozy home of any sort. It served its purpose well as an imposing fortress for one of Ettermire's most feared villains. "I have something I need to do. Could you just wait here? I'll be as quick as I can, I just want to scout things out." As she made her request she rummaged in her pockets, found her fountain pen and little red book, and began flipping through the pages.

"Aye, luv, I'll park my arse 'ere and try to blend in," the half-demon sneered sarcastically, gesturing to his demonic features. But, after a moment, he sparked up another cigarette, glancing at the chit. "Well, what you waitin' for? A pikin' invitation? Get goin'."

Luned nodded and looked back down to what she was doing, turning this strange situation into an impromptu study session. When she found the correct page in her book, a miniature tome stuffed with scraps of paper covered in notes, she began scribbling something directly onto the bare skin of her pale arm. It was difficult to make out the text she was copying in the dingy light of the street lamps but it was apparently written clearly enough, as the effects of the spell began to show as soon as Luned capped her pen. Her entire body, clothes and possessions with it, began to fade, first becoming specter-like to reveal the texture of the bricks behind her, and then she disappeared from sight entirely. This trick hadn't been a viable option for the sewers, being merely temporary, and it wasn't worth hinging her life on whatever illusions she could conjure against mutant creatures with other senses that were likely strong enough to more than compensate, thanks to their nocturnal habits. But here, in an environment that somehow, perhaps in a delusional way, felt more controlled, it was worth a shot. And, to her great relief, it seemed to be working.

With one more harshly whispered command to the tiefling telling him to wait right there, Luned took off toward the putrid fortress. It was a strange sensation, invisibility; as the scribe darted between people on the street she found it difficult to weave as efficiently as she'd like, the other pedestrians unable to adjust their paths to accommodate her as she passed. One elf moved unpredictably and she bumped into him, but he was so weary from long hours of back-breaking work that he barely reacted and simply flinched, then continued on his way. Even more than ever, Luned was spooked by every set of eyes that drifted over her, and as she slipped through the grand entrance of the large building between some laborers, her heart was pounding in her ears.

She was in, but where to look? Her intent was really only to do one thing, which was to find Ezura and use whatever information she could gather to formulate a better escape plan than "ask Swanra'ann nicely". It was the best she could come up with on that torturous journey from Gravebeard's, but something told her that wouldn't fly.

The main hall was bleak but fairly well-lit, the tall brick walls bare and coated in grime that drifted in with the fog off the street. Lights studded the ceiling and workers moved freely in and out of the several open passages that led off the main entry, heads kept down as they continued about their jobs in an oppressed, zombie-like fashion. The only individuals with any confidence were the guards, better-dressed dark elves who appeared as bored as the laborers were broken, and they lounged against the walls and conversed in voices low enough that they wouldn't carry through the cavernous hall.

Luned was at a loss of where to begin and, in her distraction, almost allowed someone to bump into her as they entered the building, but she stepped aside just in time to avoid that disruption to her mission. It was an elf bedecked in fine leather clothing, cut like a uniform, and as he walked with explicit purpose down the passage to the left, the guards straightened their postures and nodded with respect. Bingo.

The scribe tailed him as he walked down that hallway and turned into another. Eventually he disappeared into a room and locked it behind him, leaving Luned at a loss, so she began checking the other doors. There were stairs, cluttered offices that seemed to be storage more than usable workspace, a couple closets filled with boxes, and more locked doors than not. One of the rooms was occupied by an elf, her form hunched over a desk and piles of paperwork, likely doing the bookkeeping; she was so engrossed in her work that she didn't look up when Luned peeked in, and the scribe was lucky to pass on unnoticed.

When she finished scouring that hall to no avail, Luned sighed in defeat. Just as she was looking for another passage to check, however, two of the better-dressed guards entered the hall and took the stairs. At a loss of what else to do, she followed.

They descended two flights, and as they went deeper underground, the chemical-laced odor in the air gave way to something purely rotten, like an untended butcher shop. Flies crawled the walls and Luned swatted them away, hoping they wouldn't give away her position as she tailed the elves. The cramped corridor they entered consisted of bare brick, just as the upper levels, but the ground was covered in a different kind of filth that made her wonder if it was tiled underneath or if this was the bottommost level and opened up to the earth below. The doors were all very heavy-looking, solid and dungeon-like slabs of wood, and all were bolted with wide bars from the outside, a strange setup considering what she'd seen in the past before as examples of holding cells.

One of the guards joked about something and the other laughed, just as they halted to open one of the doors. Luned crept up behind them as close as she dared and, as they stepped in, she peered in past them.

It was a small room, the walls covered in sheet metal that was rusting away in parts, and a shadowy figure hung from the ceiling in the shadows, just out of sight. It was difficult to make out what else was in there while she instinctively tried to remain hidden in spite of her advantage, catching only a glimpse of a metal table laid out with tools and a lantern, and one more figure that disappeared as the door was pushed closed. Luned propped her foot in the door to keep it from closing completely behind the guards, and she listened in on their conversation with their prisoner.

To her horror, the voice that answered back was Flint's. Luned withdrew, the door shut in her face, and her mind raced as her hand drifted instinctually to her pocket where she kept Ezura's leftover smoke bombs. It could risk everything she was there for to help him now, but how could she possibly wait? If there was ever a time to rush into something, this was likely it. The thought of someone buying him as shoes in Gravebeard's shop was unacceptable.

Luned checked the cell next door and found it vacant save some meat hooks hanging from the ceiling pipes, another table, a couple crates, and at least several men's worth of oxidized blood crusted to the metal-tiled floor. It really was a butcher shop down there. She felt up her pockets, found the gas mask she'd borrowed from the museum, and put it on, extracting one of Ezura's vials simultaneously.

Flint's small talk with the guards was interrupted when Luned cracked open the door, cursed audibly in Aleran as if she'd made a grave mistake, and slammed it. This was enough to get the elves' attention and they brushed off their hanging captive to step out into the hall. From the passage, Luned snapped the second room's door closed as if someone had run in there to hide, and the guards fell for it hook, line, and sinker. As they entered and moved the door to check behind it, she threw in the vial, heard it shatter on the ground, and immediately pulled the door shut where she threw the bolt in place. There were some vague sounds of confusion, then dead silence.

Meanwhile, Flint continued to hang, awaiting his death with the unhappiness typically befitting someone looking forward to being skinned alive. When the door creaked open again mere seconds later he nearly jolted out of his skin prematurely at the sound, but when it closed again with no one entering, he visibly relaxed. His abused form hung slack from the pipe, hopeless and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"Flint," Luned whispered as she approached him, aware that her current state would take some explaining, lest he think she'd died and returned in ghost form or something. "Now, don't freak out, but it's me, you just can't see me. I'm going to help you, okay? So just relax, I'm right here." She reached out tentatively, her warm hand meeting the fevered flesh of his leg in an attempt to comfort him.

Flint’s mind raced: a fever-heated bottle full of fear and desperation. He wanted so badly not to be here when Swanra’ann came, he willed himself to be anywhere else, to be strong enough to snap the leather straps, to know what to say to talk his way out. But he was not strong enough, and there were no words or facts to save him, and that was where he was. He was going to die in a bloody, unpleasant fashion, and no one would hear him scream and care. Nobody would know.

He wondered if Luned would wonder. Surely she would wonder, but would she look for him? Would she think to ask, or would she assume him dead or gone forever, another thug drunk in a corner or dead in an alley? Part of him hoped she thought better of him, and part of him was deeply afraid she would ask the wrong people. No, he decided. He hoped she did not look for him, that she never heard the name Swanra’ann again, and that his name and face would fade from her memory except for times decades into the future when she would look back and reminisce, and perhaps think him a dream. Just a facet in a nightmare she had when she was a girl wasting her youth on silly things.

The door began to open and his heart stopped, but then it closed again. He waited tensely for a moment, listening hard. Was Swanra’ann outside, giving orders? Would she gloat before she began to murder him? Was this it? When nothing happened he relaxed in degrees, and let himself breathe.

“Flint.”

And now he was hallucinating voices, or was he hearing Swanra’ann speaking from outside? The colors of the room became supersaturated as adrenaline flooded his system, every natural fiber screaming for him to fight or run. The animal part of him was so dominant that it took a moment for him to realize somebody was talking to him.

“Luned?”

Something touched his leg, and he flinched. “I can’t see you,” he said dumbly. Of course she’d just said that, but the touch wasn’t enough – death was breathing down his neck and hope seemed so distantly impossible, he could not conceive of salvation.

“I’m here,” she said again. “Hang on; I’m going to get you down.”

Oh gods thank you thank you thank you thank you, his mind said, and he felt tears burning the corners of his eyes. They were indiscernible amongst the sweat, he told himself, and he blinked them away. He hardened his face and grunted. Only when his emotions were fully in check did he speak. “Hurry.”

She freed his ankles first. He could feel her hands working, and he saw the straps loosening, but there was no visible sign of her whatsoever – no ripple in the air, no subtle blur. Some lingering doubt remained in the back of his mind, was this some cruel trick? But then the straps fell away, and then he felt nearby body heat. She must have been standing on the cinderblock.

“Can you lift yourself a little?”

He twisted the wrist of his good arm around the strap holding him up and pulled as much as he could, and then the strap came loose and he dropped to his feet. His legs almost failed him, causing him to grunt and stumble, but unseen hands fell on his unharmed shoulder and steadied him.

“How…?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered. “Have you seen Ezura?”

He was confused for a moment. Between the fever, the adrenaline, and the absolute unlikelihood of his rescue, nothing made sense. Who was Ezura? And then of course, Ezura!

“No,” he said. Then: “Yes. I know where she is.”

Silence.

“Flint, where is she?”

“She’s just…”

He paused.

“Flint? Hey, you okay?”

He thought back, remembering. He’d been so out of it when they dragged him in, but he remembered…

“She’s somewhere upstairs,” he said.

There was a long silence. Had he remembered wrong, imagined the stairs?

“Okay,” her voice came again. “Okay you stay here, I’m going to hurry. I’ll find Ezura, and I’m going to figure out a way to get you both out. I took care of the guards, so you’ll be safest in here. I’ll come back for you.”

“I know,” he said, and then he wasn’t sure why.

“I’m going now. Stay here.”

The door opened and closed again, and Flint waited, listening to be sure.

“Luned?” he whispered.

Nobody answered.

----

The door was locked from the outside, so there hadn’t been a reason for them to guard her. Ezura was where the guards said she’d be, not two doors down from where Flint was meant to die. If not for Luned, she would have been listening to his screams tonight.

When he opened the door, he found her sitting in an old but posh chair, reading. Hers was a cell, but wholly unlike Flint’s. She had bookshelves, and a bed, and lanterns hanging from poles in the corners. There was a table strewn with papers in the center of the room, and a pedestal next to the door. On it sat a familiar crate sitting open to reveal a handful of vials. They looked to be full of water.

Ezura dropped her book when she recognized him, and moved cautiously to her feet. He’d found his oversized pants, but his torso was naked. It would have hurt too much to wear the jacket over his wound, and he couldn’t do the bandages himself. He stood with his arm cradled to his stomach, his shoulder leaking blood and something sickly yellow.

He pointed at the table, and said, “Sit.”

She kept her eyes on him, and didn’t blink as she moved to the center of the room. When she sat down, she did so on the edge of the seat with her back straight, and she put her hands on the edge of the table. Flint closed the door behind him and picked up the Swaysong, and then he crossed the room and put the crate down. He sat across from Ezura, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on the table. He did not wince when his shoulder screamed at him and sent a thin freshet of blood rolling downward over his skin.

“You recognize me,” he said.

“Yes,” she said diplomatically, “from the museum. A Mr. Flint I believe.”

He stared. She tried to match his gaze, but she began to quiver, and then she blinked and looked to the side.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she said, and then she chewed on her lip. She tried to look at his eyes, but her gaze immediately dropped again. “My little girl is sick.”

“You made her so.”

“No I didn’t,” Ezura snapped, her anger making eye contact possible again. “No I didn’t. Everything I did, I did for her.”

“To her,” Flint said, waving at the crate beside him, “with this.”

“I was trying to cure her. I was saving her from what this city did to her.”

“What ailment were you curing?”

