Fable - Ask What Lies Beneath

A roleplay which may be open to join but you must ask the creator first
Decanian had lived those violent minutes in a crescendo of anxiety and anger. He had seen Emelia bravely venture among those beasts and had had to fight the urge to come out of his hiding place to intervene. While the girl was being shoved and insulted, he had gripped the staff spasmodically: his honor shouted at him to throw himself into the street and strike the cutthroats with lightnings of divine magic.

But he couldn't. The instructions were clear: no heroics (for now, at least), just wait and follow sneakily. And now she was gone, thrown through an old door by two brutes and probably in grave danger. Decanian leaned against the wall, drumming his soft boot on the damp pavement, racking his brains for a way to get past the guardian.

At a certain point he had an idea. He peered over the wall and smiled: as he had hoped, the sentry was the man with lidded eyes, unsteady on his feet and clearly half drunk. He couldn't kill him with the staff, it would have made too much noise, but he could take advantage of his precarious condition. He pulled up his hood as much as he could and placed his hand near the top of the stick, causing the luminescent bulb to go out. Then he took a deep breath and, hunched over and wobbly, holding his staff with an unsteady step, he came out into the open.

"You there!" - mumbled the sentry after Decanian had already covered half the distance that separated them. The mage drew back in a frightened manner, conspicuously clutching his pouch. Greedy, the guardian staggered towards him imagining an easy profit. "Come on, old man" - he said in a sort of gasp - "give me that bag and maybe I'll kill you quickly".

When he reached out to Decanian, the mage acted quickly, taking advantage of the surprise. Standing up, he quickly swung the staff, tripping the criminal. The man's greedy, toothless grin turned into a mask of disbelief as he landed hard on his buttocks. Decanian's staff ended its fluid movement by landing on the sentry's head, who fell unconscious to the ground.

Breathing heavily, more from tension than from effort, Decanian looked around, listening for every noise. When he was sure that no one had heard him he began to slowly drag the limp body towards the door frame. If one of the savages had come out at that moment he would have deduced, judging by the smell of cheap wine, that the guardian had fallen asleep.

Kneeling beside the body, Decanian approached the door. It was heavy and it would have been very difficult to hear anything. Fortunately he saw a faint light coming from the hole in the large rusty lock. He brought one eye closer and held his breath hoping to see something useful.
 
She had been here before, of course, just not often. It was not a pleasant place for someone like her to begin with.

On the other side of the door, a hallway ran for about a dozen feet. It was made of the kind of space that might have been forgotten by the owners of the buildings it was in; lathe and plaster lay exposed along with the wall studs, and the way was narrow, the floor carpeted in rugs to mask the sound of people walking. At the back of that, a stairwell dove steeply into the underworld of Alliria.

"He was supposed to take care of some trouble a month ago," the sallow skinned fellow said as he started down the stairs. They were rough cut stone. The entire passage was lined in stone, all of which was not native to Alliria. This place had been purpose built. Or, more likely, added on to some existing thing.

The stairs went down two stories, more or less, before coming to a landing and another door.

What lay beyond that was unexpected.

A lot of money flowed through the hands of some of the criminal world, and some of them lives quite a deal better than the nobility of other nations. Some flaunted it. Others?

The door opened into a brightly lit hallway with carpeted floor and wide walls that looked as smooth and well-made as any manor. The space was not ostentatious, though. Lamps and wall hangings of indifferent quality lit the space and decorated the walls. Doors led off the main corridor every dozen feet or so. The hall ran arrow straight for a hundred yards before coming to another set of doors, these of heavy oak banded with iron. The thug that had been pushing her along every few steps pulled them open, and then it was sallow man's turn to push her along.

Into a wide room with taller ceilings. Her blood ran cold as she saw the man seated behind the desk at the far side, flanked by bookcases. The room was well appointed, as though by a noble.

He wasn't a noble. Dressed in a nicely tailored coat and pants, Davel Korsk cut the figure of a rogue playing at being gentry. He might have pulled it off if not for the wicked scar that pulled the left side of his face into a permanent sneer. He was well fed but not fat, and he was by no means an unintelligent lout.

"Ah, Emelia. How are you doing?" The words were delivered pleasantly enough, but there was enough of a threat buried in them to make her tense. Her heart had been hammering in her chest ever since she had been pushed into the doorway of this particular lair.

She said nothing. His face grew harder.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I am more interested in what that lay-about husband of yours is up to." Thirty foot of water. She still didn't speak, for she could not. She made a gesture to the door and mimed someoen walking out it, and then shrugged.

Korsk scowled, and a dangerous light gleamed in his eye. "Do not toy with me, bitch." The words were delivered flat and cold. "I don't really care about you at all. But your man? He owes me a great deal for all the things I've done for him through the years. Where is he?"

She wanted to scream at him. Done for them? The only thing they had done was break the soul of her husband. They had turned a good man into a monster and that monster had-

Her mind blanked. Wouldn't do to think on that, not here. Not ever.

She pointed at her mouth, and made a gesture as if to speak and then shook her head. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but all that came out was a painful croak that made her throat feel raw from even trying. Korsk was having none of it.

"If you won't tell me, it won't go well." He grinned. It was sickly and delighted at the same time. "Torturing people don't bring confessions, but it does make good examples." He nodded to sallow, who grabbed her below the elbow again.
 
Last edited:
  • Nervous
Reactions: Decanian Atresius
As he had imagined, not a sound could be heard beyond the massive door. This could mean that the room was empty or that voices were simply not being picked up. From his uncomfortable point of view Decanian could see nothing but a dimly lit section of corridor. There seemed to be no one there but he had no way of knowing if there was anyone standing guard just inside the entrance, to the right or left.

There was no solution to the dilemma other than taking action and hoping for the best. He turned the knob slowly and pushed the door carefully, praying it wasn't locked. With a creak that seemed deafening to him it opened onto a narrow, deserted corridor. The bare room was dimly lit by an oil lamp with completely blackened glass. Without wasting any more time, Decanian crossed the room, tiptoeing across the carpets that conveniently lined the floor.

A steep stone staircase now stretched out before him. A torch, fixed to an iron ring on the right wall, cast a flickering light on the crudely outlined steps. Driven by apprehension for Emelia's fate, he descended the ramps at the maximum speed permitted by prudence. "Stealth" the girl had written.

