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The Hunt [m] [open; pm to join!]

Started by Corvus, May 30, 2018, 05:59:13 AM

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Corvus

CONTENT WARNING: The following post contains gore and implied torture. Please read at your own discretion. If something is upsetting that I didn't include in the CW, please PM me so I can add it!





— PHAEDRUS —


"Please," the apprentice spluttered. "Please."

His desperate eyes rolled up, shining orange with torchlight. Tears slicked his cheeks and clung to his stubble in a glistening mass, mingling with the blood that caked his nose.  One nostril struggled to flare open—the other was glued shut like a red eye. For a moment, the only sound that split the silence was his deep, rattling breath.

"P-please," the man wheezed, straining against the chains—they bit into his wrists like metal serpents, wrenching him back onto the table.

The shadow merely watched, unmoving. Nothing stirred beneath its cowl; the only movement it made was the slow turn of a hammer in its gloved hand.

"Please," the man sobbed, mouth opening into a pit of ruined teeth. He slammed his head against the table, hiccuping on his own blood. His terrified eyes shot towards the cloaked figure. "Not another. Please."

It said nothing.

His eyes bulged as it approached, a silent, gliding shadow; the chains rattled at the man's legs as he kicked and bucked like a horse, trying to writhe away.   

Slowly, slowly, the bloodied hammer lofted.

"Not another," the man shrieked, drooling red. One hand spasmed like a trapped spider; the other lay limp on the table, fingers smashed into swollen pulp. "I'll tell you anything — anything, you-- I swear—— p-p-please—"

Sobbing, the man squeezed his eyes shut, thin chest jerking in rickety sobs. His heart thundered, pelting itself against his ribs, awaiting the blow, the sickening cr-cr-crunch of splintering bone and white-hot agony—

But no pain came. Breath catching in his throat, the man froze there for an agonizing heartbeat, waiting in the stillness. With a whimper, he cracked his eyes open—

His captor came into misty focus. Greasy torchlight licked the walls of the abandoned shack, limning the cloak of his tormentor, but it did nothing to light its face; he couldn't pick out a single feature in that darkness, and—with a jolt of his guts—he wondered if the bastard had a face at all.

"Anything?" The horror purred.

"Anything," he gasped, tears prickling his eyes. More bloody drool dribbled out of his mouth. "Anythi— I swear—"

Beneath his hood, Phaedrus smiled—  as much as a thing in his current form could smile —  a subtle shift of darkness, a void reorienting itself into the suggestion of a face. His fingers twitched eagerly on the hammer. A slow, rattling hiss left his cowl, and his prisoner flinched.

"Tell me where to find your Master."




Well, Phaedrus thought later, washing himself of blood, that scarcely took long, didn't it? One broken hand, a few broken teeth, and he squeals like a pig. Octavian Apsethus ought to choose better servants.

His now-ex-apprentice had gone to the crows with a red smile on his neck and a final scream on his lips.

A fine thing that he was talentless, he mused as he scrubbed his forearms. Subduing a mage would have been... much harder. Octavian would not be so simple: wait too long, and he would grow suspicious of his apprentice's absence, robbing him of the element of surprise—he had to move quickly, within the next few days.

There is quite a lot of work ahead for me, the sorcerer thought, mouth set into a grim line. By now the water of the tub swirled red, tainting the  suds a foul rose color. Phaedrus lifted a pallid hand, staring as it trickled between his manicured fingers.

Fortunate that the maids of Zantaric don't ask too many questions.


"Another round of ale, love?"

A wan smile flickered on his face. The sorcerer looked up at the barmaid beaming in his direction, and with a jerk of his chin, he slid the tankard across the rough-hewn table.

"Certainly," Phaedrus agreed, tossing a hand. He kept up the smile until she turned her back, and it stiffened into a rictus before crumbling entirely. He drummed his nails on the table, drawing a deep breath and scanning the tavern with narrowed eyes.

The Boar's Tusk was as sure a place as any to run into mercenaries and brawn-for-hire; he only hoped that his coin would be enough, and their hearts not too faint for what he planned to do. The sorcerer sat in the corner, dressed in limp taupes and blacks today, his fiery hair drawn back and hidden under a hat— all the better to blend in with the cracked plaster walls and low-hanging, smoke-charred rafters.

Barmaids drifted like ghosts between squat, scarred tables--a few raucous laughs occasionally punctured the mutters of conversation--in the corner huddled three men with furtive eyes, fanning out tarot cards and muttering fortunes--a ruddy-faced giant of a man was throwing back ale--a woman missing an eye grumbled to herself over a shot of firewhisky, her lank grey hair brushing the table.