“You saw the growths on her face, but you didn’t see her feet, or her legs. You didn’t see me give birth to an infant with knots for toes, or watch shingles cover her legs, or have to think of some way to answer when she wanted to know why the doctors didn’t want to touch her and why her father left and why she couldn’t play with the other children and why we had to move into the museum because our neighbors thought she was infectious and…”

“Was it painful, her growths?”

Ezura stared.

“I saw her run. She pushed me, and she was strong. Steady. A good child, but unsure, the way they are when the adults around them have failed them.”

“How dare…”

He felt his eyes change, and could not know what she saw in them, but it was sufficient to silence her midsentence.

“It seems to me that a parent's job is simple. You choose someone who makes you the best you can be, and together you create a life that is more than the sum of those that contributed to its creation. You provide your shoulders to stand upon, and thus your offspring is stronger than you - better. Every one of us does this, and the world becomes a better place. Society grows stronger.”

Flint took a moment to look around the room.

"But you didn't do that. You didn't try to create something better than you. In fact, in fearing your own weakness you tried to recreate yourself so that when your daughter was born so clearly different than you, you sought to remake her. In your fear, you killed someone better than you.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Ezura hissed. “I’m saving her.”

“She has claws now,” Flint said by way of allowance, “but she’s also dying. You didn’t cure her. You turned her into something unlike herself, and you killed her.”

“This city…”

“Ah, yes,” Flint said. “The city. The city full of people who have died because of your experiments, crawling up out of the underground. How many children your daughter’s age have died, food for some monster you created?”

Ezura made her face stone, but tears began to rush down her cheeks.

“It wasn’t pollution that made them,” Flint said. “It was you.”

“No it wasn’t,” Ezura said, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t do that. I didn’t…”

Flint narrowed his eyes slowly.

“I don’t know how it…” Ezura looked at the Swaysong, shaking her head almost imperceptively. “I was just trying to save my daughter. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t want any of this. I could have slit your throat down there when you were hypnotized by the smoke but I didn’t. I just needed the Swaysong, and that should have been the end of it. Why couldn’t you just accept the loss and go on with your lives? I just needed time to perfect the formula, to make her…”

“Strong?”

“What? No. No, I just wanted her to be…normal. That’s all.”

Flint reached into the crate and delicately selected one of the bottles, and then set it down on the table between them. Ezura glanced down at it, and then back up at him. His eyes locked on hers with such inhuman intensity, such cold, frozen ferocity that she was transfixed. She wanted to push the table into him, knowing all too well what was to come next, but her body would not obey.

“Drink.”

“No,” she tried to say, but her voice wouldn’t come so she only mouthed the word, and a fresh gush of tears wetted her face.

“Drink,” he said, raising his hand and pointing down at the vial.

A violent shiver ran through her and Ezura moaned, raising a quivering hand to her mouth. She inhaled to contain the fear, but when she exhaled it flowed out of her in a rush of panicked sobs. She lowered her hand to the table, and then she reached out and took the vial.

“Please,” she whispered.

His eyes moved pointedly from her face to the vial, and then back again, and hardened.

She opened the vial slowly, whispering prayers, and then she hesitated. She wanted to throw the vial, to run, to fight, but she looked at him with all the fear and hatred and desperate want her body could handle and then she tipped her head back and drained the vial in one gulp.

She did not see him twitch, or that fraction of a second when his hand slid forward involuntarily. He told himself that she’d failed Helethra, but he wouldn’t. He watched, fierce and unmoving.

Sweat beaded on her forehead in an instant, and then her body began to visibly tighten. She flexed her hands, and her biceps began to stand out against her skin. The muscles of her throat flexed, and hardened, and continued to harden. Her jaw set, and he could see her struggling to cry out but her mouth wouldn’t open, the muscles standing out like small fruits at the back corners of her cheeks. She tried to hold her palms open, but her fingers curled in. The sleeves of her shirt stretched, and split along the seams, and she began to curl up upon herself, moaning deep in her chest. She collapsed to the floor, and Flint moved smoothly to his feet and circled her as she lay dying.

Her body was a tight ball under the table now, her upper back standing out monstrous, her neck nearly as thick with muscle as Flint’s, the veins pushing out from the skin as they fervently pumped blood. It was as if she was trying to curl into herself beyond all physical possibility, and it occurred to Flint that she had lost control. Her body was tightening, every muscle growing but squeezing involuntarily. He heard dull pops and cracks, and took a step back. She was crushing her own bones.

She went still and exhaled.

It was only then that Flint turned, and saw that as Ezura fell she’d jostled the table. The crate of Swaysong had fallen to the floor, and every vial lay shattered on the darkened carpet.

He turned back to the corpse, and stood frozen, scarcely breathing.

I just murdered someone, he thought.

And no matter how absurd he knew it to be, he could not dismiss that thought.

I just murdered her.

“Flint?” Luned said.

The scribe hadn't seen everything, but she'd seen enough. A rhetorical question escaped her lips before she even processed it, her breath heavy from rushing up and down the stairs to chase a lie. "Flint… what did you do?"

And, for the first time in his illustrious life, Flint Skovik felt like a murderer. He'd caused the deaths of countless people, most with his bare hands, but none of them had felt like victims. Distress was written all over his face, his usual stony composure broken down by fever and the surprise of being caught redhanded in the act. Flint was guilty. He lied to perhaps the one person in the world who would risk her own skin to save his, just to murder a mother whose only crime was loving her daughter too much while understanding her too little.

It was a good thing that he couldn't see Luned's expression in response and she was glad for it, embarrassed by the tears that she dashed out of the corners of her eyes with the heel of her palm. The invisible girl withdrew, hugging herself against the frame of the door, but her stare wasn't locked on the corpse this time. She couldn't look away from Flint, his struggle so apparent in his face and posture, and his distress was contagious. She was perfectly still and utterly quiet as she stood there in astonishment, and his fevered gaze couldn't focus well enough to pick out the small anomalies in the doorway that hinted at her lingering presence.

The man spoke up hesitantly, afraid that no one would respond. The room felt so empty all of a sudden. "Are you there?"

He was answered by a soft rustle of clothing. "I'm leaving. You can find your own way out." There was a brief silence, then something grasped Flint's wrist and raised his palm. In it, he felt her place an object. "You'll need these more than I will." When Luned drew away, the faint sensation of nearby body heat disappearing, the objects slowly faded in, gaining opacity until they were recognizable. It was the gas mask and, cradled in it, Ezura's last smoke bomb.

Flint steadied the items with his other hand, then picked up the vial to inspect it. He'd recognize that seal anywhere at this point. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the sewers." Her voice was soft and distant, as if she was already stepping out into the hallway.

He looked up, eyes frantically searching for some sign of the scribe to no avail. Even if she was visible, she was already gone, and he groaned under his breath, knowing he was in no position to stop her. "Damn it, Luned!"

Aurelius had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last hour or two. To anyone who knew him, that was a bad sign- it meant he was thinking.

He hadn't uttered a word after Luned so forcefully refused to take his offer of help; he hadn't made a sound at the stunty's shoe-shop, merely deigning to give the chit a warning sigh before he lost patience and burned the place to the ground; he had stayed silent as he and his unlikely companion had trudged willingly into the hell of the Aleraran slums. The gears in his bone-box were turning in a frenzy.

The tiefling was plotting, trying to find a way to play all the angles..

.. and it was going perfectly.

He had barely noticed the stench of the tannery as Luned led him on. It wasn't until the chit had suddenly pulled him aside that Aurelius snapped out of his reverie; instantly his hand was coiled round the grip of his knife, eyes scanning his surroundings, darting between the various warehouses, chemical vats and shambling masses around them. It took a moment to register there was no threat, and Aurelius turned back to the pale chit, taking his hand off his weapon. His mind was still churning, turning over every aspect of this situation, seeking how to turn everything to his advantage, but he paid at least scant attention to the chit as she outlined her plan.

Aurelius, being his usual charming self, had told her exactly what she wanted to hear, but inside the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Even as Aurelius watched, Luned pulled out the same book she had been looking at earlier, frantically searching for something. She found it and started writing on her arm, scratching out some odd, curving symbols on the pale flesh. But as soon as the brown-haired little scribe turned her attention away from the hive-ganger, his hand snaked out, snatching a small slip of paper from between the pages of Luned's book. He managed it without arousing her attention, secreting it in his palm. It wasn't difficult for someone who used to survive solely off what he could steal from others.

The tiefling was mildly surprised when, a few seconds after finishing her scribbles, Luned began to fade out of visibility. Her skin first, followed by her clothing and everything else. Shaking his red-quills out of his eyes and puffing away on his cigarette, he wondered how this would fit in to the plans bouncing around his brain-box. He could still smell the chit, the pure alcohol he had used to sterilise her wounds standing out to his heightened senses, even above the reek of the tannery; he prided himself on being a canny bastard, and knowing Luned and Flint were easier to track had put his mind at ease. Still, all he needed now was for Luned to head in to the main building, to leave him alone... her voice rasped out in a harsh whisper, ordering him to stay where he was until she returned, and the warlock smirked.

Pike that, you little leather'ead. I 'ave shit to do, he thought, while nodding his agreement.

He waited until the scent of bub receded before he raised the slip of paper to the gloomy lamplight- he had marked her toying with it earlier, and now, seeing the two different sets of handwriting on it, he knew it was something important to Luned. He could tell it was magical, his experience with these things giving him almost another sense. His curiosity piqued, the tiefling plucked one of his quills from his head, turning the little red-black spike in his fingers. He scratched out the words 'knock knock' on the little slip, marking the paper with his spidery writing.

A feral grin spread over his face as the reply 'who's there' appeared on the paper...

***

While Luned had her invisibility to obfuscate her entrance to the building, Aurelius had a much harder time.

He had to rely on good old-fashioned stealth. Luckily, the disgruntled and eerily silent mobs of workers paid scant attention to anything- not even the half-demon in their midst. He managed to slip past a mob of them as they entered the main doors of the building. The guards and overseers were too busy watching the crowds of broken workers as they shuffled into the reeking hell that was their existence.

Scratching idly at the raw flesh on his face, still painful from the fight with the roach what seemed like half a lifetime ago, Aurelius watched the door for a few minutes. But there were still too many scanning the crowds for him to get past that way.

So he headed around the perimeter, boots sloshing in the cloying muck, trying to stay out of sight of any of the guards; the darkness made it easier, and their custom-made leather armour made them stand out from the rest of the rabble in the area. The smell of misery, of fear.. of sheer desperation, was intoxicating; Aurelius found his respect for the chit who ran this place rise a fraction. At the same time, he saw the same thing he had seen in nearly every place he had ever stayed; a corrupt organisation, ruling with an iron fist for its own profit. The tiefling spat in disgust- he was an Anarchist, for pike's sake! His mission in life was to tear down established orders like this, to free the sorry sods crushed under their heels. While the warlock had no empathy for these scum, and no sympathy in his black heart, he believed that outfits like Swanra'ann's only had one goal in mind- to keep themselves powerful.

These sods, every last one of 'em, don't care 'bout the truth. Their high-ups all 'ave property, minders, jink, and influence. They're not lookin' for the truth; they just want to hang onto what they've got. Well, it's time for that to change. It's time to break the soddin' chains and seek the real truth. And that's only goin' to 'appen when a body's free of the bonds of wankers like this chit. A body's got to be able to make 'is own choices.

Aurelius shook himself out of his musings, instead focusing on turning his disgust and anger to the task at hand. He wasn't addle-coved enough to try and take Swanra'ann out himself, though- no, a body going up against an outfit like this on his own was only going to get himself penned in the dead-book. No, Aurelius was no berk- he was playing a much smarter game.

Still stalking around the outside of the main tannery, Drak'shal was hit by the smell of blood and rotting meat. His senses instantly on high-alert, the tiefling drew one of his knives, pressing himself against the wall. He edged closer to the corner of the building, the scent getting stronger with every step. Peeking round the corner, weapon held at the ready, he looked for a corpse, a blood-pool, anything that would explain the smell...

And he found what he was looking for.

There, emerging from the base of the wall, was a thick, rusted pipe. About three-feet across, the grating at the end was screeching on hinges that were more rust than metal. A steady flow of blood, black in the twilight, and other assorted viscera was pouring out into a shallow stone basin, running from the rotting reservoir into narrow culverts that led away into another warehouse. Aurelius didn't want to know what they would do with it in there, instead thanking the Powers that he finally had his way in.