He stopped. He had hoped for an open entrance but instead there appeared another closed door in front of him. After an initial moment of discomfort he approached the rough wooden surface and, closing his eyes, began to listen. Absolute silence. He pursed his lips in annoyance. As he had done a few minutes earlier, he tried his luck, which this time too smiled on him. The door opened almost noiselessly revealing another room, larger, brighter and more refined. He looked in amazement at the tapestries that adorned the walls and that he would never have imagined seeing in a place like that. He recognized known images but did not have the academic knowledge to determine whether they were originals or copies.

On the opposite side of what turned out to be another long corridor, a solid and menacing looking door awaited him. More doors opened on both sides of the room but he convinced himself that his target was straight ahead. He hoped so, at least, since he would never be able to check out all the rooms that overlooked the carpet he was walking without being seen.

He had just formulated this thought when one of the doors, the second on the right, flew open. A young sentry emerged, intent on reading a crumpled sheet of parchment. He slammed the door behind him without looking. Tall, about thirty years old, he had long black hair tied behind his head and a short, shaggy beard of the same color. He wore a heavy studded leather jacket and carried a short shiny dagger at his side.

Decanian put aside the scholar and became the Knight. There was no time to hide and mentally apologizing to Emelia for having broken the instructions he directed the staff towards the guard, who was just then looking up at him. The tip of the staff flashed with divine light; a golden serpent came out and struck the man in the center of the chest. The staff's arcane energy flowed sinuously for several seconds as the guard gnashed his teeth, immobilized and helpless. With a jolt the flow stopped and the criminal was thrown several meters away. Luckily the heavy carpet cushioned the fall. Decanian approached the body lying on the ground, looking into its glassy eyes. He had no remorse. Not at all. He would not have killed a thief who steals out of hunger but this was a professional criminal who kills for money. Disgusted by the smell of burning flesh emanating from the smoking hole in the center of his jacket, Decanian dragged the body behind a pile of expensive carpets close to the wall, covering it as best he could.

Panting from the effort he rushed along the corridor intending to avoid further unpleasant encounters and in a few strides reached the heavy door with which it ended. It was reinforced with metal bars and the lock looked formidable. He would never have been able to open it if it had been locked. With a resigned air he tried to push the door slowly, in the faint hope that the door would be open. Great was his surprise when the door actually opened. Bent over, he opened the door just enough to get a view of the room.

He had time to hear the word "torture" and see a well-dressed man grab Emelia by the elbow. His breath stopped.
 
The sallow skinned fellow straightened and forced Emelia to stand on her toes as he twisted her arm behind her. She would have mewled in pain if she could utter any sound at all. He looked to Korsk with a scowl. "Trouble, boss. Someone just used magic. Close."

Her heart thundered even harder, especially in pain. Sallow man walked her forward toward the mob boss; she thought her shoulder might break from the strain. "Brought some friends with you, did you? Was it your man by any chance?" Korsk laughed cruelly.

He turned and swung a bookcase to reveal another passage. This one looked more utilitarian than the one she had come in through. Korsk gestured for Sallow to move, and he did. Thankfully, he allowed her to walk normally but did not let go of her arm, forcing her along.

The blade at her hip itched, but she did not try for it. The thread of her Patron's power also throbbed in her head, but she did not use that, either out of fear or inexperience.

Hurrying along quickly, the mafiosa pulled the hidden door closed behind him and then hurried along. The corridor ran ahead straight and wide for quite a long way, doors spaced at odd distances between each other. The corridor was quiet.

"Your husband will have quite a surprise if he doesn't go back into hiding," Sallow said in a hoarse voice. She growled soundlessly, and jerky her arm violently to get free. The fellow stumbled a moment before squeezing even harder; she went cross-eyed as he twisted her arm. "You, however, ain't going anywhere."
 
Decanian cursed inwardly. He had been discovered. He had no idea how they did it but they had found out. Had they heard him? Had they put up a magical barrier that intercepted him? Whatever the case, they now knew he was there and Emelia was at even greater risk because of him. If they killed her because of her carelessness, he would never be able to forgive himself.

He elaborated these thoughts crouched behind the door, with bated breath and closed eyes, after having quickly withdrawn from the entrance. While his mind was considering what to do he heard the dull sound of a large object moving. The muffled voices of the thugs died away completely. After a few seconds he heard that noise again. Now, beyond the door, the room was silent.

Whatever the situation - he told himself - he couldn't stay in that hiding place forever. Emelia was in danger, also because of him, and he had to find a way to save her from the clutches of the cutthroats. Slowly he opened the heavy door a few centimeters and looked inside. The room seemed completely empty. Uncertainly, thinking of a trap, he crossed the threshold, remaining crouched and alert.

The room, furnished with uncommon taste, was rich in furniture. Several shelves and two historiated columns created dark spaces and the far right corner was obscured by the vapors of a hookah. There were a thousand places where a killer could hide but Decanian knew he had no time to waste: he had to find Emelia immediately.

He began to walk along the left wall, proceeding slowly and looking in every corner. Nothing moved except the blue mist on the opposite side of the room. After what seemed an interminable time he managed to complete the tour of the room, now with the concrete certainty that no one was there. No enemies but also no Emelia.

Where could they have gone? The room had no other doors. While he was examining the room he thought back to the dull noise he had heard just before and now it seemed clear to him that there must be a trap door or a hidden wall. He began lifting carpets and pulling aside tapestries, finding only uniform stone and a solid floor. Only the shelves full of books behind the large desk at the back of the room remained to be checked.

Gripped by frenzy, he began touching the wooden walls of the bookcases, moving the tomes and examining the ornaments arranged on the shelves. Finally, after a few minutes of feverish searching he managed to find the lever of the mechanism. With the now familiar noise the bookcase moved revealing a secret passage. A large corridor opened up before him, long and well lit by lamps arranged at regular intervals. Hidden by the corner of the wall he slowly tilted his head to check if anyone was there.
 
There was no way the bird should have been able to get into the underground passage, and even less that it should find Decanian. Especially since there had been doors closed between it and him. Nevertheless, the magpie appeared and spun in a tight spiral around the scholar before lighting on his shoulder.

