The influence of Alliria bled out like a slashed vein, oozing across the Allir Reach flatland that spanned from strait to open ocean. Crisscrossed by meandering waters and bordered by substantial rivers, the territory was primed for all manner of idiots and charlatans, deigning to claim a piece of land and call it their own. Fiefdoms, kingdoms, and duchy sprouted up and festooned the lands in hollow attempts to assert some sort of domain. It was pointless; the money all flowed across the bridge between the reach and the Savannah. Always through Alliria.
This was particularly the case for the ducal lands of Sol Terra. Fancy men with fancy clothes, women with large hair, and grape farms that spread out across the endless acres of sun drenched territory. Nestled in the heart of the Allir Reach, it would have made the trip almost worth it to see the sun set across the battlements towering far above the cobbled streets of the sprawling town.
But that wasn’t where Chrys had found herself. No, quite the contrary. Blocks of granite towered upwards nearly ten feet and formed canals that spanned in every direction. Cells were forced in nooks of the walls, contained by wrought iron bars that twisted along the length of the shaft. Lighting was poor and likely intentional, formed by metal clasped torches that extended from the walls like waving hands that had been frozen in time. She thought on the men who saw it, dragged in fetters with bloodied feet, and found a form of amusement in the notion of iron being the last thing they would ever know.
“Fuck.”
“Lady Carmine. I...uhh...I must inform you.” The dungeon keeper smiled meekly, hands wringing back and forth. He wore a butchers apron that was surprisingly supple and well kept. But he hunched like an old man, which was undoubtedly the result of an absence of spine. It was all ribs and skin holding this one together. “Should...he die...there will be no payment.”
“He’s already dead.” Chrys admitted, popping her knuckles in frustration. Burnt sulfur muted as she narrowed her gaze, inspecting the row of seven crystals. They were roughly cut and held in wooden stands fashioned from old bowls. Two of the seven crystals were glowing orange and the other five were as dead as the man that sat before them, strapped to the iron chair. His discomfort, prior to her arrival, had been immense. That was clear from the marks across his back that indicated the utilization of a Judas Chair.
“Ahh…” He replied, running his fingers through the greasy mustache that concealed his top lip. “Then I must inform the Duke of this most unfortunate happenstance.”
“Clementine…”
“It’s Clement, Madame.”
She held up a hand dismissively. “I don’t care. If I wanted shit, I would have sifted through the privy. Now.” She turned, clamping her hands together and holding them just at waist height. “I assume you keep a rookery?”
The man paused for a moment, overwhelmed by the act of independent thought. After some time, he joyously returned from his mental impotence and nodded.
“Good. Please take this.” She pulled out a miniature scroll and handed it to the man. “Have them attach it to a raven and send it, no destination. Please and thank you.”
“No destination?” He uttered, turning the scroll over and over.
“Thank you.” She waved dismissively as she turned, inspecting the crystals. What the man would likely not notice as he departed was that the scroll was enchanted. The raven would be guided to the nearest Necromancer, gifted with a particularly dark talent. Chrys had no time or patience to deal with this dead man and his weak constitution.
She only hoped that whomever the raven found, they were suitable to the revival of a man with only five sevenths of his soul tossing about in the ether.
