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.
 
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