The eldritch presence of the Fair Folk wafted faintly from the creature. It simply stared straight ahead down the passage.

Ahead of them, a pair of miscreants appeared and slowed to a leisurely pace. Both had blades bared - heavy hunting knives, the kind favored by knife fighters. They wore simple armor, in appearance at least; even this far away the faint echo of protective magic glowed round them.

The way they walked and moved spoke of experience not born of a thug's life. These were trained killers with more at their disposal than simple knives and brute force. They slowly smiled as they saw the singular man coming down the hall towards them.

No bravado, no threats, not speeches. They simply separated and slowed their advance and waited to either reach the intruder or else for the intruder to make the first move.

---

Sallow man grunted as he closed the door behind him. Korsk had already descended down the stairs ahead of them.

The complex was not the most extensive that their organization had hollowed out in the basement of the city, but it was his boss's favorite one. It was always nice to have a hideaway in the better part of the city instead of having to deal with the dank, damp passages beneath the Shallows or one of the slums. This place predated Alliria itself; some ancient magic or mechanism kept the water cleared from the tunnels. Those tunnels extended well below the city.

Decanian would probably be delighted to find out about them. If only he didn't have other problems to attend to at the moment.

Emelia tugged at his grip on her arm, and he grunted and let her go. "Keep walking. Your friend back there won't be along to save you. Andre and Kali have been working for the boss for a long time." He pushed her along ahead of him, taking care not to push her down the stairs.

"At least he will die quickly."

Emelia was, of course, silent. Her head spun in a million different directions, skittering off the knife she still had hidden in her skirts. She was such a non-threat to these people that they hadn't even bothered to search her for weapons when they captured her. The wellspring of power her Patron had granted her also gleamed in the back of her head, tantalizing and so...eager.

Thoughts swirling round and round. I am not a helpless maiden. Round and round again. Had her father not once told her that she had a good head on her shoulders? Why didn't she use it.

She came up with a plan. Saang would be proud of it.
 
The sight of the sentries blocking the passage caused Decanian a moment of dismay. Not so much because of the presence of two guards in the corridor - he had expected this - but because of their calm, confident and terribly dangerous appearance. Yet his attention was completely captured by the magpie which, flapping its wings, landed on his shoulder. He had completely forgotten about that bird and had no idea how it had gotten unnoticed to him through all those closed doors. Again, he was tempted to touch it. He perceived, around the bird, an aura of arcane energy that he believed he could trace back to the magic of the Fair Folk. But he wasn't versed in that type of art and his were mostly guesses.

The slow movement of the two individuals caught his gaze and brought him back to reality. He took cover behind the doorframe, even though he knew they had seen him. He cursed softly. These were no ordinary cutthroats, half-drunk brutes capable only of wrestling. They were a deadly combination of wizard and assassin, capable of striking with magic and physical weapons with equal dexterity. The arcane aura that their bodies emanated indicated that they were able to raise magical barriers and protections capable of nullifying most of his attacks.

While these thoughts overlapped in his mind in the space of a few moments he realized that only lateral thinking could save him: facing the two warriors head on was suicide so he had to be cunning. He had to hit them unexpectedly. They knew he was a wizard, so he couldn't use magic. Not now. He should have distracted them, confused them and forced them to discover themselves. They expected him to burst into the corridor casting spells and were ready to deflect them. So he would launch another thing.

He had not yet finished the thought which was already spinning on itself, silently diving towards the hookah immersed in the fragrant mist. He felt the magpie's feathers rustle against his hood. That bird was a complete mystery, a presence that was even disturbing and inexplicable. But having it on his shoulder gave Decanian a pleasant feeling of companionship, the knowledge that he was not alone.

He grabbed the rattling tool, burning his hands through his gloves. Some pieces fell silently onto the surrounding cushions. He passed the hookah into his right hand and, still sheltered by the doorframe, threw it with all his strength against one of the walls of the corridor, as close as possible to the point where he thought the guards were. The instrument described a wide arc, outlined in the air by a trail of smoke. With a deafening clang of metal the hookah crashed first into a wall and then onto the floor, shattering. As the College wizard had hoped, a thick, fragrant and unbreathable cloud of blue smoke rose from the shards.

The excited shouts of the assassins were immediately heard, actually taken by surprise and prey to spasmodic coughing fits. The vibrating sound of rising magical barriers confirmed to Decanian that they now expected an attack. But they were confused and once again assumed that Decanian would confront them directly.

But once again they would be surprised: while the hookah was still in flight, Decanian had dipped his hands into his satchel.
 
  • Dwarf
Reactions: Emelia Atchins
The pulse of sorcery washed over Decanian as one of the two, still coughing, waved a hand frantically. A breath of wind stirred the stagnant air, and pushed the choking cloud in the intruder's direction; the man with the presence of mind to cast the attack back at his opponent also faded back. The other still coughed at whatever garbage had in that smoke.

He still came into a guard position, although his form was slightly less than exemplary, now. Eyes streaming, he faced the unknown intruder as best he could.

His companion opened the distance a great deal, and slipped a throwing knife out of a narrow bandolier filled with them. He planted his feet and waited for Decanian to come through the smoke.

The magpie laughed coarsely at all of this, anchored firmly to the scholar's shoulder as though bound in place. The harsh sound had more in common with a crow than a magpie. The sweet smell of unspeakable magic wafted from the creature, wreathing Decanian in a blurring glamor even as they plowed into the blown smoke...

---

There would never be a better chance than this.

Emelia appeared to stumble on the step, and Sallow Man went to catch her before she fell. She used the motion to cover reaching beneath her skirts and withdrawing the knife she had secreted there. Sallow man didn't have any time to react as the flash of steel, gleaming in the lamp light on the stairs, lashed out.

She buried the short blade in the man's chest. Just below the sternum, slightly to the left.

He blinked once, opened his mouth to say something. All that came forth was a gush of bright red heartblood that struck her full on in the face. His legs went out from under him, dead before he hit the steps. Unfortunately, she was in his path. Fortunately, it was not far to the bottom.