"'Ere you go," said a voice from his left, and Phaedrus jumped, near-forgetting he'd ordered another round.

"Right," he breathed at the barmaid's surprised face, his hand twitching on the tankard. "Thank you."

Off slid a copper, and then she was gone, vanishing into the sea of patrons. As he lifted his mug, Phaedrus stared into the crowd, willing someone with a sword and hungry for gold to appear. His guts twisted, fingers tapping a frenetic melody into the wood. Come now, certainly there has to be one bloodthirsty git amongst all these people...

Kingfisher

Samuel would have hardly classed himself as bloodthirsty.  But when it came to death-dealers in this city, it served little purpose to split hairs.  The assassin had tucked himself off to one corner, nursing single drink for narly an hour.  He was people watching...after a fashion.  That was how he found the interesting jobs; look for someone who might need something and offer an ear.  It was not always the most lucrative option, but it help a man...network.

There seemed to be one potential client here today, a shifty revenant whose iridescent eyes looked for something or someone among the crowd.  Picking up his unfinished drink, the assassin threaded his way toward his potential client, stepping over the chair and taking the seat.  "Mind if I sit here?" Samuel asked, meaninglessly.  Setting his cup of wine down, the newcomer leaned back, guaging his subject for how best to move forward.  "You," he began, "seem like a man in need of help."

The assassin seemed to notice a crease in his deep red surcoat and made as if to smooth it out, absentmindedly brushing his black hand against it.  This was his offhanded way of offering the other a chance to speak.

Corvus

A figure approached.

Phaedrus' head jerked up. A tall man in a bloodred surcoat parted the crowd, moving with the fluid grace of a cat. He caught a glimpse of--was that something black?--but in the play of light he could not be sure; the man slipped into the chair across from him as if they were old friends. An oppressive aura blanketed the table--the familiar ozone-crackle of something that did not belong in this plane, manifesting as an odd pressure on his temples. What in seven hells...

The tankard froze halfway to his lips, eyes regarding him coldly for a moment, but the sorcerer recovered quick enough.

"Ah. A fine sense you have," the sorcerer smirked, leaning back into his chair with a creak and regarding the man over the rim of his tankard. A sip. Swallowing, Phaedrus set it down as delicately as if it were a family heirloom, crossing his legs and whisking out a hand. "A true maiden in distress, I am. And you look like a man in need of coin. Let us help each other, then." A faint smile played on his features, eyes glittering in the hearthlight. They flickered, cat-quick, to the man's rustle of movement, lingering a moment on his black hand. One brow arched. What the devil was that?

"That is... if you provide the right services." He tapped a nail on the wood. "Do tell."


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Kingfisher

The assassin could not help but chuckle.  "A man does not linger in shadows if he is looking for friends."  A finger from his human hand turned his own cup, though rather than taking it up, he simply studied the dead man across from him.  "I suppose it wouldn't do to mistake my profession, though," Samuel admitted.

Tracing a thumb along a black vein under his, Samuel explained, distantly, "My trade is as a hunter of men.  However, such...violent talents can quite useful in many endeavors."  In other lands, those of his trade had to be subtle, speaking in codes and innuendo.  But when most denizens of a city could be classed as a killer of some sort, explicit advertisement was sometimes unavoidable.  After all, if this man knew how to contact one of the many guilds in Zantaric, he would have done so, not take his chances in some bar.

Raising his wine to his lips, the Adelan wetworker took a drink.  "So, you if you are indeed looking for the aid of a violent man..."  Samuel adopted a calm smile that gave little away.  His business mask.  "I will require details."

Corvus

A hunter of men!

"How splendid," the sorcerer joined, a light laugh burbling from his lips. "So the gods listen, wherever they are."

Details. He weighed how much to say; then again, this is what he'd been banking on. A strange face unsought from any guilds, harder to track... but was it sheer coincidence? Or had someone followed him?

"Well, you're in luck," Phaedrus smiled and slapped his palm on the table, as if they discussed airy gossip rather than a stranger's impending death. He leaned back in his chair with a creak. "...It is precisely the death of a man that I want. A vile mage, by all accounts. It's a personal affair, you see."

He bit his lip, drumming his fingers upon the table. At the word mage, he watched his newfound companion for a sign of a flinch or hesitation.

"And you would scarcely be alone. It would be a poor thing to not see some of the job through myself. But with matters of mages, it is best to go with company." A wry smile crooked his face.

"Now... I suppose you have other talents besides swinging a sword." His eyes lingered pointedly at the man's hand, following the black veins that threaded through his skin like rivulets of ink. Phaedrus folded his hands upon the table, gaze flickering back up to the assasin's face.  "I'd love to hear of them."







