Wrathe slowly clambers up to his feet, glancing about for possible avenues of egress with one eye, while his other kept a watch for any aggressive movements from the duo, "I apologize for your roof. It was not my intent to cause any damage. I will repair it, or pay for it when I have the means."
He tries to subtly inch a few steps away from the gravel-throated man, and his intimidating blades.
Pragmatism guided him, for it was much more than a whim to take the risk: he would be dead very soon without a means to shield his body from the predators that prowled the streets. The curse of his very existence had drained him of much of his somatic vitality, but his mind remained wickedly keen.
Wise enough to understand how suicidally-dangerous it was to speak so freely with strangers, Wrathe stares intently at both men, probing for information about their stances on the wielding of arcane magics.
He intends only to speak further if he catches no sign that he has made a grave mistake in entrusting these men with confidences best left unsaid, otherwise he will just pretend he is a foolish child spouting moronic words as part of play.
The explanation of why he thinks the man to be a wizard is difficult because even he is not sure of what is going on, "Sometimes I see flashes of things." He looks around for something to help illustrate his point, but fails. "I had seen something around you that made me feel in my guts that you were a mage." Wrathe didn't see it now, or had not seen it since, which made his words seem hollow indeed.
Perhaps he was addled.
He considers mentioning his belief that the familiar manner of the rodent was suggestive of a familiar, but the mournful growl of his empty stomach interrupts that line of thinking.
Cheeks tinge crimson.
Gravel voice was putting his nasty looking pair of kukris away and shakes his head, looking between the hole in the ceiling and the boy on the ground. He crosses his arms in front of him and glances at the boy once more than basically ignores his existence.
The old man turns and opens up a cupboard, and pulls a plate out. Opening another cupboard and puts some jerky, cheese and flat dried bread on it. Walking over to a rickety table he sets the plate down and points at a chair.
"Sit and eat, it's hard to hear over your stomach," there is a wisp of smile on his face. "Don't worry about the roof, I'll have someone fix it." He leans against the counter and pulls a pipe and pouch out of his robes. Waiting for the urchin to begin eating he uses a tindertwig to light his pipe.
"Tell me about these flashes of light that you see," the old man says from behind a cloud of pungent smoke.
Gravel voice goes rigid and touches an amulet hidden beneath his cloak, visible when he shifts his arm.
"I have to go, there has been an incident in the Docks that I have to look into. I shall return later in the night so that we may continue our conversation," the cloaked man says. Bowing slightly to the old man he turns and leaves.
Wrathe takes a moment, both to ensure that the offer of victuals was not a trick, and to learn what the catch might be. He was obviously starving, but he was a willful child. Should the price be too high, then he would simply come back at another time and take his fill. His head cocks to the side, his little body leaning forward in anticipation of more words floating forth. The change of subject comes as a surprise, so with a slightly crinkled brow he skitters over near the repast. Wrathe stands next to the chair, picking bits of food from the plate, looking about ready to sprint should any sudden movement or sound or movement spook him.
Eyes track the tindertwig's localized conflagration, as the cost of purchasing such an item easily represented a month's worth of meals for the boy.
Holding a piece of his cheese up he nods towards the blue-eyed rat, asking permission to make amends, before throwing it near the old man's feet. "Forgive the rudeness our earlier meeting Sir Rat."
Wrathe's eyes hold on the amulet, affixing it to his mind. A magical means of communication perhaps?
Dragging his attention back to the old man he offers, "It has only happened twice. I get a sick feeling in my stomach, and feel like I might throw up." He talks around a wad of food that expands his cheeks in a manner reminiscent of a chipmunk, all food held in his hands. "I fainted the first time. This time I only threw up a bit and got light-headed. I saw you with colours about you; purples and blues."
Feeling much more comfortable after the gravel man had left he introduces himself, "I am Wrathe Jor Sepai."
With wide eyes, though one is barely able to be seen beneath the swelling of his last beating, he asks, "Are you a wizard sir?" Excitement pulls his mouth apart in an anticipatory sort of rapt wonder.
Daxniss had managed to sit against the wall rocking back on her haunches, unable to tear her gaze away from the skinless woman.
A rat started to scurry close by, it stopped, letting a squeak of fear out, fleeing out into the open, away from the alley along with a mongrel mutt, yelping in terror away from the dumb stuck girl.
The old man puffs his pipe several times, seemingly lost in thought. The rat looks down at the chuck of cheese and climbs down the side of the old man's robe. Retrieving the chuck of cheese, the blue eyed rat climbs back up to his shoulder perch, eating the cheese.
The amulet the Wrathe caught a glimpse of was one of plain silver, unremarkable and forgettable.
"Blues and purples you say," the Old Man scratches his cheek. Whether or not that means anything to him, Wrathe does not know. Once more, he looks down and locks gazes with the child. "I'm willing to bet a weeks worth of meals that you aren't of full blooded human breed, not with those eyes. Yet, you don't appear to be a tiefling. What are you descended from young one?" The Old Man asks a cloud of smoke oozing from his nostrils.
Something about the sight change in tone alerts Wrathe to the subtle change in the question. The boy feels like the Old Man knows exactly what he is and is waiting for him to fess up. It has the feeling of being some sort of test. Wrathe has the feeling that a lie here might not be in his advantage.
Lying upon the sack of farm goods, Argon can only stare as the eight guardsmen attack with polearms, blades, hammers and arrows. From what he can tell, the creature lets them hit it, offering only a token defense. Six of the guard had struck deep into the creature, there weapons still sticking into it's form. A chill runs through Argon as he hears a grating, hacking noise. The monster was laughing.
With a swiping motion, it becomes a black blur of movement, slashing at the legs of the guards, the polearm's wooden handle snap as it spins. With exaggerated motions, it slides it claws across the guards armor and flesh like a painter slashing at a canvas. None of the eight guards survive. Argon swears it takes hours for it to finish it's slaughter of the guards. Worst of all is the horrid grace of it's motions as it almost dances around the group of guardsmen.
Sitting against the wall of a nearby building, staring down at the body of the man missing the back of his skull and brains. Her mouth opens and closes, nonsense falling out turning to gibberish. The mongrel dog turns around and starts barking into the alleyway. Somewhere in her mind, Daxniss can hear the shouts of people behind her in the street running forward to investigate.
A wizard the old robed man must be, for only a wizard would be so gosh darned mysteriously elusive. By gum he did not even know the man's name. The boy files the enigmatic mien away for later consideration.
Wrathe considers the man's words for a time, absently chewing far too quickly for his stomach's contentment, and finally shrugs in response.
"I honestly know not."
He imagined that he was human, but he had never met a blood relative, so he could not be sure. The vibrancy of his eyes was the reason the other children refused to play with him, and called him 'freak', which appeared to support the old man's hypothesis.
He was different.
Ever inquisitive he asks if the old man had any ideas in regards to his lineage.
The pain of a thousand knives, or what he imagines that to be, affixes itself to the back of young Argon. The horror from the hells had swiped at him, and he thought it had missed. Unfortunately, the creature had been faster than Argon had suspected, and had taken another slash at him with those swordfingers of his.