The pair of them tumbled to the flagstone landing at the bottom. Emelia would have shrieked in pain if she'd had a voice to do so. The knife slipped from her hand and sliced her arm in the tumble so that blood quickly stained the upper arm, spreading slowly.

She lay, tangled with the corpse of the man she had just killed. She wrestled with a rising gorge, unable to easily push aside the hot gush of blood across her hand when she stuck him. It was still utterly shocking how easy it was to kill a man.

She lost the fight.

After a moment, she rolled over and disentangled herself from the body, trying carefully to avoid the pool of her own sick. She snatched the blood-slicked blade and stood, breathing heavily and looking at the dead man wild-eyed. Then she grit her teeth, mastered herself and looked ahead. The landing was a large rectangle room with a corridor leading left and right and a pair of doors in front of her.

She could hear the sound of footsteps to the left.

Leaving a trail of dripping blood behind her, she continued on. She was no longer a captive.

Now she was a huntress.
 
  • Dab
Reactions: Decanian Atresius
He wasn't an alchemist. He loved studying the history of the world and magic, reading books and practicing spells but when it came to reagents, powders and salts his mind became cloudy. Beyond healer's potions, for health, vigor and mystical energy, he didn't know pretty anything. With great effort he had learned doses and combinations, reaching excellent results very useful during battles and in the Healing Halls. But as for poisons or substances capable of disrupting the physical environment he was ignorant.

But he was also farsighted and in his bag there was always a quantity of substances that he did not know how to produce by himself. The hookah had barely hit the wall of the corridor before the magician had already pulled out a glass vial containing a bright red liquid. He slipped it out of the metal cage designed to protect it from impacts and entered the corridor immersed in an opaque cloud. He could see the silhouettes of the guardians struggling to get back into position. He threw the vial forcefully between them.

That vial was really expensive but it turned out to be tremendously effective. As the hookah smoke cleared, the two criminals began to see and breathe again and raised magical shields expecting an attack. But the arcane barriers were powerless against the toxic cloud that the vial released. The gas immediately attacked the mucous membranes, irritating the eyes and causing breathing difficulties. Blinded and suffocated, the assassins lost concentration and their magical barriers dissolved.

However, Decanian knew that leaving the area occupied by the reddish cloud would be enough to recover in a few minutes: the gas was lethal only if breathed for tens of seconds. He wouldn't get another chance. He converted some of his arcane energy into a solid magical armor and aimed his staff at the guard on the right, doubled over in spasms. The golden blast hit the man in the neck, making him do a pirouette and throwing him limp to the ground.

The other, retreating to escape the toxic cloud, was casting spells blindly. An electric shock hit Decanian in the chest, dissolving his armor but leaving him unharmed. The guard was now firmly on his feet. The two contenders raised their respective barriers by attacking one with pyromancer spells, the other with the staff. Time rewarded Decanian, since while the guard had to split his energy between attacks and defense he could concentrate on the barrier leaving the attack phase to the staff.

The killer, weakened, collapsed after a few minutes. He launched a powerful blast that shattered the Decanian barrier but consumed all his energy in the process. The flow of divine power from the wizard's staff hit him between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Exhausted, Decanian leaned against the wall. Suddenly, the claws of the magpie, on his shoulder all this time, dug painfully into his flesh. The wizard bent over with a cry, just in time to feel the cold blade of a knife graze his neck, tearing his hood. As blood began to drip into his suit, Decanian, numb to the pain due to the burst of adrenaline, raised his staff again, striking for the second time the guard on the right, who had struggled to get up after the initial blow.

He was alone. Bleeding, tired, exhausted. He dropped down the wall and sat on the ground, barely turning his neck towards the magpie. The bird looked at him askance, questioningly. If it hadn't been for him the knife would have pierced his larynx. He murmured a thank you, now aware that this was much more than a normal bird. It was something magical and he was starting to think it was connected to Emelia.

Emelia! In his excitement he had lost sight of his objective. He stood up, picked up one of the knives and gathered from the corpses potions and crystals. He ran to the door and opened it slowly, fearing a new ambush. A flight of stairs awaited him. The air rising from below was fresh, different from the damp musty smell that usually characterizes the underground. He began to descend rapidly, with the magpie still firmly anchored to his shoulder.

At the bottom of the ramp he saw with horror a corpse surrounded by a pool of blood. He thanked the gods when he realized that it was only the sallow man. There was only his body and a trail of blood led along the landing, bending to the left. Emelia must have been injured but alive. The magpie flapped its wings as if to encourage him. Decanian braced himself and, passing the corpse, ran along the trail.
 
She could see the well-dressed man as he hurried down the hallway. He was no longer running, but he was not taking his time either. He didn't even check behind him once.

Her right arm throbbed where the knife had sliced through flesh. The blood trickled down her arm, dripping from the knife in her hands and from her fingers as she continued along. Fear had been replaced by rage - that familiar old companion of hers. White-hot, searing rage boiled in her blood and narrowed her vision so that all she could see was straight ahead of her. The retreating back of the man that had corrupted Reph.

Seemed her and her husband had something else in common.

Korsk turned and entered a door further down the hallway. She pressed her lips into a thin line, and hurried along in a swish of skirts. She hadn't made it more than a few steps when she her a door bang open behind her. Without thinking, she ducked to one side of the corridor behind one of the many heavy wooden beams that held the ceiling up.

She quickly pulled her skirts in tight, pressing herself against the stone wall and trying desperately to not breath too loudly.

"Trouble upstairs," she heard someone say as they stepped into the hallway with a purposeful stride. Many sets of feet echoed after. She didn't dare peek out to see how many 'employees' of the crime boss she had just discovered.

"Think the Guard found us? Please say they didn't find us again," said another. The voices were growing more distant. "Boss always gets angry when he has to pay someone off." Her heart thundered in her chest, pounded in her ears. They hadn't spotted her yet...

"Hey, is that blood on the ground?" A pause, followed by a hum. "Looks like it goes back toward the safe room..."

Fuck.

Everything went to hell in a handbasket very quickly.

At the same time a handful of voices raised a challenge to the sudden appearance of a stranger round the bend from the stairs, Emelia darted out of her inadequate hiding spot. The two men and a woman who were looking back the way they had come were surprised to see her materialize and stood there for a moment, mouths hanging open, before giving chase. Emelia had enough time to note that there were a dozen men and women behind her. Unlike the two from before, these were garden variety thugs.

