We know you are lost.
We're up here in this mind of your's, just as present as you.
You walk among them and yet you know you are nothing like them.
Your heart beats to a different tune, does it not?
You are surrounded by corruption of the world as well as corruption of the heart.
How many of your peers would bleed the way you have for another?
Everything you fight to protect seems corrupt, doesn't it?
You must keep fighting.
May your faith never waiver.
You will know peace before you join your forefathers.
In the end though, what was peace?
It was the eye of the storm. A moment to breathe before the plunge that was chaos and bedlam took them all. It always started small. People died everyday, didn't they? Man, elf, dwarf, orc. Even the undead would fall again when they were faced with the light of the Celestials. Quintus learned to accept it as a simple truth a very long time ago. Riding with mercenary companies in his younger years had taught him how cheap blood was. It was so sacred and yet it was easily discarded by the people who's veins it ran through. It was all in the name of power or claiming something that wasn't their's. Gold. Land. A beautiful woman. Blood paid for everything if you had enough of it. It was his great ancestor's blood that was spilled on the field of battle in the right place at the right time that afforded Quintus all of the things he had in the world now. All of the privileges and all of the responsibilities, had been gotten for him before he was ever thought of. Blessings and curses.
The Voices of the Helm had woken him before the sun could just a few mornings past. The power of the Celestials had led him to one of their grand temples in the Inner City, one belonging to Tychan to be exact. The Allirian Guard had barred most people from entering. There was little they'd do to stand in the way of one of the men who saw fit to hire them to do their job in the first place. The two men in chainmail on the outside allowed the Merchant Councilor to pass without much of a fuss as they did in all of the days following. Everytime he saw the scene, it brought his heart low. Priests of Tychan had been murdered. Many believed that it was ritualistic, the style of the murders. The scene had been enough to chill even the most hardened men to the bone. Quintus never forgot their dead eyes. He imagined that they'd tried to plead with their assailants before their lives were taken and the grisly scene was made. Gods only knew that these people suffered...
He stood in the center of the temple that was turned upside down. He noted what appeared to be claw marks about. Blood that had congealed on the floors and on the seats and at the altar... Why hadn't the gods led him there sooner? What lesson was to be learned from madness like this? Quintus with his black silky hair stood there dressed in all black almost as though he were mourning. His hair was loose and fell down his back. He examined the scene a little closer each time and yet he knew he'd need a new set of eyes. The Voices of the Helm gave him a great knowledge of many things. Spells, incantations, and blessings... They even guided his sword when he wore the Star Made Armor. Right now while he was so far away from it, they only reminded him of his duty...
The guards had been instructed to allow him to pass. When the heavy door to the temple opened, Quintus looked over his shoulder and gave Faramund a weak smile before he looked back at the blood stained statue of Tychan standing over the two of them. A lonely scene to be sure.
"I never asked before, but... Do you keep to any gods, Faramund? I don't think I've ever seen you pray."
The crowd was nervous. It was whilst he was pushing through them, his body cloaked, his head held low, that Faramund began to understand why. "Murder?!" An old lady asked her neighbour, seemingly terrified by the concept. "Monsters?!" Another said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for one so big. All around Faramund, the same words were being repeated. Over and over and over again until it was all the knight of Dawn could hear.
Parting from the crowd, Faramund drew back his hood. The cordon of guards uncrossed their halberds without a moment's thought. Like the crowd, these men of plate and mail looked equally shocked by what had happened. But what had happened? And why had his old friend Quintus sent for him personally?
Guess we're about to find out, Faramund thought as he heaved his way into the temple's heart. The heavy doors made little sound as they ghosted aside. The knight paused in the doorway, held back a curse.
What had once been a pristine room of whitewashed stone was now soaked in blood. Red stained the walls, the floors, and in some places, the ceiling. The air reeked of blood and sweat, vomit and faeces. Not the usual incense Faramund had grown accustomed to during his visitations, but one he was familiar with all the same.
Closing the doors behind him, the knight made his way to Quintus's side, his mind racing.
When the Star-Touched asked his question, Faramund could do naught but shake his head. "Not anymore," he replied grimly, his eyes downturned. "Why, pray tell, would I... when the world we live in is full of so much of-... of... this?!" Gesturing to the carnage laid bare before them, Fara closed his eyes in mute anguish.
There was only so much death a man could take before it all got too much, Fara knew. Death was something he understood, after all.
Frankly, he was beginning to grow tired of it.
"So, what do we know?" Fara asked after a time, kicking himself for his previous outburst. "How did these men die? Were there any witnesses?" Turning to his friend, it didn't require much looking for the Dawnling to start kicking himself again. "Apologies. I can see you're hurting right now." Reaching out, the knight laid a gauntleted hand on Quintus's shoulder, a somewhat tentative smile forming upon his craggy features.
"Never could hide shit from me, could you, Vex? Always been too honest for your own good."
Quintus was more than certain he knew Faramund's answer before it even came.
With each passing day, it seemed more and more souls drifted away from the gods. Quintus understood why. When one was exposed to all of the twisted evils the world had to offer, what reprieve could they get from deities that seemed so far away. There was little light in the world, he knew... he knew. He never liked to think about how he'd contributed in his own way to all of the darkness. It wasn't lost on him that every man or woman he'd ever killed in life did what they did so that they could feed themselves and their families. There was no doubt in his mind that the position he held in the world was off the backs of a great many below him. Many that were scratching and clawing to get even a scrap of the luxuries he had afforded to him from simply his blood alone. Ask another Merchant Lord what their place in the world was and they might have told you rulership or the glory of their House.