Now he lies in a pile of crates, a bag of tomatoes on top of him somehow, breathing heavily, trying not to move for fear of a reprisal by his very own wounds. To add insult to this, he has pissed in his pantalons. And then the unbelievable story he had found himself in writes its own next chapter, with the guards attacking the creature and the creature responding in less-than kind. The sight makes him lose the meagre contents of his stomach.
He tries to get up, wincing in pain, and make a quiet exit of the scene.
(dex +6, size +4)
The Old Man puffs on his pipe a few more times, brown eyes never leaving the urchin. He appears to appraising Wrathe, not in the sense of how much he would be worth to slavers, it was something more. It almost seems like he is examining the Threads of Fate that made of Wrathe's existence.
"I might be able to tell you of your lineage. Where you born here on Sel Torin, or where you born elsewhere?" The Old Man puffs on his pipe once more. He turns back to the cupboard and pulls out a cup. Walking over to a water barrel, he lifts the lid and uses the ladle and fill the cup. He sets it down near the plate of food and goes back to the spot he was leaning against on the counter. Wrathe notices that the Old Man stays at least an arms length away, something he seems to do without even thinking about it. Something perhaps a person who had spent their life in the arcane arts might do.
Argon carefully begins to peel of the debris that had fallen on him. Focusing on trying to get away helped, anything other than watching the Thing reduce the guardsmen to bloody pieces of gore. Watching that massacre would not help his mind in anyway shape or form. It croaked out that awful laugh as it made its own art. Argon didn't care that he was covered in piss, bile and his own blood. His back burned and froze at the same time, the wounds pulsing in counter beat to his heart. All he wants to do is get away. Argon feels oddly sluggish, his limbs not wanting to working as fast as he wants them to.
Finally, the boy manages to get out of the pile and using the nearby wall to steady himself, makes it to his feet. A glance at the creature revels it was finishing up with the guardsmen. When the last guard fell to the blood soaked cobblestone, the creature bends down as if admiring its handy work. With horrid ripping sound, it begins to jerk out the spines and skulls of the mutilated guards.
People rush up and surround Daxniss and the brainless corpse laying at her feet. Several people vomit at the sight of the man's corpse. As violent as life may sometimes be, seeing someone with the back of their skull torn free and brains scooped out was a horrific one. Cries of shock and horror are the norm. A kind looking middle aged man, skin burnt from a lifetime spent working the docks kneels down and puts a gentle hand on Danxiss's shoulder.
"What happened here little one? Your safe now, don't be crying," the man says trying to comfort her. He is blocking the sight of the corpse from the young girl.
Argon makes it a short distance, confident that the creature doesn't notice him anymore. He is just about to turn down the next street when a another group of guards coming running around the corner. They didn't seem like the usual guard that he had seen around the Dock ward. Their weapons and armor looked better cared for, and of a much higher quality. They charge down the street at the monster. Argon can hear the strong voice of one of the guardsmen begin chanting. It sounds like some sort of prayer.
Wrathe's speech far surpasses what anyone would expect of one of his years, which is only surprising if you thought him to be a human. As a Xthian his lifespan is but a fraction of what it would have been left unsullied by his family's ancestral curse, leaving him as a strange amalgam of a child in terms of physicality, but with the mental faculties of an adult. Death will come swiftly for the emaciated child well before his expected fourscore and twenty.
A small secretive smile is reflected in his eyes, an incredibly private memory just barely hinting that he knew more, for he his seizure had been carried out sloppily, and he had been left among his family too long. He remembered, but it was nothing he would speak more of, for he did not want to further endanger his family.
"I was born upon Sel Torin. I remember being held, laughter, gentle caresses, warmth, and soft voices."
Those eyes harden.
"Cruel taloned hands grabbed me and dragged me to the evil depths of perdition. It is a place where the strong subjugate the weak. A place where anything but complete obedience is subjected to tortures unimaginable. It is a place where perfect order rules, and those that are unable to be easily broken are marked for eternal torment."
With this he raises up his scarred hand, branded with the upside down pentagram of the Asmodean sigil, and shows it to the old man.
His indomitable spirit shines in those eyes, and quirks his mouth up into the warmth of a smile.
His eyes were not normal to Xthian. They were connected to his punishment, which he dispassionately relays.
Some of his earliest memories were of ragged panting, lying exhausted on bruised hands and knees, watching as his sweat and blood clumped the dirt beneath him. Never was there words that accompanied the abuse. An Asmodean edict had been broken, no matter how insignificant all were reason to pass judgement, and torture was ever the sentence.
A razor-sharp talon lingers a hairsbreadth from the Xthian's eyes, tantalizingly close, until it pushes excruciatingly slowly into the fleshy sac. Flesh yields. The process is repeated once again, lubricated and encouraged by the cursed child's agonized screams. Supple flesh yields to the advance of the cruelty, releasing a wash of crimson tears. Though he grits his teeth, not wanting to give his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing his cries, he can only accept so much flaying of tissue before the first agonized scream exits his throat. A macabre wet snap frees his orbs from their sockets bringing forth a slurry of sloughed off tissues, and sickly-warm vitreous fluids. A wash of crimson pain and horror threatens to steal his sanity as he feels the tickle upon his cheeks of his own nerve bundles dangling from the empty sockets.
Replacement eyes had been forged out of silver by those that had aided his escape, opening his portal for an unexpected escape.
"I have walked Sel Torin for less than a tenday."
Pride almost steals his next words, but pragmatism wins out, "Please sir, I beg, I need the magic. They are stalking me."
Watching how the town guards appeared to fight the creature the way a mouse might fight a cat surprises Argon, and makes him wonder if all guards were the same. Surely there exist guards, or warriors, who are made of much tougher stuff?
But when the last one is down, Argon can't help but think he is next, so a sudden fear takes him. A healthy fear. The same fear that has kept him alive for much of the last two years kicks Argon into motion as the opportunity presents itself. This happens as a new group of guards shows up to deal with the problem.
Argon feels fear for the guards too, which is strange, as he has no love of city guards. But imagining them as more mice attacking the cat is too much; nevertheless, he is impressed by their courage, and he finds himself firmly on their side as the underdogs.
But the Fear makes him run, as all these thoughts cross his mind. He scurries down the street for a bit and then into an alley.
Whether it is morbid curiosity, foolish hope, or a secret death wish that makes him stop, he does not know. But stop he does, and back out of the alley to watch the scene he sneaks. He wants to see if these mice have bigger teeth.
Daxniss managed to pull herself together saying while pointing to the spot on the alley roof where she had seen the skinless woman " On..... the...... roof.... skinless woman lies." Shudder she moves to stand trying to get her feat under control as attention has been drawn to her.
The Old Man is silent, looking at Wrathe from within a cloud of pipe smoke. His brown eyes bore into the boy as if seeking something out of place with his tale.
"So there are members of the cursed tribe that still live. How interesting," the old man mutters, half to himself. "Hold up your marked hand once more."
Argon is surprised to see that newest guardsmen seem to show no fear of the Thing. That was made more impressive since it had painted the mouth of the alleyway and the street it emerged from with the blood and gore from at ten different souls. At a few blows are traded with the monster , it stops it chocking laughing noise. The one guardsmen who was chanting raises his hands to the blackened sky. Several of the guardsmen who where engaging the monster suddenly jump back.