The smell of death hung in a heavy miasma, but the tiefling regarded it like an old friend, as he waded shin deep in the blood and guts. Scanning the area one last time, he decided he didn't have any other options. If he was going to get everything to work out the way he wanted, he couldn't leave Luned to run amok within, and get herself killed. There was no guarantee this drainage tunnel would get him where he needed to be, but it was worth a try. Opening the grill, wincing as the rusty hinges cried out in protest, Aurelianus crouched down and entered the dark, stinking confines.

***

The drainage channel did in fact lead into the tannery. There were chutes and grates set up all over the building, all linked up in a complicated network. The workers would fill up buckets with the blood of animals skinned down on some of the main floors of the building, take them to the nearest chute in the wall, and empty them out before returning to repeat the tasks again.

One such worker, his name unknown, even to himself as he toiled away his life in the employ of the Pit Queen, was doing just that. He set down the heavy bucket, his malnourished limbs shaking with the effort, and raised a bony hand to the blood-soaked metal. He had barely managed to lift it open, leaning down to grab the bucket, when he heard the hiss.. Looking up, the elf saw none of the other workers had heard anything, still working away. Curiosity got the better of him, a tiny spark of individuality urging him to ignore his task for a second and investigate the noise. Sticking his head closer to the chute, the elf glanced inside, and started to scream in fear as he saw the glowing serpent's eyes staring back at him.

The scream never made it past his lips.

A hand shot out of the chute, grabbing the slave elf around his scrawny throat and dragging him in with one swift motion. There were a few brief, muffled sounds, followed by a wet gurgle, before something pulled itself out. It was soaked in deep red, dripping from it's hair, running down the blade of it's unsheathed knife, pooling where it's boots touched down on the grimy stone.

Aurelius did his best to shake himself clean, sheathing the Baatorian blade before he slipped off into the nearest hallway.

***

It didn't take long for them to find him.

Looking back, Aurelius was surprised they hadn't found him sooner- his coat and leathers were trailing blood along behind him in a steady red stream, bloody bootprints marking his passage. But give them their due, the bastards managed to sneak up on the tiefling; no sooner had he clocked the first one approaching head on, sword drawn, that four more had blades at his throat. In the cramped confines of the stone corridor, two floors up from the main floor of the building, Aurelius had no room to maneuver, no room to fight back- and with four swords pressing into the tender flesh of his throat, the tiefling knew it was suicide to even try. Besides, he thought merrily, this is goin' just like I want it to. He raised his hands slowly, the myriad chains and charms wrapped around his bracers jingling like so many bells.

The leader of them, the tall female dark elf approaching, with a crest of bright red hair running along her head, stepped up close, a slender falchion held lightly in her gauntlet.

"Surrender your weapons, and come along peacefully or we will kill you," she snapped in clipped Tradespeak.

Aurelius cocked his head, eyeing the chit with a lascivious grin. Smirking, he replied in fluent, but rather accented Aleraran. "There's only one weapon 'ere that I'll give you, luv," giving a nod to his manhood. Her eyes flashed with anger, but the chit kept a lid on it. "But be a good dog, take me to the one 'oldin' your leash, and I'll play nice."

"You are scum, lowly mongrel. Who are you to demand an audience with our Queen?" the chit barked, her blade rising to be level with Aurelius chin, the tip of the thin steel blade lifting his head. She glared into his serpentine eyes, not at all affected by his demonic features.

"I'm the one who's killed three of 'er men in the past night, and aided the cutter who lost 'er Swaysong. So, make me a deader if you want, luv. But you'll be the one 'as to explain it to the boss lady." He paused, letting the guard leader weigh his words.

After a few heartbeats, she let out an angry sigh, evidently coming to a decision.

The elf nodded to one of the guards behind Aurelius, and a second later the warlock was brought to his knees by a blow to the back of his head. Black and white spots flashed across his vision, and the world lurched alarmingly. The broad, muscular guard behind him landed a vicious kick to his ribs, sending Aurelius sprawling even as the elf screamed in pain, his foot sliced open by one of the multitude of blades on the tiefling's armour. The rest drew iron cudgels, laying into the young half-breed with abandon. The rain of blows lasted for long minutes after Aurelianus lost consciousness.

***

When he finally awoke, he was being dragged none-too-gently through the tannery, across an iron gantry, far above the main floor- below, he noticed as his head lulled drunkenly to the side, were hundreds of workers, all hunched over filthy benches, cutting and stitching leathers, working to provide all sorts of beautiful works. Idly, the tiefling wondered if the noble with the new Aleraran leather scabbard knew how his precious little fashion-statement was produced. Even if 'e did, the Anarchist surmised, 'e probably wouldn't give a toss.

Two guards were hauling him by his underarms, careful to avoid the multitude of nasty protrusions affixed to his leathers, and as he tried to move, he felt the rough rope binding his wrists behind his back. Ahead marched the guard captain, her red hair falling in a tight braid down her back.

He didn't know how long he'd been out, but as they passed into a small antechamber, Aurelius knew exactly where they were taking him. The small room was actually clean, which was a first in this pleasant little hell-hole, furnished in dark woods, and crimson rugs. It was nice enough, obviously expensive, but as the guards dragged him through a set of oak double-doors, the opulence within this new chamber made the other room seem as nice as the blood tunnels. The wall to his left was entirely glass, overlooking the factory below. The floors in here were marble, kept pristine and gleaming; the tiefling's boots squeaked as they dragged along it, his rather unhygienic entry route leaving a smeared blood trail behind him. The room was topped by an arched ceiling, vaulted arches supporting a frescoed roof; lavish tapestries hung on the walls, though as the bloodied prisoner looked closer, he could see that they were crafted from sheets of flesh. That one still 'as a face, he realised, chuckling.

He was turned around suddenly, thrown roughly to his knees with a guard on either side, blades drawn. Looking up, blood running into his eyes from the gash on his brow, Aurelianus had his first view of the exact person he'd been hoping to meet.

Swanra'ann, Queen of The Pit.

She sat before him, on a throne of black stone, raised above him on a dais of black-veined marble. It didn't look unlike his own flesh. The underworld tyrant was surrounded on the dais by a retinue, and even the normally arrogant warlock knew he'd die in seconds if he tried to take them on; standing at the base of the steps leading to the throne were three guards, all dark elves, dressed in boiled leather jerkins, a flintlock rifle of the highest quality slung across their chests. Those alone would have been enough to kill him, but there were a good few more cutters to worry about.

Standing at either side of the Pit Queen were twin albino dark elves, their red eyes locked on Aurelius from under under long, immaculate white hair. They had a profusion of skinning knives sheathed all over their armour, and each had a scimitar hilt sticking out over their left shoulder; next to them was an old man, clearly a wizard- marked by his voluminous, regal blue robes, dark silk patterned with arcane script, and the ornate jeweled staff he leaned on; two steps further down were three humans, all armed to the teeth. Two were Salvaran, their heads shaved, long braided beards hanging down over their chainmail tabards. They each had scars aplenty, and blue-inked tattoos swirling across their exposed flesh.

By this point, even Aurelianus' mighty ego was whispering to him that he'd piked up, and he was soon to be a deader. The half-demon ignored the voice, continuing to scan the entourage, making sure he knew exactly what he was up against.

The third human was black-skinned, with thick lips and a large nose. Aurelius had seen black men before, of course, but none so big as this one- he was easily seven feet tall, and as broad as a war stallion. He was clad from the neck down in plate-mail, every surface buffed and polished to a mirror sheen. The giant leaned casually on a warhammer that was taller than Aurelius himself. Then there was the cutter lounging casually on the lowest step of the dais, legs crossed, resting on his elbows. His tanned skin, and narrow eyes marked him as being of Akashiman descent- a fact confirmed by the outlandish, loose robes he wore (resembling a dress, to the guttersnipe), tied at the waist with a crimson sash, and by his distinctive topknot and drooping mustache. A pair of slender, slightly curved swords were hanging from his sash in beautifully tooled scabbards, inlaid with mother of pearl.

But it was Swanra'ann herself that left the murderer, arsonist and general bastard speechless. From the tales he had heard whispered of this nightmare-incarnate, he had expected a tattooed, pierced, scar-covered goddess of death, clothed in the bones of the fallen, and wielding fear as one might weild a sword. But instead, sitting demurely on the black throne, was a slender Aleraran elf chit; her hair was tied in a simple braid, hanging down over one shoulder; her slender features and high cheekbones made her pretty, but far from a beauty; her armour was, the prisoner noted, the highest quality leather- unsurprising, given her predilection for skinning people. He didn't have to ask where she'd got the materials to make it. And, the fact that made Aurelius all the more peery of this unnassuming little murderess, she bore no weapons. One glance into her cold eyes told him all he needed to know.

This was not a body to mess with. The chant around Ettermire claimed she was as old as the city, and seeing the cunning in those icy blue eyes, he could well believe it.

Aurelius tried to drag himself to his feet, but with his hands tied behind his back, he looked decidely undignified in the attempt.

"Is this him?" Swanra'ann asked of the red-haired guard, her voice hushed, and soft. But, the berks surrounding her were obviously whipped enough to know not to speak over her. Aurelius' elf-like ears pricked up, easily making her out.

Bowing low, the guard nodded. "Aye, m'lady. He was caught breaking in. We apprehended him, and took these. She presented Aurelius' weapons, piled on top of his folded coat. The Skinner nodded to the Akashiman, who took the items from the guard and brought them up to her.

"You may leave now, Atherak," the Skinner said softly. The red-crested chit didn't hesitate.

She admired the leather of his coat for a moment, fingers feeling the quality of the garment, before the vicious little arsenal took her attention. The moment she fondled Herzaa's blade with her slender, ash-grey fingers, Aurelianus snarled, staggering to his feet.

"Get your pikin' 'ands off my bloody chivs!"

The Queen raised an eyebrow in response, before the guard next to Aurelius smashed him in the mouth with the pommel of his sword. Spitting black blood, he fell to one knee, his snake-like eyes never leaving Swanra'ann.

"I'm rememberin' that, cutter," he hissed at the guard. The elf raised his hand to strike again, but his master halted him with a word.

"Stop," she said, and instantly the guard obeyed.

The wizard next to her piped up, at his master's almost imperceptible gesture.

"Why are you here, boy?" the old man croaked, his beard puffing out.

"Bar that, greybeard," the tiefling spat angrily. "I came 'ere to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey."

The old man turned purple, foaming with rage at the temerity of this upstart whelp. But Swanra'ann raised a finger, both silencing the wizard, and bidding Aurelius to say his piece.

"I've come 'ere to do you a favour, guv," he smirked.

"And what could a guttersnipe such as you offer me, that a thousand others can't?" the Queen of Misery asked, a condescending smirk touching the corners of her bow-shaped lips.

"I've come to lann you some chit's planning to bob you, and I have the chant on where you can find your lad Flint."

Swanra'ann smiled again, her eyes darting between Aurelius' own. He could see she was a canny blood, her mind like a steel trap. "We already have him, in our dungeons, mister..?"

"Burias," he lied instantly. "And I figured you might. 'Fraid 'e won't be there long though. See, the chit I came 'ere with will more than likely want to break 'im out."

The Akashiman laughed, his voice nasal, grating instantly on Aurelius' nerves. "We can catch one-- how you say?-- chit? A single girl will not last long with our guards patrolling the dungeons."

"Aye, you may be right there, Ma'am," the tiefling grinned, seeing the Akashiman's face crease with irritation. "But you're boys ain't gonna spot 'er, since she can't be seen. And if she gets out, and word spread 'bout 'ow two clueless berks managed to give the mighty Swanra'ann the laugh... well," he glanced at her retinue, smirking arrogantly, "we both know what rumours can do to a body in your position. Wouldn't be long before the wolves started circling..."

The leather-clad She-devil crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in her throne. She had tumbled to something. Something Aurelius was hoping she'd pick up on.

"And yet you offer this information on your companion so freely. Why is that, Burias?"

The way she said his name assured Drak'shal she knew he was lying. It didn't matter. "Because, luv, I know which way the wind blows, and I ain't tangling with a blood like you." She accepted this silently. "I'll turn stag and bring both of 'em to you on a platter. But I want a little bit of garnish, if you get my meanin'. I want Swaysong."

The guard next to Aurelius snapped, "you will address Her Grace with the proper respect!".

