IM 1004 Pt 5 ~ Noveas: The Day of the Dead

[Sire Halfblack]

Noveas IM 1004: The Day of the Dead

There were no processions or gaily-patterned banners or lanterns at this years Day of the Dead but there was an inordinate amount of death. The city Watch weren’t ever going to interfere with anyone armed with a blade in any case and with their Captain not to be seen for the most part they hid. Of course with so many traders in the city quite an extraordinary number of citizens felt that they had a decent target for their city’s celebrations. So it was then that after the first clutch of unsuspecting traders, for there were many to whom Deci was not on their normal route, were cornered and killed the many that remained took to cutting down anyone who came near them waving a blade. Or a stick. Or just looking at them in an interested manner.

All this of course was good for the celebration and this year the death toll amongst the citizens was bound to be astonishingly rewarding in the sight of its Councillors. Bodies were soon to be found everywhere and it was fortunate that the city had a half decent Grave Scatter. They couldn’t actually cope with all that they found but they reduced it to at least more normal seeming levels. Even then the lumpen figures of the city’s Scatters went about in packs for safety.

Cheapside was perhaps the least affected. Oh, there was fighting but there was always fighting in Cheapside and the gangs hardly attributed their violence to some shady god. Few died anyway in their scraps and there was always a ready supply for them at Tamary’s, for he was ever willing to help the city’s ‘young scamps’.

But the festival had settled into the hearts of the populace and even as it passed the time it might otherwise have dwindled this year it looked set to flare ever brighter until its possible conclusion at the rapidly approaching Final Dawn.

*

The murder had flared up so suddenly that had Smog been a lesser man it might have stilled his resolve. But he had been in such situations before and if there was one instinct that pain and experience had scarred across his soul it was in regard to the assassins of Deci. Half an hour ago he had pushed Sire Clasp through a narrow alleyway and into the sprawl of Cheapside. The choice had seemingly bought them both some time as their hunters had proved reluctant to follow them onto roofs where their rule was less absolute.

Not for one minute though did Smog believe that they had lost the Hunt. They had entered a clutter of lanes and alleys that layered upon one another such that at times they seemed to push through open sided houses of some three storeys. At other time their hurrying strides brought them into suddenly open squares that emptied with such rapidity that hardly was there anything other than the last bang of a shutter to greet them.

It was in Scab Haunt, a five sided square formed on three by Arnet’s Scrubbery that Smog allowed his employer to catch a breath. Hiding in a sunken stairwell Snog had already seen one figure and this one squealed as he was physically hoisted into the dripping cloth corridors formed by the Scrubbery’s washing.

The man had a club, a tin hat and a bell that was missing a clapper. Half hidden under a long coat was a broadsword and this Smog drew from its filthy scabbard. “You the Watch?”

“Lerrus go! It’s bloody dangerous out here!”

“We’re being chased by assassins.” Smog said. “Where’s the nearest Watchhouse?”

“Five streets over, in the shadow of the Workhouses. But Watch-Captain Argoth ain’t been seen so mostly the lads are barricaded in.”

Smog tossed the man aside and handed the disgraceful sword to his employer. Hearing a low call and peels of laughter directly behind them he nudged Sire Clasp towards the narrower passageway that he saw, following swiftly afterwards and with his eyes and head moving all the time so that he missed nothing.

*

There might have been the odd scream from without but the lean, vaguely tribal figure noticed it hardly at all. Having found the Seven Stars and the shop therein Slinking Thru had been intrigued by the dark void that it seemed to use in place of a more conventional door. Pushing inside he had felt no resistance whatsoever and rather than being concerned about the whole thing the visitor was instead cheered by its presence. Any shop that could use such just for a door was bound to be worth visiting.

Like all of it’s kind, the Bizarre was dark, crowded and gave the impression of being very small. Counter to this Slinking had been within for what must have been… hours..? It mattered not for he had found a trove suitable to keep him engrossed for days if need be. There were piles of rites, some of them even feasible, amongst swathes of hides, bells and a thousand other nick-knacks that crammed every set of shelves. Behind the thick dust of the counter a fat, short limbed spider with the head of a plump man seemed content to doze whilst Slinking and a pair of other people dug through the tumbling piles, leaning stacks and trembling clutter of the marvellous establishment.