A rolling column of fire suddenly roars into existence around the monster and it screeches in pain. Several seconds later the bright flames vanishes as if they never had existed in the first place. The battle increases in intensity as more of guardsmen join in.
Several people from the circle around Daxniss head into the alleyway to see the skinless woman that had been hung by her feet. Cruel looking nails had been driving into her feet almost 15 feet in the air. A sight that Danxiss had no intention of getting a better look, unlike those that walk into the alleyway after lighting torches.
Daxniss is helped to her feet by the kindly seeming middle aged man after several minutes of almost hysterical sobbing. Once her feet are firmly underneath her, Daxniss notices something wrong. She knows that at least four people had just went into the alley with torches and yet the light is gone. It doesn't look like the man trying to comfort her notices, nor do the other three people standing around them. The three seem more interested in the corpse right at their feet.
With a puff on his pipe, the old man leans back after looking at Wrathe's marked palm.
"So what makes you think that the arcane arts will help you? That's what got your tribe into trouble in the first place, according to the recorded history of the time," the Old Man speaks up after several moments of contemplation. "Wouldn't prostrating yourself in a church before a god and plead for their protection be a safer idea?" he asks the boy. "Nothing quite like the divine to protected ones immortal soul." The last is said with a hint of bitterness in the old man's eyes.
Argon can see from his vantage point out side of the battle that something is crawling down from the roof. He couldn't make out distinct details, it's very form seemed to wrap the shadows around its form. Whatever it was, it looked like it was getting ready to pounce on the chanting guardsmen.
Tiny brows contemplatively knit at the mention of the word "tribe". The thought of having a familial connection, something everyone else appeared to take for granted, was a hope that he had never entertained.
Grudgingly raising up his hand once again, the fingers remain unconsciously curled until the last moment. A secret to be kept hidden at all times. The wound would ever be painful, for it would never heal. It would act as a constant reminder of his insolence, and meant to provide a lesson to one too obstinate to heed their teachings.
If truth be told, Wrathe wore the brand like a badge of honour.
He considers his answer for a long time, which gives him time to take in the room (searching for the accoutrements one would associate with wizardry), give his stomach time to settle with libations, and to rub the mounting bruise upon his shoulder. It was a surprise that the fall hadn't killed the fragile boy.
"I have spent nearly every breath of this life as a pawn of impossibly powerful beings, as part of a game that I have no ability to affect the outcome. Their control of me was unwarranted. I will never bend a knee to such beings, they would have to kill me. This is why I would not become a caster of divine magics; I would control my own fate for good or for ill."
"Two anni I spent dwelling in the depths of total darkness with my eyes torn from my skull. During that time I was thrown into a dank cell and left to rot among the damned. Many tales were uttered between the constant torments, but my rapt attention was fixed only on the feathered one speaking of the pursuit for knowledge beyond a mortal's ken and sorcery."
Mordsine had an acidic tongue, no sense of humour, and an ill-temper. The volatile tengu wizard had struck the blind child with a closed fist often, and extorted him for the meagre scraps of food provided. The inquisitive Wrathe cared not, the search for forbidden knowledge was all the nourishment that he required. It was the tengu that had forged the young Xthian's eyes from cast-off silver, and it was a debt owed, either in freedom for Mordsine, or death for Wrathe.
"I wish to test my wits and wield the ancient forces of the universe to act as a shield for others and armour for myself."
"Hmm, prideful one aren't you? Still, if you truly desire to aid others and protect yourself, the Arts might offer you more.., avenues to save your soul," the Old Man speaks up after several long moments of silent contemplation. He taps his chin in thought. "That your eyes where forged from silver while you where in the Hells is an odd choice. Clearly not a metal your average devil would choose to use."
"What was this feathered one that you mentioned? A Deva from the higher planes that had been captured?" Curiosity lighting a fire behind the Old Man's sharpe brown eyes. He looks Wrathe up and down for a moment or two. "Also, can you read or write?" The Old Man asks rather nonchalantly, considering it was something that could get a person killed.
Daxniss' eyes widen even more in terror, as the mensfolk that had gone down the alley, tasting something in the air, this wasn't going to get any better.
Wrathe describes the deceptive, duplicitous and cunning crow-like Mordsine: broad beak, both arms and legs ending in powerful talons, and body covered in iridescent blue-black feathers.
"A tengu I believe him to be, and I do not believe that his choice of materials was an accident."
His small head cocks to the side at the strange inflection the old man has to his voice at the mention of literacy, as if the question meant much more than he was stating. He nods, "I can speak, understand, read, and write several languages."
Although the man in front of her was trying to be supportive and help break through Daxniss terror, it still managed to be a brief moment of calm. Daxniss was glad that the man was helping hide the body of the man, missing the back of his skull and the brain. Something still was infusing a level of terror in her, Daxniss wasn't certain if it was the skinless woman that she managed to stop looking at, something else was making her still feel afraid, whatever had taken the flesh of that woman and hang her from the wall.
Daxniss manged to compose herself to say " The woman is hanging from the wall, where can we go from what is doing this." She manages to gasp, while staring at the man, wondering if for a brief moment he might pick her up and move away from this alley entrance.
Daxniss held no illusions that this man would look out for her, life had been too cruel in her short time still, that he would have enough compassion to help someone even, an urchin was something that brought tears to her eyes.
Seeing something on the roof, about to pounce, Argon's heart jumps, even as the deep wounds on his back are so painful he feels he may pass out. The thought of a cat returns, though these are no mice. He feels a great deal of comfort in that knowledge.
In a heart jump Argon decides he must act, even if is only to yell. He does not take time to take a big breath, but yells with all he has, with all his might. "ON THE ROOF! A LION!" His voice is big for his age, but it sounds small and feminine to him now. His kind live shorter lives than regular humans, but boys' voices change only a bit earlier, so Argon has a few years to wait, yet.
He realizes it's not a lion, but could be something similar, a black panther or something; but having said it, he now feels stupid. Still, he watches to see if they heard him.
"A tengu? That would make a bit more sense then a Deva," the Old Man chuckles at his error. He does listen with rapt attention as Wrathe tells of his time with Mordsine the tengu in Hell. Repacking his pipe, he leaves the kitchen for several minutes, saying he has to grab a few things. Wrathe hears the rustling of sounds like parchments and several drawers open and closing amid the old man mumbling to himself. The blue eyed rat watches the boy from the kitchen counter.
The Dockworker smiles gently, thinking for a few seconds.
"Perhaps me wife could use a helper, we'll have to talk to her. No promises on her saying yes," the middle aged man helps her to his feet as he gets to his with a slight creak. Daxniss notices that the torchlight from the towns folk that had entered the alleyway has suddenly gone out and it seems very disturbingly quite. And that the other Dock folk that had been looking at the brainless body had fallen eerily silent.