Voices from the void between the stars did not speak to them every night about their deeper meaning. None of them had ever worn the Helm and seen things that couldn't be described with a mortal tongue. Beneath that great metal that forged the legacy of his blood, he understood that his blood and his place in this material world meant nothing. There was a greater good to fight for and there were enemies unseen that needed their attention. Quintus did what he could from afar at times, his wealth and influence finding him a great deal of favor with many knightly orders and religions that serve as the pillars of righteousness in most regions of the world. There were other times where he needed to get involved himself.
And when he did the gods that he questioned, even after hearing their voice and seeing their wonders suddenly found new ways to remind him that he must remain upright in the face of horror. Whenever his faith was stifled, they found a way to reignite it.
It was as torturous as it was invigorating. Sometimes a flame needed to go out...
"...I wish that were not the case old friend, but yes. This struck a bit of a nerve for reasons I can't quite place," he hung his head down a bit as though he were almost ashamed of the feelings. His father was likely rolling over in his grave. The Merchant Lord of House Vexion should know to carry himself upright even in the face of sadness or defeat. Their House was the House of the Meteor. The wielders of Astra's Wrath. Certainly he had to find strength to press onward, to do what must be done.
"The priests of Tychan they found dead here looked to be killed by some kind of beast if the markings on the walls are any sort of indication. They were disemboweled and great portions of their entrails were missing. There were no witnesses to survive the encounter... The herbs and oils that were left burning were indicative of some sort of private ritual or offering to Tychan. That's all the information I was given from the Allirian Guard, but..."
He glanced out of the side of his eyes at Faramund.
"There are few people that I trust to discern what might have been responsible for what happened here. The Spirits of the Helm drew me here for some reason. There was something that was meant to be uncovered here, I know it. You're the only man I trust to tell me what might have done this and how I might trace them... Do the claw markings mean anything to you? What manner of creature could make their way into this temple and do away with every priest present without anyone on the outside knowing?"
The answers might have been made available to him through the use of the Star Touched Helm's magic, but he wanted to stay away from such a thing for as long as possible. The last time he'd used it, he was certain his mind would never be quite right again. The Voices became louder and the language they spoke set his mind ablaze. There was only vengeance there and burning justice. Everything was an incantation. How to spawn searing light. How to bring the stars to this world. How to speak to the Celestials as one might speak to Faramund right here next to him. How to fix a sickness.
"What creature, indeed." Stepping into the pool of light surrounding the bloody-faced statue of Tychan, the knight of Dawn began his investigation. He started with the claw marks, the bloody streaks decorating the walls, and defacing the symbols of a God Faramund no longer worshipped. He studied them closely, seeking a pattern. If they were to make sense of this chaos, they would need to find it, he knew.
Before history repeated itself.
"The guard who reported all this to you... do you know him well?" Faramund asked, sidestepping a pool of congealing blood as the claw marks leapt from wall to balustrade to floor and back again. Pausing at what had once been a small shrine to Tychan, Faramund noted how the claw marks seemed to disappear entirely. This is where it all started, the knight of Dawn decided, letting his gaze fall to the empty offering bowl sat atop the marble shrine.
Blood, deep and rich as wine, filled it. There were a few splashes here and there where the blood had overflowed. The Dawnling envisioned a head staring up at him, it's eyes empty and afraid. The thought made Faramund grimace subconsciously. "Do you know what a lycanthrope is, Quintus?" He asked, his voice as casual and careless as he could make it. "If so, I think I know how they got in without raising the alarm."
Turning, Faramund strode back to the centre of the room.
"The claw marks you see, they're not the doing of one beast, but several." He told his friend, before stopping to stare up at the statue of Tychan. Fara let his brow furrow in thought as ideas swirled and scarpered across his mind's eye. You're the only witness to all this, the knight thought, his eyes meeting the stony gaze of a God. What secrets do you possess, O' Great One? Why did you allow your followers to be slaughtered so?
Waiting for a response he knew would never come, Faramund continued.
"One thing that confuses me, however, are the missing intestines. Werewolves-... hell, shapechangers in general are ofttimes mindless in their beast forms. To take them makes no sense. Of course, there's always the possibility they ate them, but... no, I think not." Pausing, Faramund turned to his old friend, his sword thumping gently against his side. "I cannot speak as to the 'why', friend Quintus, but I can say that it was likely a pack that perpetrated this here crime. And, if you can forgive my speculation, I have reasons to believe a coven might be involved, also."
Quintus should have supposed a coven would be involved in something like this. The thing was, magic was quite a common sight within Alliria, met with the same amazement and wonder as it might have been anywhere else. It stopped wowing him a long time ago at least in all the good ways one might imagine. He'd come to associate magic with pain early on in his adult years. Riding with mercenaries who won most fights by the sharpness of their steel and the grit in their hearts meant that when an opponent came along who could twist reality to their will, there was a real cause to shit oneself... Since then, the magic that he had learned to use came into play in few and far moments in between. Whenever he was prepared to surrender his sword hand and when he was ready to have his mind ignited by the voices of distant stars. Distant and yet ever present through him in ways that he wished he could forget a lot of the time... There were just some who carried it better, didn't they?