What Slinking might desire would doubtless be found within. He had treasure to spend and the time to enjoy it. The shop was untouched by the murder beyond and so the lean man picked up a tarnished brass ball and rubbed it until he was able to see another room entirely reflected on its old surface.

And that was probably the least of the wonders arrayed about him.

*

The spire was very high and formed part of just one of the grandiose structures that had been placed at the feet of the city’s Nobility. The Council did not take it’s Blood for granted and though most of them were now indulging their thirst in the city below still the mores and traditions had to be observed. Though the point stood clean to the smoky sky a platform ran about its lower edge and upon this now lay two bodies and between them a small man in black. The knife he held up to the red shuttered lantern was long, curved and very sharp.

Seeming satisfied with the tool he bent to the first of the bodies, a corpulently fat man who had already been stripped and slit him from throat to belly. For a moment it seemed as if a cut had not been made at all then the cut opened like a yawn. The kneeling man bowed his head and then reverently began to separate meat from vitals, then over the course of the next hour, meat from bone. Piles of each formed about the length of the platform. Such were arranged with some care so that there was clearly order to their placement.

Washing only the tips of his fingers in a bowl of rose-scented water The Minister turned in turn to the second body, this time a young woman. The process commenced once again and this time the hour of effort laced the first trail of meat with a second. Seemingly satisfied the artist turned to the pile of stripped bones and these he arranged in a narrowing pyramid.

He stood then after placing his knife reverently beside a brown glass bottle. This he picked up in turn and delicately upended its contents over the bones, which smoked and seemed to collapse in on themselves. The smoke intensified until it made a thick brown plume above the spire. By the time The Minister picked up his knife again carrion birds had gathered ahead and moments after his departure fell upon the dissected meat in a flurry of black and greasy feathers.

“Lord Marston will wish to thank you in person.” The girl whispered to The Minister.

“I understand.” Her guest nodded and accepted the offer of a strenuous scrubbing from the Spire’s servants. It was decidedly opulent within the building and The Minister had soon ascertained that the servants had been murdered by a Guildsman called Wenthered. Over the course of an hour The Minister had woven sufficient ritual to tell that it had been a thing of jealously for he desired the dead woman and so had killed them both. Not, as Lord Marston had feared, some attempt on his own life.

The Lord’s young ward had greeted The Minister and provided him with all he had needed. With her assistance he had soon learnt that the two dead both came from the same village, a charcoal-burning place called Low Tallow. Both belonged to the same cult that advocated air burial and The Minister had been impressed at the speed that Marston’s ward, Lilen Phael, had been able to acquire the brown Sethen oil needed for the summoning of the cult’s preferred birds.

“All is attended to.” The Minister emerged from the cleansing rooms feeling fresh and content. He was hardly his normal jocular self, this was not only work but his religious observance after all.

“We of House Marston wish to thank you. Naturally we will place a sizeable sum on the head of the murderer. It is only right to secure vengeance for even the servants of a House are of that House.”

“Lord Marston’s opinion does his House great honour.” The Minister said.

“He will doubtless come and see you in your establishment to discuss other matters. However, we of course wish to make a donation to your Church for the services you have provided.”

The Minister bowed in the manner of his faith and accepted the proffered satchel solemnly.

*

Everything had changed so quickly!

Had it only been four or five years since Vern had been the Watch Captain? Then there was still murder of course but they hadn’t made a celebration out of it. Picking his way through the edges of the Heights the young man shook his head at the pointlessness of it all. He didn’t come to the Heights very often and even now he only skirted its fringes for he disliked any part of the city that was as much below ground as above.

Turning into Downladen Row the young man ventured his way slowly to Cheapside. The Row was the straightest and most direct route of course but it was hardly quiet. Even now a clutch of unfortunates were being killed slowly, broken on hung cartwheels and teased with their own entrails. Formerly respectable Guildsmen had taken to using their tools as weapons, small fires burnt in the gutters and even young children ran about with screams of evil childish glee. Four brats were kicking a head about between them but stopped to stare at the hard looking young man as he pushed past a drunk woman whoring herself in an ill fitting dress of wrinkled purple. He could smell the blood of four men on his hands already and so left her sprawled in the shadow of a coopers sign.