Argon's voice rings out loud and true enough, getting the attention of the guardsmen had called down fire. Looking up and over the man spies the shadowed creature getting ready to pounce off of the wall. Shouting a command, several of the guards in the back draw javelins and attack the figure. They succeed in pinning it to the wooden walls with a surprisingly rapid stream of javelins. Argon's attention is pulled back to the fight as the man begins chanting once more.
The old man returns carrying several battered strips of parchment and what looks to be an ink pen, rather than charcoal or a quill and ink pot . The cost of such an item was staggering, an item that one would not expect to see in the Puddles at all.
"Alright, show me what you know, transcribe what you've told me in every language that you can speak and write in" the Old Man says as he sets down the parchment and beautifully made ink pen. "I don't need a copy in every language, this is more proof of what you know." he says with a hint of a smile.
Setting himself to the task, Wrathe's small hands set the ink pen scritching across the battered strips of parchment, transcribing a few sentences into the common tongue, then following with infernal, undercommon, abyssal, elven, dwarven, halfling and gnomish.
He ended up with as much ink on his face and fingers as the page, and there were a few glaring mistakes, but overall it is a decent attempt.
Daxniss starts to look around at the crowd that should still be there " The torch in the alley is gone, where are the others?" She whispers.
The Old Man looks over the transcript of Wrathe's tale, nodding to himself more than once. He glances up to look at the boy, and the sight of the ink covered face causes a grin to find purchase on his wrinkled face. The Old Man takes a few puffs off of his pipe, blowing out a few smoke rings as he contemplates the otherworldly youth that had fallen through his ceiling. Looking up at the hole in his kitchen roof, a frown appears for a few moments.
"Most excellent young Wrathe, most excellent indeed," the Old Man says looking back at the boy. Glancing back up at the ceiling, he mutters a few words that Wrathe is unable to make out. Gesturing at the damaged hole, the old man releases a bit of his magic. Time almost seems to rewind as the debris pulls itself from the floor, through the air and back in it's undamaged place. This takes all of half a minute to do what labors would spend almost an entire day fixing.
A few more moments pass, guardsmen slowly circling the clawed monster. As they complete the circle, the chanting guard finishes his prayer. Hands and head held up to the night sky, it seems like nothing happens. Until the creature screams it's horrid nails-on-blackboard screech, causing most of the guard to shy back a step. The creature flays at the air, screaming, until it is suddenly engulfed in a bright green flame. The flames seem to pull themselves inward as the creature vanishes.
The guardsmen look around for survivors while the chanting guard takes a knee and seems to fall into prayer. Argon feels the onset of the paralytic poison as his body stiffens. The boy realizes that he is still bleeding, as his vision begins to darken slightly and to tunnel. Argon notes a flash of warm light surround the guards for a moment or two. Rising to his feet, the chanting guard checks alleyways for the source of who warmed him. The guardsman arrives in time to catch Argon before he falls face first to the cobblestones.
"What do ya be saying lass? They be right behind me," the dockworker says as he stands to his feet and turns around. Daxniss sees that the four are kneeling by the brainless corpse, arms hanging loosely at their sides, heads bowed, jaws slack. "Oie! What be ya doing, get on your feet! What be the word on those in the alley?" the dockworker says to the friends he had been drinking with. Daxniss doesn't see a hint of movement coming from the four kneeling men.
"We have a great deal to discuss, and would be better suited in more comfortable surroundings. Follow me," the Old Man walks out of the kitchen to the living room. Muttering something, Wrathe is treated to a doorway sized section of the floor lifting up revealing a staircase leading down. The Old Man begins to descend down the spiral stone staircase.
Daxniss takes a small step away having a sinking feeling that the others standing by the body were dead. Whatever was killing people was completely sillent and unseen. " We should go, there dead as well...." she whispers tugging on the man's sleeve.
Argon realizes for the first time that his wounds are even worse than he thought - there is some kind of poison in them! His head feels woozy.
Still, he is overjoyed to see the creature that had downed him disappear in such a fine and dramatic fashion, although any way at all is fine with him. His last thought as he fades out of consciousness is that those guards are much better than the first mice to show up, and that he might like to become one of them someday, if only, if only.... if ... only.....
Dreams appear like puppet shows, with the nasty monster puppet cutting the other puppets to ribbons with its razor claws, and then starting on the puppeteers. As the puppeteers' blood seeps under the puppet screen, all the audience, who are strangely the mice guards, start to scream and run away. The monster puppet then begins heading straight for Argon.
"Nah, they just be having too much to drink and the sight be a harsh one," the dockworker says with a glance over his shoulder at Daxniss. It sounds more like he is trying to convince himself that this is actually the case. "What be yer problem, ya deaf?" he puts a hand on the nearest ones shoulder. The kneeling man falls over wordlessly across the the brainless corpse. The man is dead, enough light coming from the a nearby torch to see that he is no longer breathing. His eyes are opening and completely white.
The sound of a wet clicking noise emanates from the crooked alleyway. The sound raises the fine hairs on the back of your next.
"Oh. S!%#." the worker looking at the alleyway. "Run. Run right now."
While its only 10 to 15 feet to the light of the street, the young girl feels like its miles away. Right after the dockworker speaks, Daxniss hears the man grunt. Turning her attention back to the man, she can see the back of his shirt rapidly blossoms red wetness.
"Oh, this is important to know. Magic is typically forbidden, as is the knowledge of reading and writing. Both will get you killed in one fashion or another," the Old Man cautions as they travel down the spiral stairs. The old man stops, and turns to look down at Wrathe. "I have a..., guest of sorts. Another lost urchin, this one I literally tripped over a few nights ago. It hasn't spoke since I found it, but it does seem to be intelligent, more than just an animal. It was disguised in filthy rags, which I had to use magic to clean, the smell was vile." The old man turns and continues down the damp stairs.
"I don't think that its dangerous, just scared. I figured I give you a fair warning," Wrathe can hear the grin in the Old Man's voice.
Before much longer they two reach a thick, iron-bound wooden door. The old man lays his palm flat upon the door for several seconds. Wrathe can hear a number of thick clunks as the door unlocks.
"Any questions?" the elder asks looking down at Wrathe.
Argon's fever rages, his dreams are bloody and violent, filled with terror and a sense of dread. Several times, he doesn't get away from the Clawed Monster and it slowly tears him apart. In one of the darker dreams, it is Argon that is the Clawed thing that does the slaying. Flaying the skin from his own bones was a mind twisting nightmare. Before long, Argon can feel himself sliding into an Abyss that there was no escape from.
Slowly, a warm light that pulses with it's own heartbeat intrudes upon his nightmares. The nightmares stubbornly try to fight off the warm light. It fairs as well as the night sky at dawn.
Daxniss starts running as fast as her legs can travel, darting in a zig zagging trying to stay out of reach of whatever was killing as these people. Terror, making her feel like it is right behind her, indeed it could be for all she knew since she couldn't spare a glance behind her.
The dockworker was dead, he could have been spared this night.. maybe, regret was pushed to the side as survival was more important than feelings of remorse.
Emotions roar through him like molten steel.
The magic.
Jaw hanging agape the young Xthian looks from the ceiling, to the old man, back to the ceiling, and so on. He takes a deep steadying breath as he feels the black widow tickle of a thousand legs caressing his skin.