Like the ones who were responsible for this.
Quintus grew quiet for a moment. Silently and wordlessly, he moved to one of the pillars with the most egregious scratch marks in the marble. Yes, lycanthropes made sense. He'd encountered a few werewolves in his day and they were all terrors. Hardly something the average man often found himself prepared to face down on the daily basis. The ones who set out to face horrors like this were rare. Faramund was most certainly one of those special hunters. He and his whole Order were a credit to knights everywhere even though he knew only the basis of their mission.
"The involvement of magic might very well make tracking the culprits a bit more difficult than I might have previously believed," Quintus mused to himself as he ran his finger tips along the edges of the claw marks. There was something about it the display that he almost respected. One of his forefathers might have looked at the marks in substances harder than flesh and got the idea that there was power hidden there. Even in something mindless that could be guided by the likes of some witch or something perhaps more foul...
"As they're mindless creatures, I imagine the lycanthropes themselves would be a rather simple quarry to track wouldn't you imagine? Perhaps there are certain behaviors that we should take care to look after... If we can find them, we may very well get the answers about who exactly led them in to this place."
And you are one step closer to looking your destiny in the eyes again, Quintus. You remember how glorious it felt to be so free while doing the work of the true gods. Do not shy away. Blood and glory awaits.
They did, he knew.
Whenever he donned the armor and the sword, there was a new story written in some history book that he was certain he wouldn't be around to read. He barely remembered the names of all the men he'd killed as the Star Touched Knight in it's truest form. Perhaps there were too many to count. The spirits that guided his hand cared little for who joined them in the aether. The time to pick them up again would come soon, but only once the true enemy was revealed. There was something else in him that longed for a challenge. A hunt would be in order before his purpose could be met again.
"There was no guard that reported this to me. The spirits from my family's helm have a tendency to point me in the right directions... But the man who first gave the report, Lieutenant Barnell Attix, is one I trust. He's worked closely beside my family for a great many years. Not prone to flights of fancy. A cut and dry sort of man... Perhaps we should go meet him."
"Almost certainly."Faramund agreed with a nod. "Magic can be both boon and bane, as you are well aware. Still, I harbour hopes that we will find the quarry we seek. And soon." Though he didn't say it, the knight of dawn couldn't shake the sense that this was just the beginning. Of what, exactly, he wasn't sure. So many questions, so few answers, he thought, his face set in a frown as Quintus studied the claw marks he himself had just examined.
A warrior through and through, the Star-Touched sure liked the sight of blood. Or so it seemed in that moment.
"Ah... 'the spirits.'" Faramund struggled to keep the disdain from his voice. "And what did they speak of this time? Your destiny, perhaps? Or was it duty? Do they speak to you still?" Closing his eyes, Faramund rubbed at his temples. He had been trained in the proper handling of magical artefacts; he knew of the threats they posed. Much like magic itself, such items could be both a blessing and a curse.
On occasion, he wondered which of those Quintus was - blessed or cursed?
"While I might abhor your fixation on talking buckets, I agree - we should go and see this Lieutenant Attix, maybe even ask for his assistance." Turning, Faramund cast his haggard gaze towards the great iron-studded doors of a temple sundered. A bloody handprint stained the reinforced wood there. No doubt one of Tychan's priests had sought to escape that way. Maybe...
"How many people were thought to be in here around the time of the attack? How many bodies were recovered?" Faramund asked his questions, humouring a thought that would likely lead him nowhere. "And who, besides you and I, has been in here since?" Glancing over his should at Quintus, Faramund inclined his head towards the door. And the bloody handprint. A clue, perhaps? Or a misdirection...
Quintus thought to respond to Faramund's jab, opening his mouth to respond but something stopped him. Instead, he allowed a small and yet hollow laugh to escape through his nose. Faramund was far from the only one who looked down on the Spirits of the Helm. In fact, it was very much reminiscent of the way the world seemed to be turning from the gods lately. Looking upon the bloodstained statue of Tychan yet again, he wondered if something like this would have happened in the time of one of his great ancestors. Was fear of the gods and all of their works in this world fading away? How much of the gods themselves were fading with it? Just because they were alive for him, it said nothing about the rest of the world that seemed to be suffocating in a dark miasma. They were all fighting to climb out, lighting the way where they could with little sparks of hope... But it seemed that was all anyone could seem to muster these days. Even he who saw the light of the stars and spoke with them as beast did men. He understood them, but they cared little for what he had to say back.
Duty called to him as a master called for it's dog. The dog answered because that was all it knew.
You knew the moment you were found worthy of the Celestials' grace that you would be alone, didn't you?
You saw your fate etched in the stars.
You saw all that would come to pass for yourself and yet you still persist.
You are beginning to understand the fate of great men. You will not be remembered as you wish to be.
Your memory will be subject to whims of those you protect.
But you will live on, Councilor Vexion.
You saw it written in the stars.
His gaze was drawn to the door after Faramund brought it to his attention. Quintus recalled what the guards had told him upon his arrival to the Temple. Tychan's Second and five acolytes were slain in the massacre there. The High Priest hadn't been at the temple at the time of the attack. Quintus had seem him outside of the temple since then. His tears appeared real and thus he had no reason to suspect his involvement, but what were priests of any clergy outside of being good actors?