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Kingfisher

Smirk largely hidden by the room's dim lighting, the assassin corrected his potential employer.  "Actually, this is my weapon," he said, puntuating his comment by placing his hand on the table.  It shivered in a most unnatural way as Samuel explained, "I find it more practical than any sword, if only for its unpredictability."  The arm began to reshape a little, sprouting razor-thin blades like hairs standing on end.  As quickly as their glinting forms appeared, they retracted back into hiding and the black mass ceased to tremble.

"My other assets are more effective, but I prefer to save them until I need them."  He was, course, refering to his ability to summon creatures from the Abyss.  Samuel patted a molded leather case full of amulets, his prefered summoning anchor.  He wondered if this revenant's prey would merit such a drastic counter.  "Perhaps you will get to see my real talents before all is through."

Draining his cup all at once, the demonlord set it back, bottom-side up.  "I am Samuel," he finally introduced himself.  "I have no trouble aiding you in your hunt, so long as my fee is met, of course."  The man paused, finding what he thought would be a fitting amount.  "Twenty-five ounces of silver should just about cover things."  Samuel wondered if he might ask more but decided against it.  Over a week's pay seemed a safe number for a day's work...

Corvus

Despite himself, he found his eyebrows creeping up.

Had he a heart, it would have pounded; instead he felt his mouth go dry, stomach flipping as he fixed on the shivering mass of the assassin's arm. One finger twitched, mouth peeling open. Another— another like—?

"Most curious," Phaedrus breathed, leaning forward to be a touch closer. The firelight danced in his widened eyes like a trapped spirit. "Most curious indeed." To be so open about ones—monstrousness—

"With any luck, we shan't need them... unless, of course, you find yourself inspired." Something mirthless curled his lips. I daresay you will. Anyone with a shred of decency would. Prying his stare from the man's arm, it drifted down to the leather pack instead, and he wondered at its contents. Curiouser and curiouser...

"Phaedrus," he introduced himself with a smile, white fingers fanning on his breast. "A pleasure, Samuel. And yes, of course — payment..." he kept his face carefully composed at the assassin's sum. Twenty-five ounces of silver? Ye, gods, he'd prefer a stab to the gut—

But he was no average hireling: he could sense the aura of power radiating from the man. Lips ironed, the man rummaged in his coin purse, thumbing the silver and counting them silently in his mind.

"Here." They glittered red as he slid them over, one brow arched. "Half for the promise of your services. The other half shall come when the quarry is dead. Fair?"

Kingfisher

Honestly, Samuel had expected the revenant to haggle, at least a little.  Then again, this was not exactly like buying produce in a market.  Besided, who was he to turn the man down now.  Collecting the coins, the contractor slipped the money into a pouch at his belt.  "Seems more than fair," he admitted.

Standing, it was clear the manhunter was anxious to begin.  Bowing to wisper into Phaedrus' ear.  "When you're ready, meet me at the door.  If we are going together, you can show me the way..."  It seemed a fitting plan.  He was unsure why the man wanted to be there; most of his clients were trying to keep their hands clean.  But the revenant insisted...perhaps there would be an interrogation.

As he stepped outside, Samuel pulled out his paper talismans.  He liked to sort them before jobs, figuring out which of his contracts might come in handy...

Corvus

And so the deal was done.

A sort of savage thrill flipped his guts: by tomorrow, one of Master's old apprentices would be dead.

Phaedrus nodded.

"Very well," he muttered, glancing around the tavern. "Let us find a place where we may speak in private." Adjusting his hat, the sorcerer drained the rest of his ale and headed for the door.

Zantaric had no shortage of tangled, silent alleys. They walked for some time before ducking in; once there, the sorcerer pulled out a map from a pocket, smoothing it against the brick wall.

"There," he pointed to a marked dot just outside the city, smudged with something that looked eerily like blood. "Just south of Zantaric, about four hours away... there's an abandoned abbey tucked in the woods. It rests on a network of catacombs..." his finger rustled over the parchment. "And that is where a necromancer by the name of Octavian Apsethus works." The sorcerer tapped the map, frowning as he pulled away.

"His apprentice is dead. Octavian will be expecting him by tomorrow -- I tracked him here; he was acquiring... supplies." A snarl downturned his mouth as he folded the map, pocketing it again.

"Test subjects. Human chattel. If we hurry... we might save more yet."

Someone moaned in the mouth of the alley. The sorcerer jumped as if he expected a knife to the back, whirling to face them; a vagrant shuffled by, drink clutched in his hands. His bleary, bloodshot eyes fixed them, lingering at their packs.