Pearl-white teeth flash from 'neath a crooked smile that is reflected in his cold metallic eyes.
Following the old man's lead he paces silently behind and descends into what he hopes to not be his tomb.
So many questions.
He wanted to ask the old man his name, what magical tradition he represented, how long it took to become a mage, what sacrifices would be required of him, if the mage would train him, if there would be a cost and how he could ever even begin to repay such a priceless gift, how the old man had survived in a world that hated his kind, what he planned to do with the other urchin, why the old man lived in the slums of the Puddles, if the man was or is an adventurer, what the old man can do with his magics, what organization the man represented or recruited for, who the other man was, what the other man did in the organization, what were the tenets of that organization, and what trials the fallen recruit had failed to overcome.
There were a thousand thousand other questions for the inquisitive youth.
He was too close to the magic to lose it now by an accidental slip of the tongue, so he shakes his head.
The Old Man watches as Wrathe tries to figure out if he was going to ask anything questions. He arches an eyebrow when the boy shakes his head "No," a slight grin on his wrinkled face. He turns to the door and pushes it open. Two things happen for Wrathe all at once. For starters, the light that pours into the staircase is equal to that of a sunny, cloudless day. Secondly, his natural ability to see magical emanations suddenly reminds the boy of it's existence. There is enough magic in the room to temporarily blind the boy.
Daxniss serpentines trying to increase distance between herself and the invisible thing. She feels the slightest brush on her right shoulder blade. From just the slightest brush of the creature, Daxniss feels her very soul being pulled from her body. Heart beating erratically within the child's chest, she can see someone round the corner as her vision is fading.
Wrapped in a black cloak and cowl, armor seemingly made from shadows the figure stands in the middle of the mouth of the alleyway. The figure suddenly runs forward, both hands drawing something out of hidden pockets. Daxniss can barely see the small grey orbs that fly past her head. Hearing them hit something in mid-air behind her, the alley-way suddenly explodes with bright light that makes the sun seem dim. The next thing that Daxniss realizes is that the shadow cloaked man is carrying her as if she weights nothing.
Nightmares are slowly being beaten back by the warm light that had seems to grow as the darkness retreats. The sense of peace and warmth fills Argon, as the poison in his system is cured by divine energies. The pain from the claw slash that had followed him into unconsciousness was receding. The pressure within the wounds was disappearing, letting the boy fall into a more restful slumber.
Starburst explosions explode within his skull, tearing forth a ragged grunt and throwing him to a knee. Clawed fingers futilely try to contain the contents of his skull aided by clenched eyelids and gnashing teeth.
It takes Wrathe time for him to sort through the pain and confusing stimuli before he can catch his breath and stagger to his feet.
His eyes squint open slowly.
Daxniss kept fading in and out of awareness after the creature had touched her shoulder, all she could feel was a searing agony. It only faded after the other figure had ran past her, after that only the vague sensation that someone was carrying her.
When Wrathe can open his eyes once more and focus on what is physically present he is treated to an unusual sight. He can see a mixture of both academic interest and concern played out on the Old Man's face. Concern being chief upon his wrinkled face.
"Are you alright? I wonder if the magical energy triggered your magic sight? Or is it too bright? I seem to remember reading something about your tribe having an aversion to light," the Old Man seems tone becomes dryer, as if he was lecturing a class of students. "Well, it seems that you'll survive." The old man says after several moments of looking at Wrathe. The boy shakily gets to his feet once more.
Across the ward, in the Dock district a cloaked figure runs through the shadowy streets. The bundle that he carried didn't seem to slow him down any as he maneuvers through the streets at a near inhuman speed.
"The demon has poisoned your soul, your lucky to have survived this long," come the gravely voice of the man(?) who saved her. "I'm taking you to someone that might be able to save your life."
Daxniss will remember it strange that the persons voice didn't sound concerned, more like it was nothing more than an errand he happened to be running at the time. As if saving people from demons in the middle of the night just happened to be his job.
Looking within the hidden basement of the Old Man's house, Wrathe sees a chamber perhaps twice the size of the house above. It is rather spartan, all things considered. A long, battered looking table sits in the middle of the chamber, complete with an odd number of mismatched chairs. There is a figure sitting at the far end of the table, staring at the open door. Other than a pair of sapphire colored eyes, the rest of the short figure was hidden underneath a deep hooded cloak. The figure was covered in an dirty, tan colored, over sized robe. Wrathe could spot dirty bandages wrapping the figures hands that fearfully clutched a book.
There are several bookshelves, almost ten feet in length, positively groaning with books and scrolls. There was another part of the room, sectioned off with cloth screens that looked to be a kitchen area of sorts. The other two sectioned off areas looked to be a sleeping area and the other, Wrathe thought he could see a metal tub of some kind.
"Wrathe, I'd like you to met the young person I tripped over several days ago," he looks at the robed figure. "I was telling the truth when I told you I mean you no harm." The figure seems to relax it's death grip on the book it was holding. "That's better. Now, proper introductions are in order. This young one is called Wrathe, and is possibly more eager to learn about magic then you are. As I have mention, my name is Dainoth. What is your name young one?" the old man asks, patient for the answer.
After several long moments of being stared at, the hooded figure nods.
"...Ssilax. I was named Ssilax," the figure finally says after examining the two for several minutes. The robed one seems to relax a little bit more. It voice is sibilant in nature, either coming out of a mouth completely with a split tongue. Or from the maw of something not human.
Wrathe would guess from his time spent in Hell, that the voice didn't come out of the mouth of anything human.
The fever dreams have finally faded, letting Argon slip into a peaceful slumber. Before drifting further into a deep sleep, he is positive that there is someone watching him. It feels.., safe. Almost like everything that had happened had been some horrible nightmare and his parents had come in to chase the nightmares away.
Wrathe steadies himself against the wall, his pained eyes fighting to accommodate to the burned circles that pervade his vision, his skull dully throbbing in time with his life's beat.
He nods that he will survive to Dainoth.
Splayed fingers interpose themselves between the Xthian and the light source, creating a meagre defence that provides pathetic tendrils of shade to hide behind.
The dragonkin's silence is appreciated since it gives time to settle his stomach and staunch the flow of blood from his nostril, while he takes in the occupants and the room with squinted eyes.
His eyes linger on the books and the untapped possibility they may contain until his curiosity wins out and he migrates over to the shelves to lovingly caress their spines, catalogue their titles, feel their dust mingle with his grime, and soak in their musty perfumes.
Propriety was something that was expected of every denizen of Hell and as such he tears his attention away from the books to greet the other urchin, politely offering his full attention. "Ssilax," He considers the word for a time before offering the other prospective mage a smile and a bow, "It is a pleasure to meet you."
He considers offering a hand, but imagines that it will be taken as an attempt to steal his book, so he stays far away from the other's personal space.
When the door had first begun to unlock, Ssilax had froze, clutching the book he had been reading. Heart pounding he looked once more for some place to hide. There still wasn't a good spot to hide, he had been down here for several days. That knowledge didn't stop his eyes from darting around. Observing the concern the the old human male shows for what looks like another urchin like himself. 'Not like me,' the dragonkin thinks bitterly to himself. Still, it seems the old humans concern is genuine.