There wasn't time for thought. Driven by fear, she darted down the hallway. Without much thought, she ducked into the door she had seen Korsk enter and slammed it shut behind her. She grabbed a chair nearby and slammed it under the knob just as someone tried to open it.

It held hard against the stone. Frustrated cursing echoed outside.

She turned to actually check her surroundings. Or would have, except an arm snaked round her neck and cold steel was pressed to her throat.

"Why, miss Atchins. What a pleasure," came the basso rumble of Korsk from a few inches away.
 
  • Wonder
Reactions: Decanian Atresius
The scene that Decanian saw as he reached the bottom of the stairs struck him in two ways.
With a sigh of relief he saw Emelia alive and apparently well, although bleeding; the vision, however, lasted for no more than a few moments as the woman disappeared almost immediately behind the door at the back of the large room. She was being chased by several cutthroats. Her blonde hair had barely disappeared when four men had already begun pounding the wooden surface.
The other, less pleasant feeling was one of dismay. He had just faced two assassins with difficulty and now no less than a dozen stood before him. He understood almost immediately, however, that they were not warriors but simple bruisers: equipped in various ways, they showed no discipline and seemed more suited to a brawl than a battle.

In any case he was overwhelmed. They might have been tavern brutes but they were armed with swords, axes and knives, some wore thick leather jackets and at least four of them had small round shields made of painted wood. A rabble suited to a clash between gangs, who would certainly have found it difficult to face a trained and well-armed opponent. He would have to launch precise attacks and strike ruthlessly, to knock out most of the enemies and force the rest to flee.

Having recovered after an instant from the surprise of seeing another intruder besides Emelia, the cutthroats who had not gone after the girl rushed towards him with weapons in hand, shouting. The magpie cawed as if to start the fight. Decanian raised the staff high in both hands then slammed it hard into the floor. A wave of fiery golden light shot out from the point of impact and spread across the room towards the criminals. The entire front line was hit, three men and a woman: thrown backwards they began to writhe on the floor screaming, covered in burns and blisters.

The wizard barely had time to replace one of the spent magic crystals that powered the staff when four more cutthroats were already approaching, albeit more wary.

"Go, Marcel" - one of them murmured, looking at the most handsome of the group. "He can't hit us all at once anyway."

"What?" - the man replied piqued. "Why don't you go ahead if you're so sure?"

It was true: he couldn't face them all at once and they knew it. Nonetheless, no one wanted to be "the one" who would be killed.

He had to improvise: he turned his back on them and ran back up the stairs. Trained soldiers would be waiting for him, knowing he couldn't escape, but these were brutes. They rushed after him one after the other. From an elevated position, Decanian had a good time hitting them from afar, one by one. They were rapid, underpowered and imprecise shots which however caused wounds and fueled the enemies' anger. Regardless of their wounds, three of them started running towards him with swords drawn.

There was only one way to take them down: he charged the weapon to maximum power and released a terrible bolt of lightning that crashed with a bang on the chest of the first of the criminals. The man's chest disappeared in an explosion of charred flesh and viscera, staining the steps and walls of the staircase red. The shock wave shook the two criminals and caused them to make a cautious retreat into the chamber below.

Decanian barely had time to congratulate himself before an excruciating pain took his breath away. Gasping, he stared in horror at the arrow that lodged beneath his right collarbone. One of those damn assassins had to have a bow. And he, idiot, hadn't seen it. He found the clarity to approach the wall just as another arrow whizzed by a short distance from him. He tried to settle on a step but lost his balance, slipped on a bloodstain and rolled down the stairs. The dart in his chest went deeper. He only saw red.
 
The door rattled again under the furious blows of Korsk' cronies. "You can stop now," he said, his foul breath washing over her. "I have the bitch in hand. Don't let anyone else by."

He reached round her and took her wrist, the one with the knife in it, and squeezed until she dropped the blade, until her wrist popped and ground and searing white-hot pain sliced up her arm. She cried out - or would have, if she had a voice to cry out with. Thus disarmed, he huffed a laugh and then threw her aside. She landed on a table and rolled off onto the floor, writhing in pain and smearing more of her blood on the floor.

Korsk kicked the chair from the door, and then rounded on her. "Thought you could be cute and ambush me, eh?" He stalked across the room and planted a booted foot into her ribs. She rolled, breath driven from her lungs. "Could have been a lot less rough, Em. Reph owes me a lot of money, which means you owe me a lot of money."

Pain greyed the world, but a fire-bright thread of rage flared in her. This man. This man... was the one that had poisoned her husband with cruelty and hatred. This man was the one that had made him beat their son to death right in front of her.

She clenched her fists as she relived that moment again. Her rage ratcheted up another notch.

Korsk approached again, caught in his own anger. "You'll live, but not before I-"

"Gut yourself, you shit-stained, spavined hell-spawn. Take your own knife and gut yourself, you fuck! Suffer in silence as I do!" Her sweet, forgotten voice sang, but it was with bloodlust and the ugliness born of rage and vengeance and spite. And it carried a power with it that did not belong to her. There was something utterly undeniable in it.

Korsk stopped mid-step, eyes wide as they would go. His pupils had narrowed to pinpoints and swiveled to the knife hand. His knife hand, as it moved seemingly of its own accord.

She had managed to get to her knees, and was still silently swearing and cursing at him, mouth forming the words but not sound following then. Her face was twisted into ugliness by the naked, murderous rage that burned in her eyes. The hate was almost palpable. A poisonous miasma that wafted off the woman.

Something bright burned as she watched him take the knife in his hand and slowly saw it through his vest. Through his stomach. The man began to scream silently, unable to make his vocal cords work anymore than he could stop himself from driving the knife in.

The bright, coppery scent of blood filled the air. A moment later, the fetid odor of an open sewer melded into it. Her eyes burned with sadistic delight as the man writhed on the floor in mortal agony amid his own internals. She was laughing now, an ugly soundless thing that would have been even more twisted if anyone could hear it. She stepped around the writhing crime lord, spitting on him as she did before dipping to pick up her knife again.