"Six priests were present. Six bodies were found. The only one missing was the High Priest," Quintus responded. "Could be worth checking in on him as well, yes? Though I am not sure where he resides since the attack that took place here. Perhaps Lt. Attix has kept better tabs on him than I."
__________________
"Apologies for my lateness, Councilor Vexion. You as well, Syr Faramund. The Allirian Guard has great respect for your order. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Lieutenant Attix was a well built man who spoke quickly and moved quickly in that heavy steel plate of his. His face was brutal and his eyes told the story of someone who'd seen more in his lifetime than most men his age could possibly imagine. His face was brutal and yet somehow gentle at the same time, bearing all manner of scars. The smile he wore was inviting though despite his hard eyes and curt demeanor. He offered his hand for both men to shake before he was seated at his desk. His office within the Inner City was built within the barracks that housed a great many of the men under him. The Lieutenant moved to sit behind his large oak desk and after shaking his hand, Quintus moved to sit down in front of it, knowing that Faramund would soon follow.
"It is no trouble at all, Lieutenant. I trust Sir Roland sent word of why we're here. At the very least, I asked him to do so."
"Aye. Good lad that Sir Roland. He'll make a fine knight when it's all said and done... I, uh... Well I won't beat around the bush with you Councilor. Yes, Sir Roland informed me of why you'd be here. There's been a few situations in the Slums that might interest you."
"I see."Faramund replied, dabbing at the dried blood staining the temple doors with one crooked finger. "Perhaps... only time will tell if he knows the High Priest's whereabouts. Regardless, the Lieutenant is our next port of call. I would rather not dally." Grabbing hold of the iron rings set into the doors, Fara pulled them open a crack. Using his armoured bulk to block the view of those he saw waiting outside, the knight of dawn cast a glance over his shoulder, at a man he very much considered to be his friend. "Shall we?"
---
"Likewise, Lieutenant. My knight-brothers, Solon and Methuselah, have had dealings with the Guard before. Both spoke highly of your people. I have no cause to doubt their words." Returning the guardsman's vice-like handshake, Faramund waited a moment for Quintus to take a seat before dropping into the one next to him. Though their journey from the temple had been a relatively short one, Faramund was keen to see the investigation underway. He suspected Quintus was much the same. Alas, being a politician, the man liked to take his time with matters of import.
Time just so happened to be one of the many things not on their side right now.
"Do tell, lieutenant." Faramund replied, taking the reins for a moment as his curiosity piqued. "This business in the slums... you believe it to be tied to the massacre at the temple, yes? How so?"
You already know what the good Lr. Attix will say. You dread it, don't you? You dread having to hear the voices of a thousand choirs. You hate your sword arm being led by anyone but yourself. But can't you see, Councilor Vexion? You do all that you do for the realm. You do all that you can to uphold the world's order.
Isn't that worth fighting for?
Isn't that worth dying for?
"Well, Syr Faramund, given the bloody mess that I saw in that temple..."
Lieutenant Attix looked genuinely troubled when he stopped to think of exactly what it was he saw in the great temple of Tychan. Quintus raised an eyebrow. For a man that was as decorated and strong willed as Lt. Attix to get bothered over what he saw there meant something. Alliria's underbelly was unkind to even the hardest of men and from what Councilor Vexion knew of the Lieutenant, he was just that. Hard as they come with a sword arm that was growing to become legendary within the illustrious history of the Allirian Guard. Quintus examined him further as the man reached under his desk to pull out some brandy and a three glasses. He poured a drink for himself and left the container on the table for the other two men there to help themselves. Quintus, who barely partook in such things merely sat still and waited for what more was to come from Attix.
"You'll forgive me, gents. You see, I've seen a lot since I've started here with the Allirian Guard. I was a boy when I first took up the grey," he began before taking a sip of the concoction he'd prepared for himself. "And I've seen some grisly scenes, but never this much and never this violent so often... With respect, Councilor, there's much you and your's don't see up here near the Keep. No, there's much going on in the slums. Death and poverty is normal, but there's been talk of strange folk mucking about down there. Making deals and then dead bodies start popping up... All of them with missing organs. Same ones that were missing from the priests of that temple if my memory serves me correctly. I'll have to check the reports of our Mage Guards."
Quintus glanced over at Faramund and nodded slightly. They had themselves a lead, but that alone would do little to help them. Faramund would most likely not want to hear it, but Quintus thought of place "the talking bucket" on his head again so that he might find more answers. The gods were likely to give him an incantation that might aid them in finding their lycanthropes. Unless...
"These murders in the slums," Quintus began as he leaned forward in his seat and caught Lt. Attix's gaze. "Are they following any patterns in particular that the guard has managed to trace? Is it reasonable to know where they next killing may happen?"
"Afraid not, Councilor. Most of the people who've died thus far are nobodies. People with no home that none will miss if they die. It's why the desecration of the temple was such a shock to me. That was the first time they'd bothered to get so ambitious."
"Everyone is a someone, lieutenant,"Faramund said, a thoughtful glimmer behind his eyes betraying the war within. "Even the destitute and the damned have friends... people they talk to, laugh with, confide in. The question is how do we go about finding them?" Turning to Quintus, the big knight gave the councillor a quick smirk. Faramund could see in his friend's gaze the path he intended to walk. The dawnling wasn't sure he would have chosen the same had their roles been reversed, but needs must.