It was not so far from Cheapside that a goblin ran passed him garbed in a stained but probably expensive coat and a ferociously tall thingyaded hat. In its wake scuttled a half dozen or so rats the height of dwarfs and these hissed at the young man before vanishing in one side alley or another.

Three burly men wearing Labourer’s Guild patches came upon him quickly with wagon staves and mallets but these he reduced to broken shells with four blows and without even drawing his slightly curved sword. He only paused when two more bodies fell to the clad streets behind him, each pierced through their left eye by a well-fletched arrow.

The fighting was of course not restricted to the street level such as it was, though what was happening was hardly fighting at all. One mob would swarm a small one and those they caught they killed. But the young man’s sensitive nose did smell fighting then even as his last thought faded. Hurrying a little quicker now he ducked under a broken door, out the further window across the alley beyond, though a low arch and then up on a stone shed and into the wider street beyond where a clutch of traders were fighting off small groups of locals.

He watched them for a moment then decided upon his loyalties when he smelt a familiar scent amongst the traders. The street was the widest in Cheapside and about the only permanent one to be found there for it was edged on the one side by a series of old stone shops and outfitters and on the other by the old bone mill, immense and dark and now the home to four dozen families.

Charming Billy glanced at the bright moon and smiled, stretched and let himself down into the fighting.

Not so far away another figure landed even more quietly on the warm roof of one of the shops and flicked an arrow from his quiver so that it fell into his open hand.

*

“Mother!” The heavy man muttered as he yanked the wretched old man’s head free his shoulders. He stared happily at the spine as it twitched for a moment or two before tossing the bloody thing into the street below. An old beggar lass cackled and twitched it up to her bared breast where she suckled it like a baby on her empty, pigskin teats. Not so very far away four men were taking it in turns to strike a much younger man with a whip made from wire bound about a discarded forearm and his screams paled as the muscle went the way of the skin and the vitals were reached.

It was a time for celebration and for once the rest of the Council hadn’t made sure that there were processions and entertainers about making of the Day of the Dead a pantomime. With them all so occupied, many out of town entirely, Fade was able to bathe in blood and et his god have reign over it all. His own garments were wrapped and his bald head dripped with the black blood of the city such that his eyes seemed very large, luminous even, in the city’s shadows.

Even those flares of light about the settlement were mere sparks in the darkness and even as Fade watched they seemed to burn more redly than fire really ought.

It had been a tiring night and doubtless the next would be similar. After the early flurry of death the number would descend sharply of course as the wise and the strong found only one another on the streets but this year Fade sensed that the Final Dawn would be something a little special . Murder was of course a religion and there were many that would pray most devoutly in the coming few weeks.

At his side was a bag and from this Fade dug out a kitten. It was a scrawny example of its kind but had the single eye and torn ear of an experienced fighter already. It ought to of course since there had been three of the little bastards in the sack to begin with. Fade was cheered by the sight of the evil little sod and held its head affectionately in the palm of one hand.

Then he squeezed.

From nearby Fade picked up a bottle crusted by the years. The finest to be had in the city and this he threw to the slates where it broke explosively.

“Oh, mother.” Fade sighed. He was a good boy and he would kill again that night undistracted by either of the city’s most common vices.

There was a crash nearby and a row of houses collapsed into the street they had abutted to the brief scrams of those there present. Fade rose to his feet and held out his hands to the night air. Garbed in blood and swathed in the spirits of the dead the priest laughed until it threatened madness and then he was gone.

The year was not yet dead after all.

*

They had remained hidden for three hours and Smog had even allowed himself thought that perhaps they would be secure in the abandoned house until daybreak but a snuffling about the lower floor suggested otherwise. He had already propped the ladder up to the inside of the roof and now just batted aside the old slates to allow he and Sire Clasp to emerge on the slanted world above. Seizing the plank he had also swiped, Smog ran to the edge and slotted it into place allowing he and the Merchant to run lightly over and along a more jagged line of roofs.