Her arm hurt like hell. Every breath was agony. But, as she stepped up to the door and opened it, she realized something.

She felt a wave of euphoria. All of the pain was worth it. The son-of-a-bitch that had taken so much of her world from her was a dead man... eventually. He would suffer, he would suffer for long hours before he died. It wouldn't make her life any more right, any better... but at least he wouldn't reap the benefits of the poison he dealt.

The four outside didn't have any idea what hit them as she lunged forward as soon as the door opened, stabbing anything within reach. She was still laughing, even if she was crying too.

---

The bird sang.

The melody was out of place underground, sweet and raucous at the same time. On those notes rode another kind of song, the kind that enthralled and beguiled. Enticed and entranced and clouded the eye so it could not see, the mind so it could not think.

In short, it carried the glamour of the Fae upon its breath, spilling from its beak in a song that could not be denied.

The magpie flew with exaggerated slowness through the air, spinning round the remaining cutthroats as if it had not a care in the world. Its presence brought a kind of eldritch horror along with it; the song stabbed into the mind, and man and woman fell back from it with fear dancing in their eyes and their hearts. Decanian was soon forgotten as phantoms and ghosts of their own making assailed them.

This was only right and proper, after all. The two-legged wizard had another chance to assail these hapless victims while the corvid dined on their fear and pathos.

It was a great bargain.
 
In the fog of blood that had settled before his eyes he saw some indistinct figures rapidly approaching him. He had a vague awareness that he was at the foot of the stairs, with an arrow stump protruding from his chest and a mangled corpse covering his legs. The pain was a dull throbbing in his ears and a metallic taste in his mouth. He realized that those approaching were the rest of the cutthroats.

He feverishly rummaged through the folds of his dress and with a single movement unsheathed the heavy hunting knife he had stolen from one of the assassins upstairs and cut off three fingers of the unwary bandit who had stretched out his hand towards him, believing him to be dead. The others backed away in surprise and while the unfortunate man knelt down, shouting and holding his wrist, Decanian stood up with a huge effort and plunged the knife into his throat.

Breathing heavily, he looked up and saw, as if in a dream, a fury in the shape of Emelia slaughtering like an avenging angel the raiders who had attempted to break down the door at the back of the room. And the magpie? It was no longer on his shoulder but was slowly rotating in the room casting enigmatic glances at the bystanders. And it sang. A strange song, harmonious but strident, a melody that entered the soul like an ice knife. The moan of the burnt brigands gasping as they died was a macabre counterpoint.

They were alone. Emelia, him and the magpie. The others were dead or fled. The girl was in a strange state: she laughed and cried as if a hurricane was shaking her mind. They were both covered in blood, bruised and battered. Decanian uncorked a flask of painkiller and took a sip. The drumming that pounded his temples quieted. Panting he approached the girl. He didn't have the energy to ask how it went and he was restless. The woman who came out of that door was a very different version of the one who had entered shortly before. Warped.

He tilted his head questioningly, hoping for an explanation.
 
She attacked and she attacked and there was no form or grace in it at all. Almost immediately two of the people on the door fled from the sting of steel, trailing blood. Emelia did not notice them as she kept on after the one right in front of her. Plunging the knife in over and over and over until she practically dripped with blood other than her own.

Tears streamed down her face.

Eventually she ran out of steam and dropped to her knees, panting and exhausted. The laughter had died away long before so that only the tears remained. She blinked them back and looked around her as if seeing where she was for the first time. The coppery stink of blood and the darker smell of entrails struck her like a fist.

She retched immediately, hunching over and dry heaving.

After, she tried to stand and failed and settled for pushing her back against the wall with her legs. Her arm had swollen where the Korsk had made her drop her weapon. He was still crying softly in the background, suffering as she had commanded.

The bird had ceased its singing and landed on the body of the woman that Emelia had stabbed into an unrecognizable lump of flesh. Its head darted left and right, looking at Emelia and Decanian and all the carnage around them before tipping its head back and laughing silently again.

Then it began to strip meat from the corpse.

Emelia looked away and scrubbed at her face. Now that it was over she felt empty inside. She should have been happy, or at least relieved. But she felt nothing. The bastard was writhing in the other room, on his way through the gates into the underworld... but it didn't feel like it had changed anything.

She wanted to be angry about it, but she was emotionally exhausted. Thats what it had to be.
 
Emelia was silent. Slumped against the wall, covered in blood and seriously injured, she had the empty expression of someone who has suffered a traumatic event. If it was very difficult to get information from her yet before - and not just because of her muteness - now, Decanian reflected, it would be literally impossible to have anything explained to him. Her eyes were still deep but in a different way: now they seemed like wells of unfathomable darkness, tombs of mysteries that no one could reveal.

He looked around. The room was smeared with blood and strewn with bodies. The smell of burning, blood and viscera reigned everywhere. Even though he had been fighting the dark forces for years, these were scenes that continued to affect him. For a while the only revolting noise was that of the magpie feasting on the corpses. Suddenly, however, Decanian made out the excited voices of several men in the distance. He must not forget that he was in a den of criminals. The few who had managed to escape had certainly gone looking for reinforcements and would soon fall on them again.

He kneeled laboriously in front of Emelia, with the pain of the arrow slowly starting to be felt again. This was not the time to ask questions, he told himself, but to be practical. She would tell him the outcome of the mission, if she wanted, at a later time. Now it was a priority to get safe.

"The larvae of this termite mound are reorganizing themselves. Soon they will be here again, much more numerous."

Trying to capture the girl's blank gaze, he pointed to her arm, limp and red with blood.

"You're hurt" - he said. "Before we leave I better take a look at that cut, maybe I can do something. Do you allow me?".
 
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She nodded mutely to the scholar.

Tiredness hung off her shoulders like a lead weight. She had lost a fair bit of blood, but she had also suffered a blow to her psyche the likes of which she had never thought to receive again. The piteous cries of Korsk in the other room made her flinch.

But the rage would not surface again. No rage, no suffering, no pain, no joy. Her soul felt empty and bereft. Her emotions numbed.

Without thinking about what it was she was doing, she dipped a finger into the blood on the floor. Hers, theirs, didn't matter in the end. With a shaky hand, she traced her finger along the floor four words.

this is not over

She stared blankly at the words, and then to Decanian and tried to get to her feet.
 