Raising his hand, he struck the bound tiefling again. As soon as the slap had landed, the planetouched was in motion. Surging to his feet, he rammed his horns up under the elf's chin, tearing open the flesh and throwing his head back. The guard staggered, but Drak'shal was there instantly, lunging for the dark elf's throat. His fangs tore into the soft flesh, and with a wrench of his head, Aurelianus ripped the poor sod's throat out in a fountain of scarlet. The second guard was moving, but this was the kind of fighting Aurelius had been doing since childhood- vicious, dirty, and lethal. As the second guard reached for him, the Cager lashed out with a low kick, shattering a kneecap with his hobnailed boots. Even as the leg gave way, the elf falling forward, his opponent was hammering a bladed knee into his neck. Two guards dead in a matter of heartbeats.

But he knew he could easily not survive the next few seconds.

Acting almost faster than he could think, the warlock threw up Freki's Shield, the magickal fire bursting into life around him in a flash. It was just in time too, as the rifle-armed dark elves opened fire. Two shots hit the shield, ricocheting off into the marble walls, but the third pierced the protective sphere, lancing into the tiefling's shoulder. It was like a white hot spike being driven into his flesh, but even as the shield collapsed, Shahab's Lash was burning through the ropes binding his chafed, bloody wrists. He threw himself backward out of instinct, grabbing the body of one of the guards and hearing the whistle of a blade passing through the space he had occupied only a fraction of a second ago. The follow up swing hammered into the corpse, and Aurelius rolled it away from him, jumping to his feet and backing up quickly.

The Akashiman followed him though, yanking his wakizashi out of the corpse. Unarmed, the bloody, bruised and beaten half-man knew better than to fight on. He held up his hands in submission, and Swanra'ann cleared her throat- taking this as an order to desist, the swordsman stepped back, keeping his blades trained on his opponent.

*clap, clap, clap*

Aurelius turned to the dais, to see Swanra'ann applauding him slowly. He wasn't sure if she was mocking him or not, but he was in no position to ask. She didn't seem too saddened by the death of her minions, though.

"It seems you can offer me a few things after all. Very well, you will bring me both Flint, and the girl, alive," her relish at the prospect of torture was almost tangible. "In return, I will graciously let you live. If you impress me enough, I will even grant your boon- I may give you a vial of Swaysong."

Aurelius smirked inside, a vicious gleam in his serpentine gaze. You're a canny blood, bitch, but I'm peelin' you all the same. The thrill he got out of playing this sort of dangerous game was indescribable.

"Your will be done, boss," he smiled coldly, bowing.

Turning to the Akashiman, he snapped his fingers and sneered- "Be a good dog, an' fetch me my blades."

***

Ten minutes later, the tiefling was standing at the top of the stairway leading down into the dungeon, flanked by a new pair of guards, both with sword and pistol already drawn.

"Stay 'ere," he snarled, both of the hired goons unable to meet his demonic eyes, or look at the blood of their comrades drying on his chin. They were only to happy to keep away from the abomination. Besides, they both knew there was no way out of the dungeon. The only way out was these stairs, and they would see anyone approaching.

A cruel smile split Aurelianus' face. Everything was going exactly to plan.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Aurelius found what he was looking for, as he knelt at yet another intersection in this labyrinthine basement. He was still trailing blood, though not as much as he had been- it was starting to dry, to congeal on his clothes and skin. He could only imagine what he would look like to others. He had noticed quickly that bloodstains on the floor were nothing new to this place. He had tumbled to that fact when he came across the room Flint had been held in- the smell of alcohol had been there, along with the pus drops staining the blood on the floor- and seen the flayed corpse; it had no shoulder wound though, so it wasn't the short, bald cutter. In another room, he found the two unconscious guards Luned had taken down- the traces on the floor and walls pointed to her using the smoke bombs she'd nabbed in Ezura's kip, to rescue her minder. He slit the guards' throats to prevent any bother from them later.

And then he had found Ezura's corpse a few rooms down. Aurelius had never met the chit himself, but looking at the state of her body, he instantly recognised the effects of Swaysong... and then he had seen the shattered vials littering the floor, all empty, their contents already evaporated. His rage at that moment, when he had realised there was no more pure Swaysong left, was indescribable. All that work, all that effort, pissed away for nothing!! But instead of throwing one of his usual bloody tantrums, the tiefling had forced the fury down, turning it into a cold ball of hate- he would get more than his share from everyone involved in this ride, that he swore to himself.

His nose twitched again bringing him back to the present objective, and the tiefling knew for sure this time- he could smell alcohol. It was faint, even to his senses, but it was definitely.. there!

Aurelianus waited a few seconds, parking his ears for footsteps... Ah, there she is... he smiled darkly, stepping out into the hallway. In the faint light of the small lamps lining the walls, the tiefling knew he must look a true nightmare. He knew Luned was there, could smell her skin, her sweat.. he could almost taste her fear as she saw him. The footfalls died instantly, as Luned froze, praying silently that the snake-featured demon didn't notice her. too late for that, luv, he thought, pretending to scan the hallway for anyone else. He turned, looking straight through the chit. He turned toward away from her, as if he was undecided about which way to go. He paused, keeping his back to the unfortunate scribe, baiting her to come closer. After all, the only exit was right beside the warlock- she had no choice.

After a few tense seconds, Luned decided to go for it, trusting in her invisibility to hide her from the creep.

Drak'shal waited patiently, trusting his senses to tell him when Luned was close enough. The second she stepped within range, Aurelius struck- spinning on his heel, the blood-soaked renegade grabbed Luned around the throat, his hand squeezing unseen tendons in her neck, tightening around her windpipe. Leaning in close, smelling the bub on her skin, the blood underneath, and under that, her fear, he ran his forked tongue up her cheek, savouring the taste. She was terrified of Aurelius, this he knew. And with good reason, he agreed- the gutter-spawn had readily agreed to betray her and Flint not even an hour ago, and not long before that, was planning to murder them for Swaysong.

He could feel her shaking, even if he couldn't see it.

"'ello luv," he smiled, "where are you rushin' off to?"

**"Let go of me,"** she gasped angrily, trying to push him off. But, as Aurelius raised Herzaa's blade to where her face must be, it became evident he wasn't going to let her go quite yet. He felt her rapid breathing, and chuckled.

**"I told you to wait outside"**

Aurelius nodded, "aye, that you did. And I can't 'elp but wonder- would you 'ave bothered comin' back for me? Would you 'ave told me the Swaysong's gone? Now you've rescued your boy-toy, I doubt it. In fact, I would put money on you just waltzing out of 'ere and givin' me the laugh. Sound about right, cutter?"

**"Could you blame me?"**

The chit squirmed again, and Aurelius pressed the cold steel of the curved dagger against her cheek, just under her eye. She got the message, and went still. His hand tightened around her throat, cutting off her air.

"Could I blame you?" He appeared to ponder the question for a moment. "Y'know luv, I'm so happy you see it that way. 'Cause Swanra'ann 'as offered me a decent bit o' jink for your pretty little brain-box. And after all the shit I've 'ad to put up with, just to end up with bugger all, can you blame me for handin' you over on a silver pikin' platter?"

He removed the dagger from her face, hanging it at his belt again before glancing around. They were alone.

"But, thank whatever Powers you 'old dear, girl, I'm not workin' for 'er. I'm playin' this game for one body, bitch, just one- Me."

He eased the pressure on her throat, letting her breathe again, feeling her chest rising and falling against his own.

"So for now, I'm willin' to let you go."

He forestalled any response from Luned with a raised finger. "But," he said, keeping his voice measured and low, "only in return for a favour. I'll come to you, at some point soon, and ask you for somethin'- your help, your money, your blood- and whatever I ask you for, you will pay the music and give me it. No questions, no declinin', no trying to 'ide from me."

He slipped the ticket out of his inner pocket, mercifully free of blood-stains and held it up for her to see clearly.

"Because if I can't find you, luv, I'm sure I could settle for payin' little miss Agnie a visit at her kip. You followin' me?"

He could feel the chit's neck tendons tightening, as she leveled a glare of hatred at the tiefling. She nodded as much as his grip would allow, grunting out a begrudging "fine."

Aurelius tucked away the ticket, his serpentine eyes dancing with amusement. All in all, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He couldn't resist adding insult to injury. He brought his blood-stained face close to Luned, his nose nearly touching her's- at this distance, the half-breed could almost make her out, the air distorted where she stood.

"One last thing, sweet'eart," he smiled coldly, his fangs bright white against the congealing vitae on his skin. "Give me a kiss before you go."

Luned struggled as much as she could, with the reptilian nightmare this close, trying to hit him, to reach for her knife, anything to get him off of her. But it was useless. Aurelius leaned down, bringing his blood-stained lips against Luned's. Instantly, she started bucking, writhing, trying desperately to get free of him, but Drak'shal's blood was up, and he was having fun rubbing salt in her wounds. His tongue slipped between her lips, the black appendage caressing her's aggressively. He kept the kiss up for a long moment, tasting the girl's revulsion and hatred of him like a sweet wine. But, he finally let her go, seeing a smear of blood against her face. It was an odd sight, considering she was still invisible, but after a second, the stain became transparent too, before vanishing.

He finally stepped back, letting Luned go with a shove toward the stairs, leading up to her way out. He listened to her hurried footsteps as she fled the tannery, and the degenerate tiefling. Aurelius mocking laughter followed her up the staircase with every step.

"Run, rabbit, run," he grinned. Turning back to the maze of corridors, the warlock knew it was time to get on with what he'd come down here to do.

Now, it was time to find Flint.

***

In the end, it wasn't that hard to track him down. After Luned had abandoned him, the thug had ended up staggering down the halls, leaving a trail of blood and pus wherever his wounded shoulder rubbed down the rough stone walls. Aurelius had found the trail not too far from where he had stumbled upon Ezura's mangled corpse.

The second he had found Luned leaving without the Salvaran in tow, the canny tiefling had put the pieces together- Flint had got loose, and penned Ezura in the dead-book. In the process, he'd destroyed all the remaining Swaysong in the vicinity- for that fact alone, Aurelius was sorely tempted to nick the sod's sorry throat the second he saw him. Swanra'ann had told him she wanted Flint alive.. but he had no intention of fulfilling either of their wishes. He had bigger plans than petty revenge.

Finally, after following the slick crimson trail on the walls and floor for a while, the tiefling picked up the scent. Sweat, fear, blood... oh, the human was ripe with it, and Aurelianus licked his lips hungrily.

He was on a stone corridor, lined with wooden cell doors on either side; the sounds of pitiable mewling came from within some of them, muffled screams from others, and Drak'shal could even hear one of the cell occupants scratching at the heavy metal door, whimpering desperately. Swanra'ann, it seemed, was as much of a monster as any of the demons Aurelius had trafficked with over the years. He quirked an eyebrow as he spotted the object of her wrath recently: Flint.

The poor sod looked to be a bit more lucid than he had been when Aurelius saw him last, but he was still in a sorry state- his wound was festering, blood dribbling from his many wounds, bruises standing out stark against his flesh. After his run in with the Pit Queen's guards, Aurelius had more than a few bruises himself.. as well as a lead ball in his arm, a re-opened gash on his brow, and some broken ribs. The tiefling ignored his wounds for now, eyes narrowing as he watched the dying man stagger on ahead. Wouldn't be 'ard to stick a blade in 'im 'ere and now, he thought, idly scratching the burned flesh of his cheek. Well, let's see what we can get out of this one, the manipulative half-demon chuckled mentally, drawing his heavy cleaver blade from it's sheath on his calf.

Putting his fingers in his mouth, he let out a shrill whistle again, like he had done in the sewers those many, long hours ago.

The man froze, back going rigid as he turned, painfully slow. The man met Aurelianus' black and yellow gaze, not flinching. A second passed and neither of them said anything. Two seconds. Three...

**"What are you waiting for?"** Flint asked, clearly expecting Aurelius to kill him. And it's a bloody temptin' idea, no mistake.

The warlock tilted his head, honestly considering the question. But, he reminded himself, he had a bigger picture to keep in mind.

"Swanra'ann wants you dead, real bad mate. Even offered me a pretty penny to bring you back to 'er alive and kickin'. But, you're a lucky sod. I ain't dancin' to 'er tune anymore than you are." He shrugged, the machete-like blade chiming as it hit against the vicious armour plates.

Aurelius regarded the corridor they were both in, waiting long enough to give Flint time to register what he had said.