Something Ssilax was having a great deal of trouble believing. The young dragonkin had already suffered greatly at the hands of humans.
After giving his name, Ssilax carefully gets stand up. The bundled figure stiffly walks over to the bookshelf, giving Wrathe a wide berth. He has to carry the book he was reading pressed against his chest, held there by his wrists. Clenching the book earlier had made them feel like his hands where on fire. Again.
Gently, Ssilax slides the book he had been reading back into it's place. Moving as if each step was painful, the young dragonkin moves back to his chair and sits back down with some effort. Rearranging his robes he leans back in the chair.
"I organized your books, the nonmagical ones I mean," Ssilax says shyly. "There alphabetized, and collections are put back in order." It sounds like he is expecting to be struck. "I'm sorry, you said I could look at them, so I thought I would repay you." The robed figure blurts out.
Shifting his sapphire gaze to Wrathe he looks at the near human, almost staring. A few moments after it becomes uncomfortable the robed and bandaged figure speaks again.
"I think your eyes are really neat looking," the sibilant voice says, the owner not making eye contact anymore.
Ssilax hopes the newcomer doesn't hurt him. He had almost felt safe hidden down under the old human's hut.
When the short robed and cloaked figure stiffly walks over to the bookshelf, it's robe had ridden up a bit. Both Wrathe and Dainoth catch the sight of a sight of a scaled tail shifting uneasily, as if it knew it was exposed. While most of the scales where of a shining platinum, near the bottom of the tail and the end where blackened scales, pitted and split by heat. The same with the heavily bandaged clawed feet that could be glimpsed. The scales on it's feet looked like molten gold, aside from blacked fire damage. When it slides the book back, they can see that the same gold and burnt damage is repeated under the loose dirty strips of cloth pretending to be bandages.
Dainoth looks at Wrathe, the two share a glance. Once again, Wrathe can see the mixture of genuine concern and academic interest. The Old Man looks over and smiles warmly at Ssilax. Wrathe notes that the old man seems to make it a point to not bare his teeth when he smiles.
"You have my thanks Ssilax. That was a task I had been putting off for a few years now," Dainoth chuckles. As the robed figure slowly moves back to the chair the old man looks over the job that the had been done. "Excellent work, my thanks once more. You didn't have to do anything, you are under no obligations to repay my hospitality" Dainoth says with a gentle smile.
Wrathe notes that the short robed figure smells faintly of burnt leather.
Danxiss floats back to consiousness from the sound of Gravel voice speaking. Finally opening eyes that seemed like they had been glued shut, she sees that he is touching a silver amulet.
"Yes, I'm outside your window," Danxiss listens to the one sided conversation. She becomes aware that they are someplace that wasn't the Docks, it looked far to clean and official. They are outside a large stone building, in a spacious alleyway, surprisingly clear of debris and the stench of the refuse.
The ornate window, one of several spaced out at regular intervoles, opens up and a young man with a serious expression leans out the window.
Argon is brought out his deep slumber by the sound of a faintly familiar voice. It takes a few second of listening before he realizes that it is the voice of the chanting guardsmen.
"Another one? That makes 2 survivors out of 37 slain. And those are just the ones we found," comes the sound of the guard's deep baritone voice. From behind heavily eyelids, Argon can see that the guard is talking to someone outside of his window. He and the other speak in quite tones.
"Aye, this one was marked by a Stalker. You know what that means," Daxniss feels a chill slither down her spine as Gravel Voice speaks to the other man.
"The one we found actually saved us, 'though he has been clawed by the one you warned us about," It sounds to Argon like this was a rare than that anyone survived the Thing that clawed his back.
"Gather that one up then, and tell the old man we're stopping by. I'll fetch us..., transportation," Gravel voice says. Turning his attention to the clearly awake Daxniss, the hooded and cowled figure looks at the child in his arms. She notes that for just one part of second, Daxniss could swear that his eyes gleamed burning red. And then nothing, just darkness.
"Stay here, that man is a healer. You and another need to be taking to someone who can deal with is effecting your soul. Plus you are being tracked by the thing that killed those in the alleyway," Gravel voice says with brutal honesty as he sets her down in the doorway. "I'll be back. comes the gravelly voice of the man as he turns with a snap of black cloak.
Argon is fully awake by the time the guardsmen had closed the window and spoken something softly to himself.
"Ah, good, your awake. You look like heard our exchange, my apologies for waking you. The creature that attacked you has never left anyone it wounds alive. I managed to slow the poison within you and heal most of the damage so you sound be fit to travel. However, without a different source of aid, my own divine skills will not be able to save you," the guardsmen runs a hand through his short sandy hair as he helps Argon to his feet. Brown eyes filled with warmth and caring, he nods to Argon. "I'll make sure that you get the help you require. It's the least I can do for saving both myself and my men. Without your aid we would all be dead."
Argon realizes that he is dressed in a simple linen garb, but it is at least clean and fits someone of his size.
By the time the two make it down a flight of stair, Argon needing a bit of aid walking as his limbs felt rubbery, Gravel voice had been true to his word.
A simple covered wagon pulled by two piebald horses waited by the door. Gravel voice had already scooped up Daxniss and put her in the back of the wagon.
"Get in the back I can't risk you being spotted. We don't have a lot of time so skip arguing with me and get in," The shadow wrapped figure snaps the reins getting the horse trotting with some neighing in protest. This was met by another slap of the reins, urging the horse faster.
Argon is happy to be alive, no question. But all he hears is so confusing. Thirty seven dead? There were not that many mice, were there? Unless it had killed before... or... had killed the fine guards? No, he recalls fairly well they had burned the thing, a Stalker they named it, and pinned its pet, if that be what it was, with javelins.
It does not seem likely to Argon that the black panther would have killed all the guards, but he appreciates the acknowledgement nevertheless. If only one life had been saved, that was a good thing done.
And now he is asked to jump into a wagon, to be brought somewhere, by someone... He tries to recall if this man had been in the group that had slain the creature. As he moves quickly to comply, for he would like nothing more than to join that fine company someday, he notes that though his back seems healed, his limbs are still weak. The man had spake the truth about needing more healing. If that Stalker truly killed all it touched, Argon was very, very lucky, and, though he did not want to admit, he might still succumb to the poison, either via death or some kind of permanent weakness in his legs and arms.
Tears blur his vision as he considers this, until he sees the other child, a fearful little girl younger than he, curled up in the wagon next to him. So he tries to be strong, and smiles at the girl.
"Where does he taketh us?" he whispers.
Daxniss still wanted to flee, however her body had informed here that this was not going to be possible. Fear flowed through her veins, weakly she reaches for her harrow cards, remembering mama's voice about what the portents of the cards meanings, she called it a Reading.
Even with the weakness, Daxniss managed to pull the cards out of the pouch she keeps them in, shuffling slowly she closes her senses out to the feel of the cards. Drawing the first one she sees the card that she identified as hers. 'Hidden child' setting that one down she draws the next card, 'Hood and sickle' meaning danger and death or in some cases a tragic event.