The Merchant was keeping up well and Smog was gratified that Clasp was not some fat, sweaty old feck who just happened to be good with treasure. The Sire was hardly warrior-fit though but had kept hold of the Watchmen’s sword all the time they had fled. They reached the edge of the roofs and seeing the people below Smog took them higher, up a series of wide ledges and wooden gantries until they were on a flatter roof.

A good four storeys up the only easy way up was the one they had used and there were plenty of improvised shacks, walls of filth and other places to hide.

Which is why Smog tripped Sire Clasp up even as the knives whistled passed. They had been herded here it seemed. More likely it was just one place where they had been likely to go and all this Smog thought as he kicked a rusted helmet near to his foot so hard that it sang through the air to crash into the snout of a nearby rat.

He sensed the slight blur about him and moved Clasp again as some sort of big hat spun past him. There was a brief exchange of blows in which neither the goblin attacking nor the man defending got through and then a dozen other figures seemed to flicker from within two plumes of black smoke. The smoke spilled in confusion from the chimneystacks as the Deci Hunt found their prey but by the time they had fully seen where they were Smog had jumped from the roof, Sire Clasp wrapped in his arms.

The goblin made to follow but halted suddenly when he heard the whimper of his stepsons and in a panic turned to where two of them had been gathered up in a net of shining wire.

“Who are you, little thing?” A cultured voice asked. They all looked at the goblin and grinned beneath their masks. Here was proper prey! The Merchant had been chosen on a whim but… a goblin?

“You leave ‘em alone yer bastards!”

But instead the net was twitched. He could do nothing without losing his stepsons and so having divested himself of his weapons the goblin had to run and be chased…

*

For several furious minutes, Charming Billy had waded into the mob that had grown to assault the gathered traders and where he walked people fell. Even those of greater ability were swiftly dealt with but he was not unknown in Cheapside and even as he stood in the emptying street one woman not so far away quickly unwrapped a narrow bundle taken from her belt. There was a slight gleam of silver from within the alley into which she had ducked then a crash as something hit another object outside.

Sheltered as the cultist-assassin was she could not see that the hanging breastplate that made the outfitters sign had been knocked from its chains by a heavy arrow. It bounced once and second arrow caused it to leap into the air such that before the assassin could turn the corner the battered plate was slammed by four more arrows in swift succession. Each was turned by the curve of the armour to flicker into the assassin before she even turned the corner, arm raised with the special throwing knife held ready.

No one in the street noticed though for the cover of one of the trade carts was torn to ruin even as the crates beneath were smashed open by the sudden impact of two bodies. Two of the traders jumped up, swords ready to see the surprised face of Sire Clasp staring back at them.

“It’s…it’s… Jon Bedow isn’t it?” The Merchant asked.

“Aye, Sire.” The trader knuckled his brow and helped the man up. The traders all looked up to see if it would rain anybody else.

“I think it’s time for us to leave now, Jon Bedow.” Sire Clasp suggested rather firmly and the traders, now the road was clear, all hurried to make their way to the city’s west gate. Hours later and Smog climbed free from where he had landed, his back in agony but conscious at last to see the city falling away behind them.

He held up two fingers and shook his arm violently at the dirty smudge on the horizon.

*

As the death of the year drew close so too seemingly did the death of Deci. Gripped in the celebrations for the end of the year the word had gone out that this was to be a celebration for Bhaal and that his High Priest demanded the presence of all those of the faithful throughout the land. Few arrived, indeed, only those in the local territories had a hope of even hearing about it but their presence was noted since no one else came into the city at all, many indeed fled. Merciless and without reason the faithful turned on the other citizens and the city blazed with the ruin of order. Blood for Bhaal, blood in the streets!

More than half the city gave obeyance in some form to the spiteful god and those that did not either hid, barricaded themselves in or died! Even those who formed trusted and old gangs fell as one or more of their comrades slaughtered others in the joy of their secret worship. The Day of the Dead still raged and nothing approaching sanity or order lasted by the last days of the dark year.