"'Ow desperate are you to get out of 'ere with your skin intact, mate?"

**"Say more,"** the man replied cautiously, peery around the half-breed.

The tiefling smirked darkly. "Desperate enough to trust me?"

The short, stocky basher instantly replied with a single word- "No."

Then he paused for a few seconds, actually weighing up his options. The conclusion he came to was not particularly pleasant. "Yes," he said, frowning.

Chewing on a spike of his hair, the predator smiled, showing his fangs. "That's what I like to 'ear, cutter. You want outta 'ere, and you don't want the Bitch Queen upstairs catchin' you." That much was obvious, but Aurelius was making sure Flint understood how much he needed the tiefling's help right now.

"I can get you out of 'ere, but it'll cost you."

Peery as always, a smart move on his part, Flint didn't question why Aurelius would help him. He only wanted to know how much it would cost him.

Aurelius walked closer, reversing his grip on the cleaver, trying not to panic Flint into doing anything he'd not live long enough to regret. He stopped a few steps short of the mangled human. But the human made no move to attack- they both knew by this point, Flint wouldn't stand a chance of taking the warlock.

"'Ere's the deal, boy, take it or leave it- I don't want your jink. Nothin' like that. I want a favour," Aurelius hissed the word softly, "from you, at some point soon. You'll agree to whatever I ask, no ifs, no buts, and after you've done what I want, we're square. You follow me?"

He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but there was no reward without risk. Herzaa had taught him that, during their travels. The canny little tiefling from Sigil had to make sure this all played out according to plan, or it wouldn't just be Flint up on the Skinner's table. But, he'd been toying with organisations like Swanra'ann's since before he'd left the City of Doors- this was second nature to someone of his mixed heritage. He was a liar, a manipulator, a cheat, a 'cony-catcher', in his vernacular. And he was damn good at what he did. But right now, he needed the Salvaran safely out of here, to use as leverage. This barmy addle-cove doesn't take the offer, we're both piked.

To his disguised relief, Flint nodded. **"A favour for a favour."**

"Glad you've tumbled to the right answer, mate," he smirked. Without warning, Drak'shal brought the cleaver blade up, slicing open his own forearm. His black blood ran like ink over his alabaster flesh, the keen edge of the weapon easily parting the skin. Another cut along his cheek, and a third across the armour plates covering his left arm, and the tiefling handed the weapon, hilt first, to a very confused Flint. Aurelius made no move to explain himself, instead fishing in his satchel for a tattered and well-thumbed notebook. Studying it closely for a few minutes, Aurelius found what he was looking for. He tore a blank page out of the back, and plucked a quill from his head.

Dipping the point in the blood flowing from his arm, the warlock started writing hurriedly, speaking as he wrote, without looking up. "You follow these instructions to the letter when you get out of 'ere, understood?"

Aurelius handed Flint the note, his blood still drying on the page. He knew he was running short on time before Swanra'ann lost her patience, and sent her guards in. Flint had to be long gone by then. The tiefling unhooked a small golden glyph from a chain around his neck, pressing it into Flint's hand firmly.

"Don't lose this, for pike's sake. Take this," he said pointing to the glyph, then the note, "to here. When you get there, find the orc with the tattooed tusks- don't ask- and tell 'im a friend of Aran Sicht sent you. You got that? Aran. Sicht. They'll see you out of Ettermire, take you wherever you need to be."

Aurelius waited for some indication that Flint was following the fast-paced conversation. When the bald man nodded up at him, the half-demon continued. "Right, good, bloody smashin'. Now, follow me, keep quiet, and don't die."

The warlock grabbed Flint by his uninjured arm, dragging him along the corridors at a quick pace. He had left his coat back up in Swanra'ann's 'throne room', so he had to be careful not to catch the already buggered man on the vicious leather plates. As an afterthought, he put a burst of Hellfire into each cell through the small barred window at the top of each door- no use letting the poor berks live, and run the risk of them telling the Queen of the Pit what had really transpired in her dungeons.

The journey was hectic, the pair barreling through the hallways as fast as their injuries would allow, until they finally arrived. The coppery stink of blood was much stronger in this part of the dungeon, emanating from the metl grate in the wall; it was another of the blood chutes, like the one Aurelius had entered through. The tiefling had marked a good few of them throughout the tannery, and he knew this route would lead Flint out safely... or as close as he was likely to find down here. The man's hesitation was evident, and Aurelius couldn't blame him- with his injuries, the fever breaking, and everything else arrayed against him, the last thing Flint wanted to do was climb in the reeking, pitch-black metal pipe, slick with the bodily fluids of countless deaders.

"That's your way out, cutter," Aurelianus nodded to the grate, lifting the heavy sheet of metal. "If you don't want to end up as the barmy bitch's next pair of shoes, I suggest you get a pikin' move on."

Flint's revulsion and fear were almost tangible, but after taking a few deep breaths, the man ran a hand over his bruised and bloody head, before starting to clamber into the pipe. Aurelius took one last look at the maimed form of Flint, and fished in his satchel again. He pulled out a roll of bandages and handed them to the man with a nod.

"Can't get my favour if you end up in the dead-book 'fore you get out of Ettermire," he said, with a nod at the bandages.

Flint accepted the roll of material, and started the arduous climb down into the dank, hot darkness.

Sure Flint would make it out, Aurelius took a deep breath to prepare himself for this next part.

He had managed to get both the berks out of the tannery in one piece, and he was two favours better off than he was when he started this ride. Now, he got to have some real fun- he got to try and convince Swanra'ann not to skin him alive.

It's gonna be a fun night, he smirked, heading back to the stone staircase.

It seemed to take every last ounce of energy the scribe had to trek her way back, her legs moving on pure determination alone, limbs heavy as if they might simply fall off. Even the amazing quality boots that the inn had scrounged up were past the point of comfort and chewed at her heels and toes as she hobbled blindly back to the sewers. She wasn't even quite sure why she was going there, only that she felt she should. There was nothing else left to do. Ezura was dead, the Swaysong was lost, and as a result of these tragedies, Luned couldn't give Helethra and her mother their life back. She felt loss of purpose, an emptiness that made the thought of going home meaningless. The only modicum of inspiration left in her was to find out what happened Helethra. Maybe she could give the girl a proper burial if it was too late, one last notion of humanity to ease the pain of just how sorry she was about everything that had happened since she came to Ettermire. Even someone as useless and helpless as her could honor a death in some way.

The invisibility had begun to wear off while Luned was still on the grounds of the tannery, but she was concealed in the smog well enough that she made it to the main road without much trouble. For that she was grateful, as Aurelianus did her nerves no favors in their last meeting and if she was looking forward to even just one thing at this point, it was to get the hell away from him and the rest of the monsters here. She just prayed he would never cash in on the boon he demanded; what could she possibly do for him, anyhow? No, scratch that. She didn't want her thoughts to go down that road.

The memory of the half-demon's touch and the lingering flavor of rancid blood in Luned's mouth churned her stomach. With some minor success she kept herself from reliving the experience too many times on her long walk, but once she recalled too many details and had to stop, lean hopelessly against a building, and lose the contents of her stomach on the brick. There wasn't much left in there, she hadn't eaten since breakfast, but she felt ill nonetheless. She could still taste him.

She passed like a phantom through the night, slipping transparent and silent by the decrepit homes of the slums. By the time she reached the center of the industrial quarter once more she appeared whole again, and with no sign of morning and her homemade glow sticks long gone, she realized she needed light for her last mission. Luned stopped outside a dingy tavern, still alive with the more social nocturnal creatures of the city, and took a deep breath. Though the air of Ettermire on the whole was polluted by her Coronian standards, the breeze here was crisp and clean compared to the stagnant smog of the tannery, and she felt it clear the last of the putrid fog from her lungs. She rubbed an itch at the stitches on her neck, immediately winced in regret, and then stepped into the building. It took some haggling and endurance of a few strange glances, but within ten minutes the scribe returned to the street with bread in her pocket and a lantern in hand.

Luned's return to the sewers was greeted by nothing but eerie stillness. She reentered through the pipeline the trio had exited earlier, and as she went deeper, her footsteps echoed around her and incited her to check over her shoulder for irrational glimpses of stalkers every few feet. It was close enough to the surface that she didn't anticipate haplessly bumping into any of the more horrific critters, but the loss of Flint's support was like the loss of a limb. It felt strange to be there without him, and also strange was the slight twinge of sadness when she realized they likely wouldn't cross paths again. She'd learned what kind of person he really was in the tannery, but there was something about surviving hell with somebody that made her want to hold onto him.

The pipe where she last met Helethra was easy to spot from the smears of dried blood and she tried not to think about how much of it was her own. With a deep breath, Luned drew her knife and held it with the lantern in one hand, then crouched to crawl into the tunnel.

A very obvious trail of gore marked Helethra's path and Luned's chest twinged with guilt as she recollected what she did, her hand trembling on the grip of the weapon she'd used against a child. Twice she stopped for a break, the cuts on her arms and shoulders aggravated, her anxiety-churned stomach threatening to lose the few mouthfuls of ale she'd had at the tavern to wash out the taste of blood. The second time she almost gave up, realizing that if she went too far she might not have the energy to get out, and the deeper she went, the less likely she was to survive the trip. As she calmed herself from claustrophobia with slow breathing, however, there was a sound further down the tunnel… and it wasn't the ominous scraping or gnashing of a monster, either. It was the whimper of a child.

Luned barely dared to speak up. "Helethra? Is that you?" Her words rang back at her and she flinched at the harsh echoes.

"Hello?" the girl called back, her tiny voice almost lost in the tunnel. She sounded so very frail, and in spite of the terror Luned knew the child was capable of, she pressed on.

Eventually the pipeline intersected with another and in that small chamber Helethra rested, curled up in the corner. The dim light from the lantern barely illuminated her silhouette, hunched and heaving with labored breath. The floor was covered in mingling pools of drying blood and vomit.

"Hel," Luned whispered, her voice seeming loud in the otherwise silent tunnels. It resounded sharply over the girl's gasping and she lowered it even more, attempting to bring as much warmth to her tone as possible, not wishing to betray just how frightened she was of the ailing child. "It's me, Luned. Will you let me help you, now?"

The dark, bent form of the girl trembled, and after a moment, the scribe realized she was sobbing. After a long moment, she wailed a weak response. "I'm sorry," Helethra cried. "I'm so sorry, I was just mad, but it hurts…"

Luned set the lantern down in the mouth of the pipe and began to crawl out of it into the chamber with the weeping child. "I'm coming in now," she announced, unable to see Helethra's face to know her reaction. "Can you show me where you're hurt? Maybe I can help."

Helethra seemed to make an effort to sit up, her form barely recognizable as humanoid now, even in the heavy shadow. Her back was twisted and everywhere were the bark-like growths, covering nearly all her skin and warping her shape from a little elf into a gnarled creature. She was wrapped in the tattered remnants of her brown cape, too small to cover her properly, and her head hung down, face covered by what was left of her sandy-colored hair. There were still some youthful curls in it, and Luned wondered for a brief, melancholy moment if she was the kind of girl who liked ribbons or preferred to keep it free.

Still curled in on herself and too weak to rise properly, Helethra eventually whimpered a response. "Everything hurts," she sniffed. "Everything's cold, and it hurts, and I wish I was home with Mom."

In spite of herself, tears began to well in Luned's eyes, and she didn't have it in herself to stop them at this point. "We can pretend," she ventured, creeping cautiously closer to the child's hunched form. "What does she do for you when you're sick?"

This seemed to appease Helethra, at least somewhat, and the child finally looked up. Her face was too obscured by the darkness to recognize, but her green eyes glinted, capturing what little light there was. They were Helethra's eyes, and Luned unconsciously let out a sigh of relief. "Hugs me in bed," she said. "With all the blankets. Makes my favorite food…" She shivered, as if missing the warmth of her old home.

"Here," Luned spoke up, unbuttoning the heavy over-shirt Aurelianus had nicked for her. "Pretend this is a blanket." She pulled it off, shivering also as the cool air of the underground met the bare skin of her arms and shoulders, and draped it over the girl. Settling in next to her, she pulled the bread from her pocket and offered it. "Are you hungry? I only have this, but you can have it."