Shifting his attention back to the lieutenant, Faramund's features took on a sympathetic cast as he regarded the veteran Guardsman. "You seem a good sort, Attix, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but..." The knight broke off, unsure how to sugar-coat this; unsure whether he should. "I fear this is just the beginning. Whatever's happening in this city, it started in the slums. If it could spread to the temple... well, who knows how far this nastiness might reach."
Pausing, pondering, Faramund's expression grew grim. He scented blood on the wind, saw butchery in his near future. This could only end one of two ways: with his death or the coven's.
"Might it be worthwhile to check out the sites of these murders? I know, I know. Chances of us finding anything are slim, what with everything going on down there, but it's a lead, and right now we can't afford to be picky." Thinking hard, Faramund shot a glance at Quintus. He was the power in this room, followed closely by the lieutenant. Down in the slums, however... "The Allirian underworld kicking up any stink over this? I imagine they don't appreciate our killers dropping bodies on their doorstep. Not without their say-so, anyhow."
"As you say, Syr Faramund, aye. Everyone is someone," Lt. Attix spoke with a nod. Certainly, he understood that everybody was a somebody. Quintus knew that most of the Allirian Guard came from nothing. Many of the men that patrolled the streets and kept the rabble in line had been rabble at some point as well. Children that grew up with nothing and were simply trying to make their way in the room. At the very least, that was the case for Lt. Attix. The Merchant Councillor was always mildly amused to hear men like him speak when they reached and ran in some of the same circles as some of the upper echelon in this city. The Lieutenant was one of the last good men in the city. Quintus would make sure he was rewarded for that before long. No one else was likely to.
"Some of them are kicking up a bit of a stink, aye. The heads of some of the local thieves guilds have sent some of their lower level grunts to push around and ask questions in the slums. I have some good men down there right now keeping the peace as best they can. The last thing we need with killers on the loose is warfare in the slums... There's one man I think you lot could benefit from speaking to, though."
"Anything will help Lieutenant," Quintus spoke up. Anything that might keep all of the voices out of his head for at least a few days. Anything so that he wouldn't have to see the imprint of the men he unleashed his power upon as stains in his mind.
"The head of one of the gangs down there lost a courier in one of the killings. We managed to quell the initial violence that stemmed from it, but there's still some tension there. Rumor has it he's getting closer to finding the real culprit behind all the murders, but you know how these criminal sorts are. Tall tales carry far with them."
"His name?"
"The members of his guild call him Cutter. An old cut throat and enforcer that lived long enough to be proclaimed the head of his own criminal organization. He's known to keep to himself and speaks through representatives. He's well guarded and well hidden."
"We can get him to come out," Quintus spoke confidently and looked to Faramund. "Put us in contact with your men in the slums and send the word out that Merchant Councilor Vexion as well as his good friend from the Knights of Anathaeum wish to speak with him. If that doesn't pique his interest, I'm not sure what will. We'll need the extra swords in case things go south."
Nodding, Faramund went over the plan in his head. No doubt the Councillor was right in assuming his name would carry sufficient weight to draw this Cutter out from hiding, if only for a short while. And the extra swords would indeed come in handy should things take a turn for the worse, though, Faramund saw no reason for hostility between the two parties. Not today, at least.
"You've been of great help to us, lieutenant," the knight said, pushing himself to his feet and extending a hand towards the Guardsman. "If ever the day should come where you require aid, do not hesitate to ask. The Order does not forget its friends... nor the good men who serve under them." Turning to Quintus, Faramund raised an eyebrow. "Now, if my friend here would be so kind as to get up off his haunches, we shall leave you to your business. Of which there is plenty, I do not doubt." Smiling, Faramund made his way over to the office's heavy, iron-reinforced door. He placed a hand on the latch. Paused.
"It was nice meeting you, lieutenant. Hopefully when next we see each other, the circumstances won't be quite so severe." Though they probably will be, Faramund thought, sighing inwardly. "Councillor?"
-----
Alliria was and always had been something of a tale of two worlds. Striding down the street alongside Councilman Vexion, with guardsmen on every side keeping the plebs at bay, the dawnling could not have said when they passed from one world into the next. It was a subtle change, at first, hardly noticeable in the grand scheme of things. Had Faramund not seen the signs a dozen times before, he would not have known what he was looking at until it was sitting right on top of him.
Taking a deep breath, Faramund exhaled the stench of the city from his lungs in one long, seemingly-satisfied sigh.
"Ah, the Areck Slums," he said, turning to Quintus with a grin on his face. "This is one shithole I hoped never to return to, my friend. Alas, duty calls." Pushing through the throngs of people hemming them in, the guardsmen Lieutenant Attix had assigned to watch over the councillor and his knightly companion grew increasingly alert as the city around them morphed into a world where uncertainty was guaranteed and moral corruption was the societal norm. Looking around, a hand on his sword and another on his coin purse, Faramund took in Alliria's pox-ridden underbelly with a grimace. Not too long ago, he would have found himself right at home in a place like this.
Now, all he felt was sickened.
"I wonder what Cutter will expect of us in return for information," Faramund whispered in a quiet aside to his friend, his eyes on their bodyguard and the desultory faces beyond them. "Be mindful, Quintus, that the cost does not exceed what you are willing to pay."
And what price are you willing to pay, Lord Vexion?