"Have a copper to spare, sers—?"

"No," the sorcerer cut, wringing his hands and staring at Samuel. If he'd a heart, it would have been pounding; instead he exhaled a shaky breath. With a spit and curse, the vagrant shuffled away again.

"Well," Phaedrus sighed, fidgeting with the inside of his pack as if to make sure everything was there; three phials clinked reassuringly under his probing fingers, along with a few rations, the apprentice's cowl, a dowsing instrument and a small length of rope. He felt the ritual dagger strapped to his belt, then—satisfied everything was in place and he hadn't forgotten anything—adjusted his cloak.

"I am ready to depart, if you are. If we head off now, we can get there before sunset. Say the word."

Kingfisher

Samuel did not like the begger's presence.  Zantaric was not a city conducive to charity and by now, most of the denizens should have known that.  Still, a few pats told him there was nothing missing on his person: talismans, a few vials of alchemicals, suppressed lambent crystal. That begged the question of what he'd been after.

Though he did not know why, the assassin felt it safe to assume this "Apsethus" character was expenting them.  He left the thought unsaid as they made for the abbey...

They compound turned out to be a spartan ruin.  Airy stone arches were the most elaborate feature, columns held together by creeping vines that snaked up through empty, decaying window lattices.  Ceramic tiles spilled offbthe roof in places, cracked piles littering an overgrown field.  Whatever building had been central to the compound was largely indistinguishable from the rest, lack of maintenance letting ceilings cave in at random.

As they were looking for the entrance, Samuel decided to ask, "Phaedrus, what exactly are the chances this necromancer has clever minions?  Like you, for instance?"  The assassin did not want to pry, but but it seemed like a relevant concern at the moment.

Corvus

The sun had begun to set, perched precariously on the horizon.

Long shadows crept beneath the arches as they picked their way through the rubble; a crow cawed, alighting on one of the ruined rafters, and fixed them with a beady eye, feathers rustling. Otherwise an unnatural silence pressed on their necks. An odd pressure started in Phaedrus' temples -- the unmistakeable reek of necromantic magics curled his nose.

This is the place.

Had he a heart, it would have pounded -- instead the sorcerer looked around, swallowing, his boots shuffling on the fallen leaves. His eyes flickered over the rubble, trying to pick out an entrance amongst the debris, but with a jolt, they flashed up to Samuel's.

Like me? It took him aback. Does he know--? Can he sense--? His guts flipped; for a moment words left him, mouth running dry.

"I don't know," he croaked at length. To occupy himself, he combed his way through the weed-choked cobbles, stopping in the middle of the abbey. "Octavian is nearly blind. He relies on servants to see... but he is also a paranoid man, and jealously guards his secrets. He doesn't like rivals... his apprentice was--lacking." A snarl curled his lip. The sorcerer fidgeted with his fingers.

"His minions would be strong, yes. Clever? Perhaps not. Still..." his eyes drifted up to the crow, sudden paranoia clenching his chest.

The man lifted a dead-white hand, clenching his fingers; a dark word spilled from his mouth, scarcely above a breath. The air shifted, changed, grew chill -- the crow scarcely had time to croak before it fell dead, hurtling to the ground. Its glassy eyes reflected the dying sun, blue marbles in a bed of black down.

"Come," the sorcerer muttered, a shadow crossing his face. "I think I see the entrance to the catacombs."





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Kingfisher

Samuel watched the crow die, saddened that such a creature should be wasted so uselessly.  The assassin kept his annoyance to himself, following the dead man to a descent of stairs leading to a rotted out wooden door.  "Never murdered a blind man before..." he muttered.

The assassin's black arm shivered, glittering white talons easing down his fingers in the form of one grotesque mockery of a hand.  "Stay behind me?" he advised, stepping down ahead of Phaedrus.  He walked easily, but lead with his right side, minimizing forward exposure.  It was a habit he was prone too.  However, he paused at the doorway.  Plucking one of his summoning talismans, the demonlord bit into the stained paper and tore it in two.

He spat as both scraps burst into violet flame.  In Samuel's hand was a small, yellow creature with one large green eye.  The slit pupil locked on the summoner and flared in recognition; the demon was hardly sapient, but it was concious enough to recognize a familiar face.  The man lifted the tiny creature to his face where half a dozen tendrils darted out and the creature bit the man about his own corrupted eye.

Turning to the revenant, the grotesque demonic eye locked on him.  "Did you need a torch or lantern?  I'm guessing it'll get dark down there."

Corvus

"Don't waste too much remorse on him," the sorcerer muttered back, absently cracking his knuckles with one hand.