A clawed hand, larger than her own with long talons glistening in the lantern light, reached out with what little energy the child had left. They were still caked with Luned's blood from earlier and she felt lightheaded at the thought. Helethra accepted it gently, as if conscious of this, and she drew it to her chest. "Eat later… too sleepy." With that she leaned heavily against the scribe, nearly knocking her over, and Luned threw caution to the wind by wrapping a tentative arm around the girl's shoulders. After some adjustment, they both relaxed, and Helethra was wound almost comfortably in Luned's meager embrace.

"Sorry, I should have brought one of your dolls for you," Luned said, hoping Helethra didn't notice her chest heaving as she suppressed a sob. It appeared that the child didn't notice much of anything, her body limp, her skin frightfully cool to the touch. At one point Luned's hand, which was absentmindedly stroking the girl's side for comfort, touched something cold and wet; the bleeding hadn't stopped in all this time, and there was no doubt in her mind that Helethra was dying a slower version of her mother's death, sped by the injury she'd inflicted earlier. "That one in the white dress… you made it to look like your friends, didn't you? The rats?"

A vague mumble of confirmation came forth from the girl, and Luned's suspicion was validated.

"The one with the extra limbs… was that one of the spiders?"

Helethra mumbled again and, at Luned's gentle insistence, repeated herself more audibly. Her voice was growing weaker and less consistent, testament to her exhaustion. "Yeah, but…" she drifted off, then muttered a barely coherent, "accident."

Luned perked at this admission. "What do you mean, an accident?"

"Fed the rats my medicine," Helethra explained, struggling to stay awake. "It's yucky, but they're always hungry… I wasn't sick. Didn't want it. But last time…" Her voice trailed off and she went still, causing Luned to panic and rouse her with a gentle shake on the shoulder. Her skin was roughly textured under her palm, like the mossy root of an old tree.

"Last time?"

The conversation took too much energy out of what little Helethra had left and she whimpered, too weak to cry again. "She made me take it, and now my tummy hurts."

Luned gathered the girl in her arms again, tighter this time, and held on just as much for her own comfort as Helethra's. That was the last piece of the puzzle: Hel fed her medicine to the sewer animals, they suffered its side effects, and when her mother believed it wasn't working on her daughter, she went to Swaysong as a last resort. She buried her face into the child's hair, lost in her thoughts, until Helethra piped up one more time. Her voice came in a barely audible whisper.

"Read… story? So, so… sleepy…"

That was the last straw and Luned lost it, no longer bothering to cover for her tears. She allowed herself to sob wholeheartedly, muffled against Helethra's shoulder, and clung to the delirious little girl with all the strength she had left. The child barely noticed, her breathing shallow as she dozed. After a short while Luned found her wits again and, after a few slow, deliberate breaths, she composed herself enough to rummage through her pocket. The first thing she found was the Little Red Book and she extracted it, keeping her other arm around Helethra, and flipped through the pages. There were no fairy tales with happy endings in this small tome to send a child off to peaceful slumber, but if this was the one thing she could do for her, nothing was going to stop her from pretending.

"Once upon a time," Luned said, doing her best to sound confident, "There was a girl…" At this point Helethra was unresponsive, sighing contentedly in light repose against the scribe's chest. She didn't have the heart to disturb her so she continued, even knowing she likely wasn't hearing a word. That realization made it easier to tell the story, as she was no longer self-conscious when her voice caught in her throat and gave way to a full-on sob. "And, u-um… she lived in the attic of a museum." Luned thumbed through the book as if hoping to find inspiration for the impromptu tale, yielding nothing, but as she did so, a few stray pieces of note-covered scrap paper fell out into her lap. She set the book down to replace them between the pages and saw that they contained her research about Swaysong. She'd pursued the mythical substance herself, having hidden her goal from her mentor back home… and of course, she realized now that the fact she had to keep it secret should have been the first red flag. If she had any foresight at all, this entire mess could have been avoided.

Without thinking, Luned opened to the section that detailed the spell she'd intended to use with the Swaysong. It was a reversal, an undo button with which she could turn back the clock on a specified object. For her intended purpose she needed an amplifier, something that would raise its effectiveness from several hours to several months and span continents. Her time in Salvar was the beginning of all her troubles and she had fully intended to change the course of events that led her to the misery of here and now, curled up in a sewer with a dying child in her arms.

But if the disaster that was Salvar never happened, Luned would never have come to Ettermire. Ezura still would have stolen the Swaysong and killed her daughter.

This epiphany should have led to deeper sorrow, but instead transformed into yet another: Luned was here for a reason. She could help Helethra, and she was too stupid and absorbed in her own trivial anguish to have seen it.

"Wake up," Luned urged the child, shaking her shoulder. Helethra barely stirred, already at the edge of being lost to a dangerous sleep. Suddenly panicked, the scribe pushed the girl off of her, Hel's mutated form much larger and heavier than herself, and laid her gently on the ground as she got to her knees. Before turning away she adjusted her shirt over the child, covering her as well as she possibly could.

And then she set to work. Assuming Helethra consumed the Swaysong in the past day, Luned imagined it was still in her system. The vomit and blood stewing on the ground likely had trace amounts of the substance in it, and while it couldn't possibly be enough to revise the scribe's past follies, she imagined it was just enough to amplify the spell to a strength that would bring the real Helethra back.

Grabbing the lantern and setting it amongst the muck, Luned knelt at the edge of the pool and propped her book open with one hand. Referencing the ancient High Elven script, she used the capped tip of her fountain pen to coax streams of the congealing liquid into lines that resembled writing.

It took a long time, Luned too afraid she'd make a mistake as she constantly compared the swirls of characters she crafted atop the grimy floor with the more pristine shapes in the book. The concentration wore her out and she was too afraid to check the girl behind her, opting to instead revel in the dull pain that began behind her eyes as she strained to read and perform perfect calligraphy with chunky bodily fluids in the dark.

Twice and thrice she checked the spell, the liquid cursive glinting wet in the lantern light one last time before the Swaysong seemed to evaporate straight out of it in curls of ethereal steam. It filled the chamber with a light fog, and Luned finally allowed herself a cautious glance over her shoulder.

Helethra was sitting up, her form small and perfect again as she inspected Luned curiously in the dim light. "Who're you?" she asked, and the scribe realized that her mind had been reverted as well, further back than the time she met herself and Flint outside the sewers. She was a stranger.

"I'm Luned," the young woman replied, a hesitant, tearful smile creeping across her face. "And you are…?"

The little girl stood in a hunched position in the short chamber, holding Luned's shirt over herself still to cover the useless tatters of her remaining clothing. "I'm Helethra. How'd I get here? My clothes sure are messed up, Mom's gonna be mad." Before she could reply, the child answered her own question. "I must have been on my way to visit my friends."

Involuntarily, Luned blurted, "No! I-I mean… don't go down there, please. I'm lost. Do you think you could show me where you live? I bet you know this place real well," she corrected herself, but it was too late. The damage was done, and even in the heavy shadows, she could see the suspicion in Helethra's vivid green eyes.

"You can't stop me," the child retorted defiantly. "I'm gonna go visit my friends now. Mom says not to talk to strangers, anyways."

Luned could've laughed –– Helethra certainly had no trouble talking to strangers when they first met –– but, then again, she hadn't woken disoriented and disheveled in a pool of her own blood and vomit. Still, the scribe tried.

"Please don't go, I need your help," Luned pleaded.

Helethra simply shook her head, turned around, and climbed into the pipe behind her. Luned panicked, scrambling to her feet. In her rush she lost her bearings and hit her head against the ceiling of the chamber, hard enough to send her stumbling, and she fell hard to her knees in the sludge. "Come back! Helethra!"

"No!" the girl called, her voice echoing down the tunnel. She was quick and soon was gone, Luned knew she had no way of catching up… and, in perhaps the coarsest moment of her life thus far, she realized there was no way in hell she was going back to the rat king.

---

Luned emerged from the wide entrance of the sewers to the first hint of dawn, the sun still tucked under the darkly clouded horizon as the yawn of its first few rays just barely illuminated the dank industrial street outside. The world greeted her in a blurry mass of grimy gray and bleak brown, and she truly couldn't wait to be back in Radasanth where even the most urban places were kept alive with green and sunshine.

In short, she was an utterly wretched mess. The scribe looked every inch the catastrophe of the past day and a half, and with her top half clad only in a thin undershirt, her battle wounds were bared. It almost felt nice without the constant irritation of cloth on them, but some of the deeper claw marks –– stitched or not –– had begun to weep, and she knew she'd need a heavy course of antibiotics alongside Flint. That was, if he got any. She hoped he would.

Hugging herself with her arms, the bruised and battered scribe trudged out onto the street with intent to go straight to her rendezvous with Agnie. With one hand, Luned smoothed her braids, miraculously intact thanks to whatever witchcraft the hairdresser at the inn used, and rubbed her tear-swollen, exhaustion-darkened eyes. She looked rather fierce, all in all, her mangled look topped off with a smear of dried blood across her chin and cheek from Aurelianus' cruel idea of a joke. His bloody handprint still grasped at her neck.

But what ultimately mattered was that Helethra was alive and healthy, and Luned couldn't help but wonder if her life would be happier in the sewers with the replacement family she sired than in a broken home. It was one of the biggest lies she'd ever made to herself, but it would be enough to help her sleep at night.

Then there was the added bonus that she was somehow alive, too, and though not particularly healthy, she was cautiously optimistic enough to relish the realization that she could finally go home.

Hell lay behind, and Ettermire in front. Flint didn’t dare look over his shoulder. He plodded on, leaving a trail of black footprints, and then just drips, and then the gore was too dry to do anything but crack and split on his skin and clothes with every shuffling step. He tried not to think about what was causing his pants to cling to his calves so. Every few minutes Flint forced a surge of strength into his limbs, demanded more of his body, spurned on by the fear of knives in his back – knives in the hands of Swanra'ann or knives in the hand of Aurelianus.

But no knives came, no shouts of alarm, no whistles, and the pain was constant but consistent. He ducked into an alley when he felt marginally safe, and looked at the paper the tiefling had given him. He tried to puzzle out the trick – did Aurelianus have his own thugs waiting? But if the goal were to kill him, why not do it in the Queen’s pit? He had nothing of value, and with the Swaysong lost he didn’t know anything. If punishment or torture were the endgame, why not let Swanra’ann keep him?

No matter how he turned it in his head, it seemed as though the favor was genuine. Beyond all hope, all rights, Flint was alive and he had a way out. He turned the glyph over in his hand, smudging blood and grime on the gold, and thought back to what Aurelianus told him. The orc with tattooed tusks, sent by a friend of Aran Sicht, and then what? Freedom, at least temporarily. Maybe they could spirit him out by train back to Salvar. He could find a good hole in the ground and lick his wounds, harden up again, and prepare for the tiefling’s return.

Flint risked a glance down the road, back in the direction of the tannery. Maybe the snake-eyed villain wouldn’t make it past Swanra’ann, and the debt would go unsettled. He could hope, but he would prepare for the worst. Step one was…

Flint turned the paper over in his hand slowly. He wadded it up and then tossed it into the gutter, and pocketed the glyph. He started digging through the alley detritus until he uncovered a drunk swaddled in tattered blankets, and after a brief struggle he retrieved one of the blankets and wrapped it around himself like a shoddy cloak. The drunk spat and swore and slurred, but never actually woke up.

Then Flint turned toward the industrial district and he walked as fast as his battered body could carry him.

----

The factories exhaled smoke, but they did so silently. There were a handful of dark elf workers on the early-morning streets, all drooped heads and bleary eyes either from a full night’s work or a short night’s rest. They ignored the strange, filthy human dressed in stained rags. If they caught wind of him, they crossed to the opposite side of the street, which he judged wise.

It was still dark when Flint arrived at a place which would evermore haunt his nightmares: a muddy hill with a naked metal tube protruding from it, weeping sooty water and slime. Even now, the brute stared at it impotently, and surrendered. He had no light, no strength, no will, and no bravery left. He leaned against the back wall of a warehouse, and watched, and wondered.

He slept on his feet, using the wall to support his weight, and his fevered subconscious tormented him – Luned had gone in, and the horrors there cornered and savaged her in the dark, and he wasn’t there. He betrayed her twice, and she would haunt him forever for it, and that – not the murder or the cruelty or the destruction – that was his greatest sin. Her ghost would torment him, with seaweed in her braids and spiders in her empty eye sockets, and he would deserve all the harm she hadn't.