Look upon these people and despair.
You've been blessed by things you hear and follow and yet you know not what you've been given.
Look upon their faces and know the truth of your reality.
Fortune, power, and responsibility favor the strong.
And the strong must protect the weak.
Look upon their faces, Star-Touched.
Know thy burden well.
And so the sound of chainmail clinking and shining under the steady beat of the sun created the drum of the music of the Allirian Slums. Quintus knew some of these men, the ones that Lieutenant Attix had supplied him. Men and women who took up the Grey Cloak did so with the intention of elevating themselves from the common rabble of Alliria. They received a steady salary and the right to tell their neighbors what to do. Those of them that were true fighters always distinguished themselves. There was always a Merchant Councilor that needed his interests protected and more often than not, there was someone in the Allirian Guard who was ambitious and talented enough to make a name for themselves when the need arose. If a Merchant Councilor knew your name and there was a reputation behind the sword arm attached to it, the right guard could become set for the rest of their lives in the City of Splendors. Or their reputations betrayed them and they get assigned to protect foolish and brave Merchant Councilors into hell.
"Duty takes us to the most damned places," Quintus remarked passively as one of his hands clad in brown leather reached down to grip the pommel of the ornate sword that hung at his side.
"Lieutenant Attix told us this man was a hired killer before he was the head of this thieves guild. Call it a foolish hope, but I would like to think I would understand a man like that. Despite my upbringing, I was raised around killers until I became one myself... I would like to think he is as simple a man as any of us. Time will tell."
There was nothing quite like the understanding that came between people who knew bloodshed well. Quintus had met them all. Knights, lords, mercenaries, cutthroats, enforcers, sellswords, and murderers were all the same in some way. They all found the truth of themselves in the act. They were all reviled by someone and yet the world could not spin without their bloody influence. It was damning and yet it filled him with a sense of pride. He knew who he was quite intimately.
To know thyself is to know the world.
Their party travelled deeper into the slums until they approached a long and narrow alleyway. At it's end was a dilapidated warehouse close to the docks of the city. Any fool could see that there were sentries along the way. They were the shady characters passing among the city's poor who kept their eyes on the Councilor, the Knight, and their blades. They were the beggars that sent messages from one another until word would reach desired ears. Cutter and perhaps some of his rivals would know that the Merchant Councilor had come to visit.
"Alright. Sergeant Relby and Private Icarus, I would have the two of you stand guard at the door," Quintus gestured to two of the men he'd recognize. Sergeant Relby had accompanied Quintus on a bandit raid or two and was quite skilled with a pike and shield. Rumor had it that young Icarus had a bright future and a keen sword arm. Perhaps sharper than his blade was his mind. They needed someone competent in that way out front.
"No one is to get in or out until we are done here. The rest of you stick close to myself and Syr Faramund. And stay sharp. We don't know the true intentions of this Cutter."
No, we don't, Faramund agreed, standing tall by Quintus's side as the man issued orders to the waiting guardsmen. "I'd advise leaving two men on the inside as well, Councillor," the dawnling added, studying the warehouse where they were to meet Cutter with eyes well-used to the task. "If anything is to go awry, we'll want to beat a hasty retreat out of there." He paused, fully aware of the danger they were putting themselves in by being here. "Two men to scare off unwanted guests," he continued, recalling Quintus's words about duty, "and two more to make sure the way out remains open to us, should talking not be the only thing on Cutter's mind."
Faramund doubted it would come to blades, but the world had a funny habit of surprising him in the worst of ways. Fortunately, with the amount of enemies Cutter was sure to have already, chances were he'd do all that was in his power to avoid making more. Especially where the Councillor was concerned.
"Now, unless you wish to deliberate further, I suppose it's time we went and shook hands with the Devil." Looking to the lead Guardsman, Faramund gave the woman in question a subtle nod. The scar-faced warrior returned it, before turning to address her subordinates as they gathered in the alleyway. "Right, you horrible lot! Get your game faces on!" She barked, using her shield to bully the slackers into position. "And remember: no menaces. Keep your hands off your blades 'less they go for theirs. And do not by any means risk endangering the good Councillor or his companion while we're here."No more than we already are, anyway, her scowl seemed to say.
Faramund looked on, pleased by the guardswoman's enthusiasm. "Right," he said, strolling down the alleyway as if he owned it, "let's be about it, shall we?"
-----
"Hold it!" Coming to a stop just outside the entrance, Fara waited as a trio of dirty, dishevelled men detached themselves from the shadows surrounding the warehouse and the buildings adjacent. The leader of the three, a burly thug with gang tatts staining his left arm from knuckle to knobbly elbow, stepped forwards until he was almost chest to chest with Faramund. "Who are you? What business brings you here?" He demanded, his breath smelling of rot, and onions.
Fara frowned as he struggled to keep his thoughts to himself.
Eyes the colour of jade, but a face only a mother could love.
"Speak!"
"You know who we are," Faramund replied, the polite manner in which he spoke at odds with the rest of him. "As to our business, well, if you had any sense, you'd keep your nose well out of it." Smiling, the dawnling held up a placating hand as the thug attempted to speak up. "I know, I know... no-one talks to you like that, whoever the fuck you are. Fortunately, me and my friends here have come to see your boss. A man by the name of Cutter, I believe?" Letting the question hang, Faramund smiled inwardly as the two thugs backing Inky glanced at each other.