It was as what shackles there had been shattered beneath the increasing blood and those forces that might otherwise have countered such excesses either left, slumbered or fed the fires to new heights! What traces of civilisation remained were destroyed by beggar bands. The faith of Bhaal had never been an orderly one amongst the citizens and given vent it was as if they were possessed by demons of such evil that mere wound, threat or oaken door could not prevent. Or perhaps it was that such had always been there awaiting the permission of release.

Murder was hardly the only depravity unleashed for the citizens so touched, and it was many, many of them knew no limits. It was do as you wish time in Deci and the heart of the city had been softly turned from rebellion to bloody darkness over far too long a time. The sheen of respectability was cast aside, there were no rules, no laws no limitations. All was permissible.

All was done.

In the Citadel all was quiet save for the occasional scream and Anath was not at all happy. He was hardly a very nice man at the best of times but he was an orderly figure and the fact that his avenues of control and influence had been cast aside until, he desperately hoped, the birthing of the year left him feeling uncertain. He did not like uncertain. For the most part he was all alone for the servants and the scribes had fled, or been killed or even in the case of the former doing much of the killing.

“You do not shake a jar of wasps and then expect them to cvome out one at a time once the jar is opened.” The Craftenguilder whispered to himself. And this jar had been tossed over the wall to shatter on the flagstones beyond. In Alguz there was hope, in Deci there was death. Idly Anath counted up those in the Council and divided it by the Bhaalists in power.

“Oh dear,” he sighed, then “go away!” As someone knocked loudly on the heavy door of his personal chambers. The knocking increased and so Anath took his precious scrolls and tallies and hid under the table.

“Open up in the name of the Governor!” A muffled voice demanded and Anath was forced to crawl across the floor, open the twelve heavy bolts and let Troy enter.

Dressed to kill in flowing velvet, gold and silk of the deepest black there was a shut-eating smile spread across the face of the city’s new leader. “Get up, Anath.” He said and the Craftenguilder did so slowly and with only a little muttering. “We have to go and announce my appointment.”

“They don’t care, milord.”

“Course they care, Anath. New broom. Clear out the rot? Eh?” Troy said. He was feeling great, the pulse in the city seemed to match his own and it was powerful indeed. “Let the people know?”

“They know, milord.”

“Come, come.” Troy waved idly at the door with a long, curved knife. “After you..?”

“No I rather insist on after you, milord.” Anath turned the Governor about and pushed him into the corridor beyond. He had been panning all sorts of fascinating compiling, marking, noting and tapping on chins with quills but it rather looked like he had a Governor to look after for what little remained of the year.

*

The Warsmith’s had not only nailed their doors closed they had mana-welded a bronze girder across the foremost and shaped some good sheets of iron over the shutters. Of all the city they were perhaps the most orderly in their structure and rules for they worked with sharp objects, fierce fires and rites capable of bending the toughest of materials. There was little room in the Warsmith’s for fickle delight or dark imagination, these were people who knitted mail patches as a way to pass an empty evening and considered it a damn good end to the day.

Jander agreed.

“What’s it been, my lord? Two days?”

“One.” Jander corrected Master Hail, one of the three most senior of the Guilds leader. “And it’s just Jander now.”

“You are titled?”

“Well of course but nothing that I need to think about for now. I’m no longer going to run this nightmare. I have other roads to wander down. But yes, in answer to your question its been one day.”

“That’s got to be some sort of Imperial record hasn’t it? I mean, city in chaos before it gets too dark on your first day in charge? What do you think they’ll call him? Mad Lord Majius? It’s traditional after all.”

“Doubtless, but they’ll love it. Listen to them killing each other. What age are the citizens of Deci? Twelve?” Jander shook his head. “I haven’t dared have a piss in five years because this sort of nonsense would happen if I did.”

Hail chuckled and offered the Guild’s guest a cup of mead, which Jander accepted gratefully. “It’s not really the reason though is it? Day of the Dead, end of the year and it’s no secret that the city is run by people who all worship this lad Bhaal. Not really a city faith is it?”