Flint felt guilt and despair for the first time since he was a child, and he was too sick and tired to bury them where they belonged.

He opened his eyes to find the sun rising and the city coming to life around him, whistles echoing down the alleys, horns from the direction of the trains, and klaxons from the airships somewhere overhead above the smog, and Luned came out of the tube and descended the hill.

She didn’t notice him until she was just about to pass him, and then she stopped. She stared at him, and he stared back from the corner of his eye, finally shifting against the wall to look at her straight on. She was armored in grime and blood and newly stitched wounds, collared in red handprints, and she had blood for war paint. Her eyes were red and her tears had drawn smeared lines in the dirt on her cheeks.

“You look vulnerable,” she said.

Flint almost cracked a smile. “You don’t.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and then Flint said, “Is she…?”

“She’s alive. She’s okay.”

Flint nodded, and turned his eyes away from Luned. That was enough, and the rest went unsaid. He was not accustomed to apologizing.

“Come on,” Luned said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere else,” Luned said, and she began to walk.

They made it. Flint was a bit perplexed when Luned led him to the nicer side of town not far from the museum, seemingly deeper into the city they aimed to flee. But, when she took him down a side street and rapped on a shabby old door, he knew why.

It took several long, trying minutes, but after a few more knocks, it creaked open at the whim of a short, voluptuous woman, rubbing her eyes in her bedtime negligée. "Took you long enough," she yawned, moving aside for them to step in. She didn't seem particularly concerned about their mutilated states, and rather more about what that might do to her meticulously clean home. "Keep those muddy boots off the carpets," she commanded sharply as they entered, apparently more alert than she appeared.

The disheveled pair shuffled into the room, an extravagant space with luxuriously upholstered furniture in jewel tones that could have made their eyes bleed after the dreary monochrome of Ettermire. It suited the fairy princess well, her inhumanly vibrant gold hair matching the metallic threading of the pillows on her oversized bed perfectly. It took every ounce of Flint's willpower not to just stumble over and pass out on the inviting down comforter right then.

"Thank you, Ags," Luned sighed in relief. "Do you think you could drop us at the library? I know it wasn't part of the deal, but––"

"It's really nothing, dearie. I'll even do you one better." She glanced between the pair, winked at Luned with one mismatched eye, and when she reopened the door, it led into another bedroom instead of the street. The scribe's, to be precise, and everything was just how she left it. It was a modest but cozy niche carved out of the old stone building, bed made up tidily in the corner, an old desk nearly invisible under stacks of books and papers and projects that were also littered across the floor in a labyrinth of scrolls and paints and inks. Late morning sun shone warmly through the transparent curtains, parted just enough to give a glimpse of azure sky.

Luned stepped in and relaxed as the comfort of the familiar wash over her. "Thanks, but… when did I ever invite you up here?" she asked the fairy with a surprised glance over her shoulder. Agnie answered with a mischievous shrug and Cheshire grin, then swiftly closed the door behind them.

Flint visibly decompressed, feeling safe in knowing he was finally far from the clutches of the Skinner. "Where…?"

"Radasanth. Welcome home."

---

Treatment of Flint's infection was long and arduous, requiring several visits from Luned's doctor friend, along with several drainings. These events were distressful for all involved, and the scribe wasn't quite sure if it was a good or bad thing that tapping the ocean of pus stored in the man's shoulder was significantly easier to bear after the horrors of their fateful adventure.

But he was a trooper, and within a couple days he was out of bed and exploring parts of the vast library in short bouts. This time Luned found him sitting in his room with a small stack of reading, an atlas opened to Akashima on the table in the sun as he gradually sipped a strong herbal tea he didn't particularly like. Dr. Petru had prescribed it, and as Luned dutifully brewed it every eight hours, he begrudgingly obliged. He was wrapped not unlike a mummy in the amount of bandages he wore, visible under his open collar as he lounged in a comfortable leather armchair with his book. He wished, perhaps not as halfheartedly as he thought, that he could get used to this.

"It occurred to me," she said, stepping up to him, "That I don't actually know anything about you. We haven't been properly introduced."

Now that they were finally out of impending danger, Flint was able to find enough humor in himself to crack a hint of a smile. "I suppose not."

Luned leaned against the arm of his chair and offered him her hand, careful that he wouldn't have to strain his healing shoulder. "I'm Luned Bleddyn, scribe from Radasanth. I have a thing for old books, my favorite color's blue, and I recently discovered that I might have a phobia of rats."

The man accepted her hand with a firm, business-like shake. "Flint Skovik, security and acquisitions, Salvar. And yeah, I'd have to say the same." As if the rat king took offense to that, a sharp pain suddenly stabbed at his shoulder, having moved his arm just enough to aggravate the injury.

At this point Luned knew him well enough to notice when it was bothering him, and he couldn't tell if it irked him or not that she was so keen at finding whispers of weakness in his stoic countenance. "I can get some niphena from––"

"No, I'm fine," Flint declined, figuring now that he was out of the woods, he would do just fine without measly painkillers. This unexpected vacation –– a novel thing, really –– was more than enough to see him well again.

"Suit yourself." The scribe stepped over to the open window and perched on the sill, one hand running over the flowers in the box hanging just outside. She picked a couple dry leaves off one spindly plant and let them flutter away, a cool breeze stirring the room Flint would call home until he was well enough to leave –– or, rather, when Luned allowed him, insisting that he stay for proper medical care. For some reason he didn't argue and, when he considered why he hadn't, he realized the past couple days holed up in the cozy living quarters of the library reminded him of what memories he had of home. That thought disturbed him and his brow furrowed, Luned immediately catching his vexed look. "Don't tell me you don't like Corone already," she teased.

He shook his head. "Just thinking about my own country." This time it was Luned who was visibly vexed at the thought of something, and he turned the concern back on her. "Apparently it's you who doesn't like Salvar."

The light mood turned as Luned looked down at her hands, her thumb running along the lines of her left palm. The sun caught the red and gold highlights in her loose, dark hair, giving her a halo of warmth, but the stitches on her neck and face caught the light as well. There would most certainly be scars when they finished healing. "I never did tell you why I needed Swaysong, did I?"

Flint shook his head again.

"I'm wanted in Salvar for three murders. Oh… and witchcraft."

The man caught himself as his jaw dropped, his stoicism swiftly restored after a brief lapse of astonishment. "Did you really…?"

The scribe could have argued semantics, but it really didn't matter. She nodded, still avoiding eye contact as she stared at her lap. "If I had Swaysong, I could undo it. I went to Ettermire planning to do just that, but you know how that went."

There was the nagging guilt again. Before Flint could reply something sheepish, however, she continued.

"It's probably for the best. I've had a lot of time to think and I realized it was all for the wrong reasons, anyway. I wasn't doing it for them, they weren't good people… I was doing it because it had changed me." Luned leaned her forehead against the frame of the window, still paying meticulous attention to her hands and not Flint. She seemed to be curling in on herself as she let it all out in one uninvited deluge of secrets. "When I realized how stupid that goal was, I thought I could fix Ezura and Helethra's life instead. But you know what I felt when I saw Ezura die? Disappointment. What kind of human emotion is that? No sympathy, no sorrow, just… disappointment. For myself. Because it ruined my desperate attempt to revalidate my sorry existence."

Flint wasn't used to emotional conversations and found himself severely lacking in the knowing-what-to-say department, so he merely sat in speechless silence as she rambled on.

"Even if I could bring Ezura and Helethra back together, their family would still be broken. Even if I erased everything that happened in Salvar, I would still be broken. I'd still do stupid things like this to reclaim some part of myself that I'll never get back." Luned looked to Flint with an apologetic little smile, knowing she'd likely just made him very uncomfortable with information he probably didn't care about, but even so, it was better than trying to describe her mistakes to the morally righteous people she usually surrounded herself with. That wasn't a slight against Flint, either. "I'm done kidding myself, though."

With that, Luned stood up, stretched, and in an effort to change the subject, stole Flint's half-finished cup of tea off the table. "This must be cold, isn't it? I'll go get some warm for you." It felt good to get everything off her chest, and though she rather felt in need of a hug, too, she figured she'd forego further awkwardness for her poor friend's sake.

As Luned hurried off to procure more tea Flint examined the moment, feeling with absolute certainty a crossroads he didn’t realize he’d been approaching. His eyes wandered over the room, taking in the books, the wood, the peace of that place. War was Flint’s status quo: the endless struggle was familiar to him and thus, illogically, it was what historically gave him comfort. To languish in one place was to stagnate and become soft, weak, and thus this estate – this room – was the antithesis of all he stood for.

And yet, nothing seemed sweeter than to stay.

The concept was novel and uniquely startling, and it set his heart to hammering in his chest. Could he read books and write letters the way Luned and her mentor did, relying on their expertise to sharpen the intellectual skills he’d garnered on his own? No, he could never neglect his body that way, unless…and for a moment he saw himself in another life, hauling nets full of fish or crates full of goods from all over Althanas, an uncommonly strong but anonymous worker on Radasanth’s teeming dockside. He’d cover his scars under cotton shirts and wear a hat. He’d have a modest home and a…

He flinched from the concept the way a normal man would flinch from the thought of committing murder. And yet, the scenario lingered, tempting in its eerie possibility, pregnant with the distant sound of children’s laughter and a woman’s smile. He could be a man of peace instead of pain. He could renounce this path he walked in perpetual loneliness. For the first time he felt his burden, and knew he could put it down.

Flint reached into his pocket and felt cool glass, letting Luned’s revelation play over and over in his mind’s conception. “If I had Swaysong,” she'd said, intent upon her hands, “I could undo it.”

He tried to imagine the person she’d been before the darkness of Salvar had touched her, and then he withdrew his hand from his pocket, and with it came the single remaining vial of Swaysong in the known world. He turned it over between his fingers, his selfishness and his shame, watching it shift and slosh against the glass walls, and then he decided.

He reached out and slid the vial under a pile of folded papers Luned had been flipping through earlier that morning, and then he sat back. The breeze came in through the window, tossing the curtains and kissing the naked skin of his scalp.

----

The days dragged on, and his strength grew. It was usually sunny, and in time Luned gave him permission to take short walks, and then she began to catch him doing pushups in the morning and she would chide him and make him drink tea. There were rainy days too, and on those days they read, and once stood in the open doorway and watched it pour, and said nothing. She either hadn’t found the Swaysong, or hadn’t said anything. He waited.

Though the scribe did what she could to keep his presence a secret, Flint soon met her elderly mentor. The event was, to Luned’s surprise, a non-event. She walked into a room one day to find the thug and the scribe sincerely engaged in a game of chess. They did not talk, but hummed and harrumphed every dozen moves. Bleddyn usually won, but sometimes Flint did, and that seemed to please both of them.

There was a warm night when they played late by candlelight, long after Luned had given up on them and gone to sleep. The crickets filled the silence between muttered compliments, and fireflies drifted near the open window.

“Not a good trade,” Bleddyn muttered. “Knight for a bishop there. Strange game.”

“Never judge a sacrifice until the game ends,” Flint countered.

“Very Skavian of you to say,” the old scribe said. “Even had the accent for it. Check, by the by.”

Flint blinked, and then was silent for a long moment of thought. Finally he made his move and said, “How would you know a Skavian accent?”

Bleddyn shrugged, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I have so much in my head,” he said, “why waste brain space remembering how it all got there?”

“What do you know of Skavia?”

“Not that much. It’s been a hard place to come up in recent years, even around Andvall. Hard to be happy with your lot in life up there, I imagine.”

“They find ways to be happy, even up there,” Flint said. “Check.”

“More to life than being happy,” Bleddyn said. “Little late in the game to change tactics, isn’t it?”

“Not if I win.”

Bleddyn made a pleased sound as Flint made his move, a bold and aggressive sweep. There was a moment of thought, and then Bleddyn countered it with a creative retreat, and Flint narrowed his eyes.

“Checkmate,” the scribe said. “That was an interesting move, but you should have stuck to your first plan.”

“It wasn’t a good one,” Flint said.

“Maybe, but you knew what you were doing,” Bleddyn said, “even if you didn’t realize it.”

---

That night, Flint laid in his borrowed bed staring at the ceiling in the dark. The smell of rain was on the breeze, and he heard thunder from the sea’s direction. He thought of the life he was about to begin – the bold gambit he was about to undertake. He thought of where he’d come from, the trials he’d undertaken, the near-death he’d faced underneath Swanra’ann’s knife.