So, it seemed the enigmatic gangster had a way of inspiring fear even in his own people. That was good to know.
"Maybe you'd care to explain to him what took us so long?" Fara fought down a laugh as Inky grimaced, a hard 'no'. "Or you could just let us in. Your call."
Your heart beats slowly, good master of Astra's Wrath.
You have been in places like these before.
You used to dine with men like this Cutter.
You broke bread with them.
Does this den remind you of a life long past?
Do you desire to escape into it again?
Away from the responsibilities placed on you by the gods?
Stay strong, Councilor.
The blood of innocents depend on it.
The great helm was so far away from him and yet he could still hear the many spirits speaking to him. What little light there was in the slums had quickly turned to darkness as they slid into Cutter's lair. Faramund worked a great deal of magic on his own even though he did not believe in such thing. The Councilor allowed it. It gave him time to prepare himself for what was to come. As they entered, his brown eyes flecked with gold met the jade ones of the sentry at the door. They knew who was who in their party. Certainly if the Councilor had come to this part of the slums on his own, they might have seen him as food for the starving. A life ago, he might have blended in with a crowd just like this one. In a time where he cast the colors and trappings of his House in order to blend in with a rougher element. He missed the simplicity of it. The time before the time that mattered most. All of it was behind him.
Two of the guards that accompanied him stood outside of the door and as Faramund suggested, two more stood by the door on the inside. The den smelled of sweet perfume, opium, sweat, and sweet leaf. Women of all shades and persuasions reached out to touch the shoulders and faces of the armored men and women that pressed deeper into a hellscape of temptation and danger. Quintus looked none of them in the eyes even as they enticed them with a good time. Brown-gold eyes noticed what awaited them in some of the rooms. Pretty faces would lead to much harsher ones. Knives in the dark awaited any man that followed the wants of his cock. Ahead of them at the bar, there appeared to be a lone patron. His head was bald and his face was scarred. The untrained eye might have missed some of the men standing not too far away from him.
Cutter, The White King of the Slums
"Well, what 'ave we 'ere? Wait just a moment. Don' move as fast as I used to," Cutter said as he rose from his stool and bowed before the Councilor's party. "Let me bow before our esteemed Councilor and his retinue of twats! Hehehehehehe... 'specially you! Don't think I don' know you came from ou' East. Knew it the minute you came into the ci'y. You cunts an' ya fookin' orders and vows. Come on to the back. Leave the girl guard unless she wants to get fucked. We don' do the hard types 'ere."
With one final look to his buddies, the head thug waved Quintus and his entourage through. Pleased with himself and his ability to manipulate simple street toughs into giving him what he wanted, Faramund followed after them. Into the Devil's den we go, he thought with a smile on his face, nodding to the stern-looking guardsmen who took up position just inside the doorway. One of them nodded back.
"Watch yourselves in there," she said, palming the hilt of her sword nervously as her eyes darted to the shadowed alcoves lining the Councillor's path. Though Faramund believed most guardsmen to be brave souls, they were only human. They worried and fretted and fought with their inner demons just as everyone else did. Hells, Fara had a fair few of his own, but that never stopped him from doing what needed done.
Patting the guardswoman on the shoulder, the knight of dawn pushed on in relative silence. Sergeant Relby walked in front of him. The scar-faced warrior paid little heed to the wolf-whistles and cat calling going on around her. She felt the sting of their words, recognised the tones in which they hurled them. As sweet and warm as honey, they were. Faramund saw it for what is was: a lie. An illusion. He could smell the degeneracy in the air- taste it, even.
How far he had come, not to want to give in to his baser instincts and just let loose. There was nothing sweeter in life than a warm woman, wine, and the narcotic high that sometimes separated the two. Or so he had thought, once upon a time.
In a previous life, perhaps, he thought, winking to the scantily-clad whores hawking their wares from the curtained doorways. Following after his companions, he slid around to Quintus' right as the group made their way to the bar. A lone figure sat there, propped up on a stool that had clearly seen better days. Much like the man sitting on it, Faramund mused, eyeing the figure warily.
Thugs and gangers, much like those they had chanced upon outside, surrounded the dingy bar at which the man sat. Half-hidden by shadow, they watched as the guardsmen fanned out in order to protect both Quintus and the corridors leading deeper into the brothel.
As if sensing the tension, the shrivelled old man got up from his wobbly barstool, and turned to address the newcomers. It was then, funnily enough, that Faramund figured out just who the old fart was. Cutter! Bastard Cutter, the White King of the Slums! Crooked Cutter, who controls half the city's underworld, and half the city's councillors. Caught in his thoughts, the knight of dawn listened as the gang boss took the time to show off by revealing what he knew.
Know of us, do you? We Knights of Anathaeum? Amusement flashing across his eyes, Faramund turned to look at Relby before he said something he might regret. The sergeant had a hard look about her; Fara could see the storm clouds gathering above her head. It didn't take a genius to figure out she took umbrage at the idea of taking orders from street trash like Cutter.
Faramund couldn't blame her. The bastard was trying to assert his authority by telling the councillor's people what to do. Not the best start to proceedings, I must say. Turning to Quintus, Faramund met his friend's eyes with a knowing look.