Seeing that the girl was exhausted, the mage had thought of treating her in that position, relaxed and leaning against the wall. But Emelia evidently wanted to get up and Decanian did not contradict her. He held out his hands for her to hold on to but, despite staggering, the girl managed to stand upright. He looked into her void eyes and wondered what had happened in the room next to them. She had made it out alive, so she must have won her battle, but then why did she seem so emotionally drained?

He reflected on that inscrutable expression as he prepared to treat the deep wound that continued to bleed. He pulled a dagger from a corpse's belt and carefully tore open the torn, blood-stained sleeve. He took out a flask of water and dropped a few streams on the girl's arm, carefully washing the wound. The cut was long and exposed raw flesh. With the utmost delicacy he dilated the edges of the wound and dropped a few drops of a dense reddish wax-like solution into it. Finally he sprayed the cut with the bluish liquid from a small test tube; the reaction, painful and unpleasant, generated a white foam that came out of the wound, cleaning it from clots of blood and impurities.

Once the preparation was complete, Decanian closed his eyes, placed his hands on Emelia's arm and concentrated. Murmuring arcane formulas in the elven language he cast the healing spell: a golden light emanated from his fingers, enveloping the girl's arm in a cloud of heat. The magical flow entered the flesh, sealing it in a white flash. It was the most painful moment, the moment when it feels like a bolt of lightning penetrates your skin. But after a while it was all over and all that remained of the wound was a diffuse heat that would disappear in a few hours.

Decanian released his arms, exhausted from the wound on his chest - the arrow was still lodged firmly under his collarbone - and tired from the execution of the spell. He leaned against the wall to rest and heard the voices of the cutthroats again. They were closer, now the words and calls could be distinguished. Still too scared to come forward, they were gathering strength for a new attack.

"Is that better?" - he asked Emelia.
 
She bore the tending of her wound only with the occasional sensation of the world spinning and turning grey at the edges. The waitress didn't jerk or pull, either. She bore it all in silence.

Of course.

She searing pain of magic elicited a response, though. Her breath rushed from her all at once as the heat spread and faded. The wound itself was closed, but some ghost of what had been lingered like a phantom that would not go away. After a moment or two, she resumed breathing. Each breath was ragged.

She nodded numbly to Decanian. After a moment, her eyes turned to the arrow jutting from his collar bone. She pointed at it, and asked the question with her eyes: what to do about that? They needed to leave this place before trouble returned. She didn't feel the urgency behind it - still didn't feel anything at all - but she knew that it was so. And that the scholar couldn't possibly handle the jostling running would cause.

She made the gesture of striking a nail with a hammer and pointed at the arrow. Push it the rest of the way through and then pull it free. Her eyes were bleak at the prospect of such gruesome necessity.
 
Decanian thoughtfully observed the whirlwind of emotions that lay behind the silent grayness of Emelia's expression. He wondered what was now in her heart and what were the thoughts and memories that tormented her.

He could say he was satisfied: the healing spell seemed to have worked perfectly. The wound was gone and the after-effects of the treatment would fade in no time. The girl's labored breathing confirmed that the treatment was painful but it was a side effect that the wizards had not yet found a remedy for. Who knows, maybe one day he would succeed in that effort...

He smiled when he saw Emelia answering his question by nodding but his expression changed when he saw her looking at the arrow. She too understood that the problem was not to be underestimated. He couldn't run away with an arrow in his chest, much less fight. The pain was now back in all its fury, clouding his thoughts. He had to stay clear.

Emelia seemed to suggest pushing the arrow deep and letting it come out from behind. Starting to sweat, he tore the upper right section of the tunic with the knife, exposing the shoulder and pectoral. With his left hand, trying not to move the arrow, he began to feel the area of the shoulder blade hoping to find a hint of the tip of the dart under the skin. Nothing. The arrow was stuck in the flesh, slowed by the folds of the dress.

He shook his head with a worried expression.

"I can't" - he said, answering Emelia's silent question. "It's deep but not deep enough. I have to get it out from the front."

Trying to silence the pain screaming in his ears he looked around. One of the corpses slaughtered by the girl had a quiver with some arrows. He bent down with difficulty and, pleading with the gods, pulled one out. He let out a sigh of relief. As he had already seen, these were bandits and drunkards, not warriors or murderers. In fact, they did not use barbed war arrows but economical hunting arrows with a simple tip.

He returned to Emelia.

"Emelia" - he began - "the arrow must be extracted from the front but fortunately it has a simple tip, without barbs, so it shouldn't tear the muscle".

Hoping not to overly horrify the young woman, he explained to her what to do.

"Now" - he said, extracting a small metal tool similar to pliers - "I will slightly dilate the wound and you will delicately extract the arrow. Not much time has passed so the tendons that bind the tip to the shaft should still be intact. Do you think you can do it?"

As he looked at the girl he wondered what he would have done otherwise. What would he have done if the tip had remained lodged in his shoulder. He preferred to push the thought away.
 
She opened her mouth as if to answer, and then shut it and nodded instead. Squeamishness over blood was a thing that did not exist now, at least; she was covered in her own and others. She tore a strip of cloth from her soiled skirts and gripped the shaft of the arrow and waited.

The phantom pain of the slice in her arm flared and faded again and again.

The magpie had once again landed on her shoulder and remained there, upright with that uncanny way birds could sway with the wind. The corvid appeared...sated, its oily plumage gleaming with vigor.

She waited for Decanian to do whatever it was he was going to do, and then her breath stopped in her lungs. The sound of people coming, their voices raised in anger and much nearer than they had been before, drove a spike of panic through her guts. She looked down the corridor and saw them.

Eyes wide, she simply yanked the arrow out. Well that it wasn't barbed, or it would have come free with bits of flesh on it. She immediately pressed the piece of cloth over the wound, knocking his hand away to plug the hole. All the while pointing at the incoming wave of new trouble.
 
Emelia's gesture had been excellent: quick, clean and effective. She had waited for him to dilate the wound enough to act in the best way: grasp the arrow firmly with the help of a piece of cloth and pull vigorously. As he had deduced, the dart was a simple hunting arrow without barbs. He noticed, however, that the tendons that tied the iron tip to the shaft had become dangerously loose due to blood and movement. If they had taken another ten minutes to intervene it would have detached itself and remained in his body.