In the dark he reached up and pressed his fingers gently to the developing scar on his shoulder, and then he reached back and let his fingertips play over the older scars – the gifts from whip and knife and claw. He thought about the pit, and all the vile places he’d been since he escaped slavery. It was easy to forget about the scars, talking to Luned and drinking tea, but they remained and always would.

He tried again to imagine Luned before Salvar, and as the rain began to fall the picture became clear, and a chill washed over him.

I was doing it because it had changed me.

Flint crawled out of bed and padded through the halls, his way illuminated by flashes of lightning. He pushed aside the pile of papers, and found the little vial of Swaysong – his selfishness and his shame - and stared at it.

Flint wanted the future he’d envisioned for himself – the anonymous dockworker he could become. Alone in the dark, he allowed himself to feel the ache of that want, the longing. But to become that man he would have to leave behind his burden: all the darkness that made him who he was now, all the selfishness and the shame. That man would not set aside his own darkness, and yet abandon Luned to hers.

But the cold, immutable fact was that the darkness Salvar had given to him was what Flint saw reflected in Luned. It was what they shared, and with that erased what would she see of herself in him? Flint had the opportunity to be a good man, but to do it he would have to give up his only friend.

So he reached out and took the Swaysong. He buried the pain alongside the fear. Doing so was wrong, he knew, and it stripped him of his humanity. He made himself hard-eyed and cold, cruel and dangerous, a predator, and he put the vial in his pocket. He pretended that deep, deep inside him – buried alongside his humanity – there wasn’t a deep and overwhelming yearning for the other path.

He was good at pretending.

---

The next morning he packed to leave. He wondered if Luned was disappointed, and told himself it was silly if she were. She didn’t try to stop him, but she brewed him tea and packed him too much food. Bleddyn mumbled a farewell in passing.

As he was on his way out, carrying a rucksack of everything he owned in the world upon his back, Luned stopped him and then disappeared into her study for a long moment. She emerged again in a flurry of flowing skirts and bobbing braids, presented a piece of paper to him, and then said, “Oh, wait!”

He watched as she folded it into a neat envelope, and then she handed it to him.

“It’ll help us keep in touch,” she explained. “I’ll be able to read whatever you write on it, and vice versa. I’d like it if you’d write me when you get home. Let me know you made it alive, and you’re not hanging from a pipe in your underwear somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t want you to miss that,” Flint said.

There was a long pause in which the pair stared awkwardly at one another, and then Flint pointed at her neck and shoulder, where stitches peeked out from her collar. “Those validate your existence,” he said. “If they change you, it is for the better.”

“I don’t know if it feels that way.”

“Getting stronger hurts,” Flint said.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

The brute shouldered his rucksack, and shook his head with only the slightest ghost of a smile. “That’s the trouble with being fear,” he said.

“All you have left to be afraid of is yourself.”

http://img266.imageshack.us/img266/8223/brunol.jpg

The End.

Spoils requests:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Aurelianus Drak'shal

Ezura's corpse, with some Swaysong still present inside- will/ can ONLY be used for story purposes, not battles, etc.

An elf fetus to be remade into my flying creepy ass familiar.

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Quote:

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Originally Posted by Warpath

One vial of Swaysong to be used in quests only. If he takes it, any new abilities will go through RoG at level-up. Also the glyph from Aurelianus and the piece of paper Luned gave him. (None of these are for selling.)

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Quote:

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Originally Posted by Luned/Ags

The receipts Luned gives Ags in the beginning, if necessary. Maybe not, since Luned makes them herself (see abilities), but figured I'd ask just in case.

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Please note that this thread is eligible for the 50% EXP bonus offered via the LCC. Flint/Luned are Skullfuckers and this is "How They Met"!

Alright, folks. Prepare to be judged! Bonus LCC 'how we met' thread experience added for Luned and Flint, as well.

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Plot ~ 25/30

Storytelling ~ 9/10
I was utterly enthralled by everyone’s effort in this section. I went from disgust, to laughter, to horror, back to disgust, then surprise, sick fascination (cue Aurelianus’ entrance), et cetera... not once was I bored, nor given something irrelevant to read. Deus Ex Machinima was avoided by bringing in important elements of the story early, and letting them pay off towards the end – Gravebeard, the smoke bombs, Helethra’s dolls and medicine, and so forth. Also, when things are too convenient in a story, it smacks of laziness and unbelievability. Things were far from convenient for the characters in the story here, and that really added to the tension. Very good stuff. The last bit with Helethra had me close to tears, to be honest.
Now for the bad: I was a little thrown by the ease with which Aurelianus waltzed into an audience with the Queen, and furthermore by how she just gave in to his requests. I was under the impression that Swanra’ann was much more vicious and, to be honest, competent, to rely on a lone, bruised and battered, unknown quantity. That Aurelianus was responsible for sabotaging her earlier efforts to track Flint, Luned, and the thief also hurt the credibility of this part.
I’m conflicted about Helethra’s survival as well, to be honest. You had me ready to cry over the death of a monster, but instead, you managed to bring her back. I think you did the right thing by the story, though. Everything you needed for that was already there, it fit character (to mix scoring sections), and Helethra’s reaction stopped it becoming the Disney ‘happy ending’ that it could have become.
That’s about it for complaints, though. Nothing apart from that really stands out. Good work!

Setting ~ 8/10
Urgh, yuck. When Luned tripped over in the sewers? Ettermire’s smogocalypse? The formaldehyde-choked laboratory? Swanra’ann’s furbished and oh-so-tastefully decorated office? The wall of rotting, giant rats? Bravo, people, bravo. Every place you went to, from the shoe shop, to the seedy brothel, to the streets and to the sewers, I could really feel the locales.
Some places were explained well, but I haven’t retained a distinct impression of them – the lower stretches of the sewers, and the fancy hotel’s a little vague, too. Things seemed a little jumbled between the three character as they navigated the tannery, too.
Nonetheless, whatever the setting, it wasn’t just a painted backdrop. I liked to see you all interact with it, use it, affect it, and be affected by it. A touch more detail and cohesion in some parts here and you could easily get into 9 territory.

Pacing ~ 8/10
Another good effort. The slow, cautious creeping through the sewers enhanced the thread’s tension without becoming agonisingly slow. Battles were frantic, moved quickly, but weren’t a confusing mess. On a larger scale, the story unfolds bit by bit, enough to tease a reader along without giving away a great deal.
I must admit, there were times when I wished you did move along a bit faster. As interesting as it was, my attention waned once or twice per page. With long posts such as you all had, you may want to ease up on some of introspection and let the character’s actions do the talking, and also maybe be a little more zealous when it comes to cutting down content.

Character ~ 25/30

Communication ~ 8/10
This part was key to the story. Individually, each character projected a unique persona, NPCs included. I actually think Aurelianus took the cake here, but in terms of character-character interaction, Luned and Flint’s developing rapport flowed naturally and easily, and was instrumental in pulling the quest along while also exploring the personalities of both. That’s not to say Aur didn’t have his moments in this regard, though. The sadistic pleasure he took in causing pain even as he patched the other two up inside the warehouse really stood out.
Again, I was disappointed with Swanra’ann. She was always as much a source of danger, if not more, than the sewers, and her reputation and presence overhung much of the thread. However, when it got to meeting her... she didn’t really make much of an impact. It might have been better to not meet her at all, in fact, as the mere threat of her personal involvement towards the end was doing a good job of keeping things nice and tense. Also, the responses of her elite underlings (such as the wizard) weren’t too realistic, or inventive. I can imagine lowly street thugs with something to prove getting their panties in a twist because of Aur’s insults, but not necessarily the veterans.
Close to a 9, but Swanra’ann and her lackeys failed to impress. Given their importance, this worked against the story.

Action ~ 9/10
Very good. Everyone’s use of action was credible, at times inventive, fit their settings, and assisted the communication aspect. I saw Aur’s lithe agility, Flint’s brute strength and later, the weakness of his ailing body, and Luned’s physical frailty at conflict with her resolve. I also saw Ezura’s slight social awkwardness, Helethra’s childish demeanour, and Gravebeard’s crippling injuries. I recoiled from the press of bodies in the brothel, and despaired at the mindless trudging of workers to and fro in the tannery. I felt the blows land and the pain strike, the swiftness of the sewer channels, and putrid fur slough off under hand. It was all very evocative.
I don’t really know what else to say for this section. I think action was one of the biggest problems affecting clarity for you, although ‘big’ isn’t really the right word.

Persona ~ 8/10
There isn’t really much to add to this section, sorry. The things which detracted from your score here are all listed under ‘communication’. Otherwise, each character’s persona came out very well in regards to action and communication, as well as periods of introspection. This may be better off under ‘story’, but I found the involvement of Aur’s character to act as a really good counterpoint to the Flint and Luned’s relationship, perpetually and legitimately skirting the line between friend and foe.

Prose ~ 24/30

Mechanics ~ 8/10
Mostly, it was very good. Grammatical errors were few and far between, as were spelling issues. Unfortunately, they were still present - see post no. 13, and compare ‘exhale’ to ‘exhalation’, for example. You won’t need to reduce their number by much to progress to a 9 for this section. To really polish up a post, perhaps you can leave it and come back after a day or two with a clear head for another read-through. The errors I encountered weren’t really something that a spell-checker is likely to pick up on.
This seems to be an easy mistake to make, but I noticed, just once or twice, some sentences came off rather awkwardly due to redundancy. To be more precise, things like "Running fast, he ran through the door" - mixing participles of the same verb. Also, Dirks picked up on this, which I seem to have missed (or forgotten):

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Max Dirks

That said, mechanically there were quite a few run-on sentences and abrupt changes between active and passive voice in the first few posts.

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Clarity ~ 7/10
Good, with room for improvement. A couple of times per page, I was re-reading a sentence, or even previous paragraphs to a make sense of something. It wasn’t necessarily even anything major – like when Aur threw his coat to Luned during the final face-off with the giant roach. There’s no mention of her using it, but if she didn’t, wouldn’t that mean that Freki’s shield would have hit her as well?
The vast majority of it was understandable at the very least, and more often than not, everything was described succinctly and colourfully. Just be careful with some of your action, and be sure to address all the relevant points of the preceding post.

Technique ~ 9/10
I found Flint’s delirious flashbacks in post no. 19 to be a piece of technical brilliance. Although it did less to progress the plot than most other posts, it fit in better than many. The three of you have an accomplished technique. Nothing too adventurous, but I get the feeling you’ve each settled on something that combines versatility with reliability. That said (and perhaps you've already done this in the past), I believe it would have paid for the three of you to experiment with your writing style. With your strength in the other sections, you could have tried something a little different here (say, to write a post following your characters from an NPC's point of view) at the risk of losing a point or two.
A couple of noteworthy mentions, now: the way that Luned and Flint wrote really let the dynamic between the two characters shine, and Aur did a fine job of painting Ettermire through the tiefling’s eyes. For the most part, you didn’t just pick the right verb or noun (etc.), but a poignant synonym to maximise its effect. The centipede’s legs weren’t just ‘many’, or ‘numerous’, they were ‘illimitable’. I liked that. Keep it up. Aur, your Sigil vernacular adds a distinct flavour to this thread, as it does with others, but be careful of creating a caricature of either your own character or that of NPCs.

Wildcard ~ 8/10
Damn good story. A little hard to continue on at times, but I’ve tried to account for the forced reading. Ezura and her daughter, perhaps, could have stood to have a more prominent presence, as I was more concerned with Helethra’s part in the story than even Swanra’ann’s. Don’t get me wrong, though - I still think it to be remarkably well done. And what a beautiful ending!
I shudder to think what sorts of favours Aurelianus will call in for with those two, too...

Total ~ 82/100

Quote:

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Aurelianus Drak'shal gains 926 experience and 253 gold. Spoils: Ezura's corpse with ingested traces of Swaysong, for quest purposes. Additonally, a preserved elf foetus (race selectable), because that's how he rolls.

Luned gains 2580 experience and 469 gold. Spoils: receipts! Receipts galore! Also, lots of nightmares. Latter optional.

Warpath gains 2381 experience and 433 gold. Spoils: one vial of Swaysong for quest purposes (powers to go through RoG upon leveling), Aurelianus' golden glyph, Luned's instant-message paper thingum, and some bitchin' scars (also optional).

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EXP/GP added.