Quintus knew what drove men like Cutter. Alliria was the sort of place where people from all walks of life came to elevate themselves in the world. Even if one wasn't a merchant, there was work to be found as an extra hand in any enterprise and if one was skilled enough, there was even a place for some extra swords. Knives in the dark. Thieves. The White King of the Slums was nothing more than another ambitious man who outlasted the ones who came before him. He exhibited traits that Quintus had seen from members of his own family. Pompous and demanding simply because they saw the power they amassed in comparison to those lower than they. Quintus had seen and spoken to powers greater than all of the councilors in their high seats. The visages of spirits had been burned into his mind and their sway held him in a way that would never see him be free of their memory. So as the White King spoke, the Merchant Councilor Vexion was little moved. In fact, there was a hint of amusement on his handsome features. Councilor Vexion took a step forward, away from the rest of his party as he eyed the floor and gathered words together in his head in response.
"We will come to the back, however Relby stays," Quintus began simply. "We bring no ill will to you or your people, Cutter. In fact, it is quite the opposite... You have your ears to the ground. If you know why my comrade is here, then I'm certain you know why I am here. And if you know who we are... Who we are truly, you will help us out. We can help each other... Now if you're quite done with the theatrics, I'd like to discuss our mutual enemy."
The crime boss stood next to the bar for a moment, looking to genuinely mull over what Councilor Vexion was saying. Quintus kept his peripheral vision on the darkness around him. Everywhere there was a knife that awaited the order to kill him and his party. Brown-gold eyes studied The White King for any sort of signal he may give so that the bloodletting could begin. His icy blue eyes that looked like they had seen better days met with Quintus' own after a time and with a gesture, he beckoned Quintus and his party onwards. Deeper into the abyss that was his den of thieves and killers. Once Cutter's back was turned, Quintus glanced at Faramund and raised his eyebrows slightly. Intrigue had never been his strong suit and so he was a bit surprised that negotiations were going so well.
Cutter led them to a booth in the back of the den that had two orc guardsmen on either side of the entrance. On of them looked to carry no weapons at all, but his hands were massive. The other carried a battleaxe that leaned against the wall next to the entrance. The said nothing as Quintus and Faramund entered. They stood to bar the entrance of the other guards, however...
"Don't need nobody 'earin' wha' I'm abou' to discuss with ye."
Cutter slid into the booth and relaxed his old back against the many-colored cushions there. His thumb and index finger swiped at the corners of his lips as he eyed his two visitors.
"I know who i' is you lot are lookin' for. They came into the ci'y a few weeks ago. Some ou'side source 'ired 'em to come in and complete a contract for 'em. The details of i', I don' know. All I know is, the cunts are playin' a different game than we are 'ere. Has a lo' of me boys shaken up."
A server girl came through the curtains with libations for them all. Cheap whiskey, or at the very least, cheap by Quintus' expensive tastes. His eyes carted to the bottle and the cups provided and then right back to Cutter, who's eyes never left him or Faramund. The old man was searching for something. He wanted them to get rid of his little problem for him to be certain, but certainly he wanted something more.
"You two cunts ever 'eard of the Bloodbrothers? Lycan mercenaries, the lot of 'em."
Though he did not believe himself a political creature, Quintus had certainly learnt much during his time upon the Council. Had he let the gang leader have his way, there would have been no end to the rumours and stories circulating about town of how the great Quintus Vexion had let a common street tough tell him what to do. Of course, Cutter was something more than just a "common street tough", but Faramund knew that such facts mattered little to the fishwives and gossipmongers of Alliria.
Wordy bastards, they would have retold the tale dozens of times by week's end. And with each retelling, an embellishment. A touch of panache. Something to add to the sting of scandal Quintus would have faced had he not been so politically savvy.
Catching the Councillor's look, Faramund dipped his head in respect. 'Well played,' he seemed to say, foregoing any unnecessary words he might have uttered in their stead. Over by the bar, Cutter seemed to have weighed up Quintus's words thoroughly enough to let the matter lie.
Following after him, Faramund let his eyes wander as the party made their way out back. A secluded booth awaited them there. Two burly orcs guarded the entrance, and Faramund took their measure as they let him pass unheeded. Bigger than me, he realized, but not half as pretty.
Slipping into the booth opposite Cutter, the dawnling made himself comfortable as the gang boss did the same. Drinks followed. Whiskey, Faramund surmised after a cup-full, not the expensive stuff, mind. Local brew. If he had to guess, the knight would have said it was the kind of whiskey one used to strip the paint from a ship's hull.
Helping himself to another, Faramund eyed the gang boss warily. Try as he might to hide his trepidation, the man clearly had problems of his own that needed sorting. And from the looks of him it wasn't the usual kind of problem, neither.
'I have,' Faramund replied, meeting Cutter's eyes from across the table. 'Old band, known for their "propensity for violence," among other things.' He chuckled, though, anyone who knew him would have recognised the humourless tone with which he spoke. 'Last I heard they'd gone off on a witch hunt, up in the Beracan foothills.' He paused, his gaze turning questioning. 'That was over a year ago. No one has seen neither hide nor hair of them since. Well, until now, I s'pose.'
Faramund glanced at Quintus; confusion smote the place behind the knight's eyes. What business did dead men have in Alliria? And why, pray tell, did the attack at the temple fit their modus operandi perfectly? 'Mind telling us where you came by this information, Cutter? Perhaps you could hazard a guess as to who this "outside source" is whilst you're at it.'
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