Until then the pain had been a constant but subdued torture. When Emelia pulled out the arrow it was as if a spear of fire pierced his chest. He thought he was going to scream but instead his breath caught. His eyes, wet with tears, were fixed on the magpie who was looking at him from the girl's shoulder. He had rarely felt such blinding pain. When Emelia pressed the piece of cloth on the wound the pain strangled him again but he now knew he was safe. Thanks to her.

The voices of the criminals, which had disappeared from his mind when the arrow was pulled, returned. He followed Emelia's gaze and saw them at the beginning of the corridor. They were the same scum they had just fought: poorly armed and poorly organised. But many. They couldn't face them all, especially in their condition. They had to escape but it was necessary to slow down the enemies somehow.

Keeping the rag firmly pressed to the wound, waiting to heal it with his own magical arts, he gathered his tools and stood up as quickly as he could. Then he aimed his stick at the rabble and concentrated all his anger and frustration into one blow. The golden beam streaked across the room like a bolt of lightning, carving a circular hole the size of a melon in the abdomen of one of the first bandits. He was one among many, but his companions stopped momentarily, struck by horror and dismay.
 
It was madness to remain here. Emelia had already spun away to go when Decanian turned to strike again at the murderers and thieves behind them. There was a question of morality here in the presence of such slaughter. Far be it for her to question morals right now, though.

She wanted to stay alive. And she would do anything to keep drawing breath.

She tugged at Decanian's arm once, twice and then gave up trying to drag the man along with her. She stooped and snatched a dagger from one of the bodies nearby and then turned and started going. She felt light-headed and weak, pale and shaken and broken on the inside. Even so, a will to live propelled her forward.

A crossbow quarrel whistled through the air and ricochetted off a wall and skipped down the hallway further. They needed to get back to the stairs, back out into the open. Back to where other people were at and where the thugs behind them would think twice before outright murder in the open.
 
The bandit struck had barely rolled to the ground, anticipated by his own guts, that the mage was already loading another shot. The tip of the staff had lit up with its usual golden light when Emelia's touch brought Decanian back to reality. It made no sense to fight in the open against such a multitude of enemies, however poorly armed. They could only escape as quickly as possible. Apparently there was a small army present in that hideout but he doubted that they would chase them through the streets of the city with the risk of running into a patrol of guards.

He turned and saw the girl running towards the stairs. Without thinking twice he threw himself after her, catching up with her at the foot of the ramp. The sinister whistle of a crossbow bolt chilled his blood: the bandits were better armed than he thought. He looked at his blood-stained dress. A crossbow bolt would have had a much worse effect.

They needed to put a good distance between themselves and their pursuers. At the top of the stairs, he remembered, there was a solid door that gave access to the room where he had confronted the two killers. Once there they could barricade the door and regroup. He could have applied ointment to his own wound and assessed Emelia's condition. If he had had the time, he could have placed an explosive rune in front of the door: if the bandits had managed to break it down, it would have knocked out four or five of them.

They just needed time. He rushed up the stairs hearing the voices of the enemies now very close. He passed the corpse of the sallow man and the body of the bandit with the slashed chest. By now he could see the door at the top of the stairs. He wondered if Emelia had developed a strategy too.
 
She had not, as it turned out. Her sole focus was on escaping the underground hideout and putting distance between her and any of the surviving gang members, with a strong preference for not fighting any more of them.

Turns out a knife was not necessarily the ideal weapon to rely on, invading a criminal gang's hideout.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she took the steps two at a time, breath ragged in her chest. A stitch was developing in her side, too; she was an innkeeper's daughter and not some athlete. This was well beyond the scope of life she had ever imagined for herself.

She managed to make it to the top of the stairs and through before dropping to the floor, panting and desperately trying to catch her breath. She got to her feet slowly, fixing to try and keep up with Decanian.
 
As soon as they had both crossed the threshold Decanian closed the door slamming it with great force. There was a lock but no key. It would have been too good. He looked around for a solution. The room bore the signs of the clash that had occurred shortly before. The pungent mustard smell of the gas that had stunned the assassins still lingered in the air, and a thin wisp of smoke rose from the broken hookah next to the wall.

On the ground, lying on their backs, were the bandits. The one hit first, with a horrendous burn on his neck and one in the center of his chest, and the one who fell last, his face melted by the heat. The men who hunted them were certainly less lethal but much more numerous. They had to do something. Emelia was exhausted, destroyed by fatigue. It seemed as if just standing up had burned away the last of her energy. They had to rest but to do so the door had to be barred.

The only way to barricade the passage was to pile the room's furniture in front of it. Gritting his teeth at the throbbing pain under his shoulder he pounced on a bookcase, knocked it over on its side and began to push it with difficulty towards the door. He could only use his left arm and it was a titanic feat. Once he positioned the piece of furniture he fell back onto it trying to catch his breath. The enemies had reached the top of the stairs and had thrown themselves at the door.

Wobbling on the precarious barricade, Decanian slipped his left hand under his dress, reaching for the wound. He tried to concentrate and cast a powerful healing spell. He hadn't had time to apply the salts and the procedure was very painful, an excruciating sensation. He broke out in a cold sweat, his jaw clenched and his eyes closed. The usual flash of light to seal the wound announced that the ordeal was over. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Now he had to think about Emelia but the problem of the door remained. The staircase was narrow and there could have been two or three people pushing, but the door was already moving. There was a desk in the corner. It would have been perfect for shoring up the barricade but it seemed too heavy for his strength and he wasn't sure that his telekinetic abilities were sufficiently refined to be able to move it.

Emelia. He had to think about her. The girl seemed to only have the strength to remain standing. Not to run nor even to help him move a table. He approached her cautiously.

"How do you feel?" - he asked.

Fumbling in his saddlebag he took out a little green satchel. It contained strange brown spheres the size of a walnut. They smelled like ginger and cinnamon.

"Only little more than sweets" - he explained - "but they are ideal for quickly recovering energy."

As if to prove it, he took one and put it in his mouth. Then he handed the bag to Emelia.
 
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