Setting that one down, the next was a picture of a rising sun, hope or perhaps the dawn of better things. Pushing the cards back together, what little energy she had left almost spent, she waits for gravel voice to reach his destination and his cargo.
With a start Daxniss hears another voice, she manages to whisper " A...... healer..." she trails off as she almost drifts asleep
As has become his norm, the edges of the C'yne's amulet are a comforting reminder that he is no longer within the fiends' clutches. He takes a steadying breath, understanding that if this all a trick, phantasm, or a vision, then all he need do is play it out, before the latest torment is revealed in full and he is flayed for the thousandth time.
He could never trust that this was not a believable nightmare...
But he could hope.
Wrathe's ears had been pierced by countless souls wailing in agony, and averting his gaze from the despoilers of purity during his formative years. A flash of a tail, scales, and a sibilant voice was far from disconcerting; if anything it was intriguing, especially since this one appeared to have suffered from burns, which ruled out an Asmodean devilspawn.
The crooked smile finds its way to his mischievous eyes, though the eye that had been ravaged shut by cruel human hands is almost obscured 'neath the swelling, "It is my honour to make your acquaintance."
Lovingly drawing down a tome, he looks to Dainoth to ensure that it is not a faux pas to do so, then carries it to a seat a few chairs down from the dragonkin, finding the shadiest spot in the room. He is a tiny creature, so his metallic eyes barely rise to the level of the table, so he places the book on his lap instead of the table to peruse the contents with squinted eyes.
Glancing over at Ssilax he offers, "I could help by gathering tomes and flipping pages, if your hands are hurting you." With a small sigh he adds, "Should we have the same interest in reading material then you could perhaps read some of the text aloud so I could rest my eyes."
He recognizes that he was being presumptuous, and the realization tinges his cheeks scarlet. There was no offer for him to stay. He lowers his head and stares at his toes, wrapped in filthy rags, averting his gaze from the next let down of his very young life.
As the wagon tears along the cobblestones, the sandy haired guardsmen speaks in the near darkness of the wagon.
"Well, this is a bit uncomfortable, lets do something about that," the human says. There is the sound of cloth rustling and then sparks as metal and flint strike. It takes a few moments, the shifting of the wagon not helping matters, but he gets a small metal lantern lit. Closing the metal front so that light only escapes from the front and sets it near his feet. The interior of the covered wagon was dimly lit from below, twisting shadows and hiding features.
"Much better, I like being able to see who I'm talking to," he chuckles, then curses as the wagon hits a pothole. "It would be nice if we could get there in one piece you ass," he says, raising his voice so that the cloaked man would hear him.
There comes no response other than a rather violent snapping of the reins and the wagon picking up speed.
Dainoth watches the two youth at the table as he puffs a few time on his pipe a slight smile on his wrinkled face. He nods when Wrathe reaches for a book. Continuing to watch the two interact, his smile fades slighty. Touching something hidden underneath his ragged robes near the neck, the old man begins speaking, slightly startling the two.
"There are survivors this time? What a stroke of fortune. Wounded you say? How?" Dainoth seems to be listening to someone speak. "I see, yes, I think so. There is a chance at least. Worst case, it's lead here where I can deal with it." the old man takes his fingers off the hidden talisman. He looks critically at both Wrathe and Ssilax pondering something.
"Alright we are going to have company in about a quarter of an hour , and there are things we need to do to be ready. This ties into your lesson on mage craft. Always be prepared, we'll go into this in further detail later," there is a slight change in the old man's tone. It is clear that he has given orders in the past and used to people carrying out there tasks.
"Ssilax, in the bathroom area look in the large cabinet. Open it, on the bottom shelf there is a Healer's kit. Go and fetch that and join Wrathe and I at my alchemist bench. Wrathe, this way." Dainoth looks at the two. "Move like lives depend on your actions. Because they do."
Moving over to a large table that was covered with a impressive variety of beakers, tubes, mixing flask, and matters of things needed for an alchemist to ply his trade. Dainoth begins to point out things he needs as he sit down to begin to work. It was clear that he chose Wrathe, for the boy could move much faster than the damaged Ssilax.
Wincing as the wagon slams through another series of potholes, the off duty guardsman looks at Argon and Daxniss and shakes his head.
"My apologies, I haven't explained anything, let alone told you my name. I am Rygear, warrior-priest of the great Nethys, assigned to the guards. We are taking you to someone who can help remove the poison to your soul," the handsome guardsman looks at Daxniss and nods to her. "And my prayers are that he can fully drive the Wasting Curse from your blood." Rygear nods to Argon. While he seems a friendly person, his face is serious when he looks at the two children.
"The best way to tell you this is to be truthful. If he can't cure you then both of souls are in great danger, let alone your lives. I'm sorry to be so blunt about this but I want you know that there is hope. Any questions that you have I will do my best to answer, we have a little bit of time." Rygear looks from Argon to Daxniss.
Perhaps this was what the "Rising Sun" harrow card had meant.
Ssilax was shocked at Wrathe's offer, it didn't seem like a trick. The near-human looked more frail then he was by far. It took him several seconds of silent staring before he made up his mind. Ssilax figures it was worth the risk to gauge what this near-human was up to. 'Not that it matters, as soon as he sees what I am they'll be just like the others,' comes a bitter thought from the darker corner of his brain. It seemed to be getting more vocal of late.
"Umm, o-okay that sounds alright, I was reading about the types of internal anatomical differences between different races," Ssilax speaks quietly, his sapphire gaze shifting back down to the tables worn surface. "We can read something else if you want," he says shyly.
Then the old human speaks up and Ssilax actually flinches at the surprise. Listening to the old male, the young dragonkin nods at his instructions. Moving as fast as he can without tearing open his wounds, Ssilax shuffles off to the screened off area. The sound of his claws scraping on the ground was heard.
It was good that Dainoth had not taken his actions poorly. He did not want to appear insouciant.
"Internal anatomical racial differences sounds intere...." Wrathe stops in mid-sentence, his words trailing off as the old man speaks strangely to someone unseen.
Wrathe's eyes track to the man's neck, wondering if he's clutching the same neck adornment as the gravel-voiced man.
The boy moves with alacrity following Dainoth and helping him to prepare for the arrival of the wounded.
He tried not to show excitement, but it flashed through him like quicksilver.
Argon is hit hard by the words of the man, Rygear. He had had a fair amount of hope, but now that is diminished. Still, he is thankful for Rygear's forthrightness.
His parents had always told him he was mature, and tried to instill that trait in him, so he figures now is the time to be an adult.
"Rygear, I am Argon. Thank you very much for taking care of me, and your honesty is appreciated. I have every confidence in your healer's skills. Mine legs are a bit woobly but otherwise I feel mostly better.
That... that stalker thing is dead, right?". He is fearful, since he is apparently marked, but if the thing is dead, how could it matter?
With the addition of light, colors now appear, and Argon sees Rygear and the young boy fully. There be something about the boy's hair and skin... He tries to be kind to the boy, but winces as they hit several bumps in succession.
"What's your name?" he asks the injured boy as they bump along together.
Argon recalls it was a girl. Then he saw a boy, and now he is not sure. He is hoping the name will give a clue.