He padded up towards the wooden door, trailing a corpse-white hand over it with a frown. It hummed with an electric static under his fingertips, something more than the eye could see--

A burst of violet flame made him jump. When he turned, a thing writhed grotesquely, bringing with it the ozone crackle of the nether; his eyes widened as the demon attached itself to the man's eye. What in seven hells--

"That's got to hurt, hasn't it?" the man breathed once he'd gotten his bearings, blinking away the rest of his shock. The demonic eye seemed to spin in its socket--almost comical, had it not been utterly horrifying.

"Right," Phaedrus clucked, clearing his throat. "With any luck, there shall be some inside... unless you can wrench one from the nether." A wry smile hooked his face. Devils only knew. Full of surprises, aren't we?

He turned back to the door and resumed his silent probing, frowning.

"I sense something," he muttered, trailing a hand over the cracked wood. "Ought not to barge in. It needs a toll, first..."

His hand rustled in his cloak, drawing out a small phial. With care, he uncorked it and shook out a few drops onto the door.

"The apprentice's blood," Phaedrus explained, not elaborating on how he'd obtained such a thing. "Undoubtedly Octavian would protect-- ah, here we are."

The wood drank it hungrily -- for a moment a bloodred rune threaded on the door before melting back into the grain. With a slow groan, it creaked open, exposing a steep descent of stairs that led into blackness. Guttered torches flanked the walls. Taking a deep breath, the sorcerer turned to his gruesome companion, sucking in his lips.

"Ready?"


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Kingfisher

Ironically, Samuel could and even had summoned luminous lesser demons.  However, the assassin prefered to avoid carrying active light sources as a means of avoiding detection.  Still, if Phaedrus was right, it did not defeat the purpose of having a demonic eye; he still needed the ability to spot traps in shadows.

Still he remained silent until the seal was broken, stepping in just ahead of the revenant.  "I'll lead, you direct." he was, after all, playing mercenary, meaning if his employer died, he would not be payed.  So Phaedrus would walk behind as Samuel kept his accursed eye open for any more of Octavian's surprises.

Corvus

"Right," the sorcerer breathed. He took a torch from the sconce on the wall, waving a hand. For a moment the air dropped to a freezing temperature — then the energy reoriented itself, bursting into flame on the torch's pitch. Phaedrus kept it well away from himself, suppressing a flinch. Bloody fire.

They descended.

The catacombs swallowed them like a gullet. Holding his breath, the sorcerer found himself grateful for Samuel's presence — the stairs were too narrow to walk abreast in. The torch threw wild shadows across the rough stone, and their shadows loped like tall demons alongside them.

The stairs grew steep, the air chill -- and with it came the scent of rot.

Phaedrus grimaced, pinching his nose.

"Be at the ready," he whispered, stopping behind Samuel as they finally reached the bottom. The walls swelled to an anteroom, but they were impossible to see in the pressing gloom -- the darkness felt alive, breathing on their necks.

He didn't dare move, straining to hear. Besides their own shallow breathing, the room was silent as an oubliette; the hackles raised on Phaedrus' neck, and he extended the torch, its light crushed and feeble--

A shadow leapt. He jumped, holding his breath as he saw what cast it -- a slumped, dessicated corpse, eyes dull and sunken, a sliver of teeth visible through the maggots seething over its rotten lips; its skeletal hands clasped on the hilt of a sword.

Firelight sparked off its wicked edge, and as the sorcerer cast the torch to the left, it revealed another body, equally still and hunched. Beyond, four others bent across from each other, flanking the hallway like decaying knights.

"Sentinels," Phaedrus muttered, rasping in a breath of freezing air. His hand felt numb where it clutched the torch, and he willed his arm not to tremble with cold.

"The blood seal... they must think we're his apprentice. For now. We ought to move quickly," the sorcerer whispered, not daring to raise his voice. "Do you see a door?"




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Kingfisher

Samuel smelled the so called sentinels before his companion.  He moved with significantly more confidence than the revenant behind him, able to see without much effort.  The native denizens of such an ancient grave should long since ceased drawing flies.  These were comparatively fresh, given the odor released from the six bloated masses.  "Lovely..." the assassin muttered.

After acknowledging Phaedrus' assertion, the assassin looked ahead.  There was a door and it seemed in better condition, with all the planks intact.  "Yup," he assured, guiding his employer past the carcasses.  "You check if this door is warded too while I keep an eye on these guys..."

It took a silent beat before Samuel reprimanded himself.  "No pun intended," he assured his companion as he shifted into a secure posture.  He did know how wise it would be to destroy the sentinels now but if they moved, destroying them would not prove difficult.

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