Daxniss shakes her head, trying to clear the fog and malaise that is clinging to her as much as she is able too " I am not surprised that there are fewer survivors, it made no noise and skinned a woman. All it did was barely touch my shoulder If it isn't dead, how do we kill it." Her voice sounds fierce and surprising even to her, looking at Rygear, her eyes holding a resolve that shows the girl would do her best to live.
Turning slow to Argon she says " Daxniss. " She studies him, trying to get a bearing on him, as it was still hard to trust another person. However, she was still unsure of the other passenger and even though Rygear had saved her she tried to keep one eye on him as well.
"Argon, Daxniss it is nice to met you. I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances, but that is how life can be sometimes," Rygear says with a warm smile. Despite what is going on, being in a wagon driven by someone out to hit potholes in the road, the danger of soul poisoning, the man seems rather pleasant. At Argon's question, followed by the information Daxniss reveals the warrior priest shakes his head "No."
"Unfortunately, neither of them have been defeated. The invisible one is known as the Stalker. It has been hunting in the poorer sections of the city off and on for longer than I care to think about," Rygear shakes his head and looks down at the lantern. "The other is new, it has only arrived within the last tenday or so. It seems to be interested only in slaughter. The Stalker seems more interested in hunting." He looks between the two youths, no longer could they be called children, not after the nights events.
"I'm glad that I was able to help against the poison the effected you. Argon." Rygear nods. Looking critically at Daxniss, he begins a quite chant, holding onto his holy symbol. The mask of Nethys was half white and half black. Leaning forward, he lays a gentle hand upon the shoulder of Daxniss. The feels a rolling wave of restorative energy flow through her body. She felt better, not great, but not quite on Death's Door. Rygear looks fatigued after the prayer, the energies he called draining him.
"Alright, here is what I will need Wrathe," Dainoth gives the almost human description of what component that he is looking for. While he doesn't know what he is grabbing, his accuracy is without question. By the time Ssilax rejoins the two, Dainoth has started mixing a number of liquids that Wrathe had fetched. "Alright Wrathe, grab a tindertwig from the bottom drawer and light that burner over there. Ssilax, get the jar of ointment from the Healer's Kit and place it to the left of the burner." Dainoth instructs the two.
The old man works quickly and skillfully as he grinds several foul smelling components together with a pestle and mortar.
"When you two finish with that, head to the sleeping area and make up two cots for our guests," Dainoth instructs as he continues mixing with the speed of someone who has spent years mixing potions.
Wincing, Ssilax set down the the Healer's Kit, dropping his throbbing hands to his sides. His sapphire eyes are large as he watches the old male work. Shifting his weight from clawed foot to clawed foot, he can't help but feel excited.
At Dainoth's instruction he retrieves the the jar. Fingers filled with pain and stiffness, the dragonkin struggles with the container. He finally get the ointment out and sets it down. He has to hold the jar with his wrists.
It was after the burner had been lit by the time Ssilax had finished. Staring fearfully at the flames, he gives them a wide berth as he shuffles off to follow the old males orders.
Shuffling, claws scrapping along the stone, he nods to Wrathe.
"The chest over there has blankets for the cots." Ssilax's cloaked head nods towards the middle of three chests against the wall. "I think there are pillows in the first chest. I'll help as best as I can. I'm sorry my hands won't work," the cloaked figure apologizes. The sibilant voice wavers sounding like the owner was holding back bitter tears. "...I-I can carry the blankets with my forearms, they weren't burnt up to bad."
He was not overly impressive physically, but he was keen and an almost impossibly-quick learner. Aches and pains were forgotten as he moved about the assigned tasks, keeping one eye ever on Dainoth's labour.
Alchemical mixtures infected young Wrathe with a sense of wonder in that moment, for they were much like magic wrought by chemical reactions. So many exciting possibilities from unguents that could help to poisons that could harm.
Grudgingly moving to help with the sleeping area he offers to do the work if Ssilax would be willing to direct his efforts. His offer is a poorly-veiled attempt to save the dragonkin from further injury to his hands, as is his next distraction.
"What did you learn about the differences of internal anatomical structures within the races?"
Wrathe ignores the itch to watch Dainoth work and sets about finishing the preparation of the sleeping area, so it cuts down on Ssilax's workload.
He muses about the injured people that were arriving soon, wondering if they were more outcasts and street urchins.
Argon is surprised to find there are more than one of the attacking creatures, and that they are likely different. Of course, this Daxniss was not seen near the one that attacked Argon, so it does make sense, of a sort. Questions abound, but Argon is a little shy, and still feels weak, so he's reluctant to say much.
His eyes go wide as he witnesses healing magic being used before his eyes. He immediately realizes this must be what was used on him, too. The magic of Nethys is in his body!
"Daxniss. Is that a girl's name?" he asks the smaller child, after he/she looks somewhat relieved from being cured.
The wagon jerks to a sudden halt, sending the occupants sliding around.
"We are here. Get out of the wagon," orders the gravel voiced man. "I picked up some local predators. I'm going to lead them away and take care of the problem. " His tone is cold, leaving little doubt what is in store for the robbers.
As everyone gets out, Rygear helping them along to speed things up, the shadow cloaked man snaps the reighs. The piebald shores are covered in sweat, and foam flecks the bits in their mouths. Yet, still they seem eager to be away from the three.
The fetid stench of the Puddles slams in your nostrils with the first birth free of the confines of the covered wagon. It made the Dock ward smell pleasant in comparison, and that was saying something. Here, the stench of mildew and decay was ever present, the mournful breeze always shifts, making so that you can never get used to the smell. Open sewers on hot days smell better.
"Boys, when you, be finished in there, come back over. I will need assistance in under 5 minutes, comes Dainoth's voice.
The mismatched pair work quickly together, getting the pair of cots together. So quickly in fact, Ssilax had time to help Wrathe set up a third xot for himself. Nodding to the silver eyed humanoid, Ssilax shuffles behind the lightning quick Wrathe.
"Can one of you open the door?" Rygear asks, looking over his shoulder. He leans forward and whispers, "Knock 3 times wait 2 heartbeats and then knock 2 times, wait 3 heartbeats and then knock 4 times. Then whisper "None Shall Pass" to the door. Don't mess itup, or the wards will harm you. I have to disguise our passing from those that hunt." Rygeat whispers to them, his face had a serious look, and his eyes were constantly on the move.
The almost two story building looks in barely any better condition then the neighboring buildings. A hint of light poured out between closed shutters and the door look surprisingly solid. Other than that, it was just another decaying building.
Ssilax had shuffled awkwardly when Wrathe offered to grab the blankets and pillows.
"T-thank you, the young dragonkin says awkwardly. He felt useless, just standing there overseeing Wrathe, who clearly needed no instruction on how to make up a cot.
"Um, I was learning about how some being lack true internal organs. Like a heart nor stomach. I was up to elementals when you two arrived, " Ssilax says, sounds a little different when talking about what he was learning, much more confident.
Wrathe recognizes the change in tone, mostly from his time in Hell. Ssilax sound s and acts like he has been beat down one too many times.