The main door resounded to the sound of a dozen people trying to stab their way in with knives and failing dismally. Jander looked in the direction of the sound. “No, not really. I’m sure it’ll all blow over in the coming year. It gets a bit mad at the Final Dawn. I just hope there’ll be enough people left to clear up everyone else in time for pestilence season.” Jander sighed and sipped at the honey brew. He’d gone to see the Nobility to offer his full support for the Governor and of course they were all well behind the young Troy getting his chance. They’d never been a very nice bunch of course but they had been political animals when Jander had first come to the city. Now the Nobles carried swords and had soundproofed clubs!

But he had relinquished his mortal responsibilities and the next year would see him walk the land. He explained as much to Hail.

“What will you do though?” The Warsmith asked.

Jander smiled. “Walk the land. Mend wheels. Get my hands dirty. See some of the sights. Do what I can with only the clothes on my back, a good sword and a portable forge for company.”

“You’re going to be a bum?” Hail didn’t seem to approve.

“No.” Jander looked suddenly very stern. “I’m going to learn all there is about metal, about the forge and about the path that joins all such together.”

“Still sounds like you’re going to be a bum. You been talking to that Tsu-Ling?”

“Not at all.”

“Demigod of Tranquillity my arse.” Hail opined. “Some people want to spend less time with their head in the clouds and more time doing a hard days work. That’s what I think anyway.”

Jander opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Hail probably had a point. He was leaving the ethereal world of politics behind and already centring himself on the practical and mundane. Oy Lingist, he thought, carry that load of bricks up the hill. Ah, Tsu-Ling would probably reply, but how do we know if the bricks are at the bottom of the hill at all?

“Because they’re still there!” Jander said. He blinked. “I’m sorry, did I say that out loud?”

Hail though just patted him on the arm, said ‘there-there’ and poured him another slug of mead. It was coming to the death of the year and Jander was going to spend it making some perfectly ordinary studded armour. Tomorrow he’d pick his way through the smoking city to the mines and then..?

“C’mon then Jander, forge’ll be hot enough now.”

*

What went on beyond the Bizarre stayed beyond the Bizarre. In truth Slinking was scarcely away of the blood flowing in the streets at alls engrossed was he in the wonderful shop. Hardly any noise came passed the door at all and though hunkered down in little more than a corner of the enterprise the visitor felt more comfortable than he might have done in the plumpest of chairs sipping the finest of wines.

There was of course far, far too much stuff. Slinking had something of an eye for trinkets and suspected that most of them were trash. Albeit very nice trash – but trash nonetheless. Oh, in a normal curiosity shop they’d have attracted his eye but he was going to be selective as he wanted to actually leave here at some point. Well, he didn’t – not for a moment – but he knew that he would have to or he’d doubtless end up for sale somewhere else.

Which didn’t offend him at all. Not for a moment because he had pared down his judgement to three scriven scrolls and a carved wooden box that had a fascinating collection of small, flawed gems. They weren’t worth much as jewellery but that was hardly the point. Slinking knew exactly what they were.

Making his way to the cluttered counter he spread out his finds and asked, coughed, then asked again what the price was for each.

*

The Silversmith’s had been as firmly barred as most of the Guildhalls and no amount of demanding would get the doors to open. Anath had been forced to roll his sleeves up and whisper for nearly five minutes through the barred grill to someone whom all there had to pretend wasn’t there at all.

“They say that they can do it. But that you both need to attend for a testing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, they deny, not that they were there, but they deny any ritual skill whatsoever but it is just possible that they might have some things hidden away from the ‘old days’.”

“They were very talkative for people who weren’t in?”

“Yes,” Anath hissed and stepped over a fat body whose formerly rich clothing had been robbed, torn to shred and left lying in the first of the seasons dirty snow, “but let’s not question it, yes?”

“Milord.” Troy spared Anath a glare.

“That’s all right, we don’t need to step on formality.” The city’s Craftenguider was fuming and it hadn’t helped that they’d been set upon three times already. It was all right for Troy who’d thought it all very jolly but Anath didn’t spend so much time in the Dagger Shops in order that he’d have to use them. As far as a formal exchange of power was concerned the day was a washout. The only people on the streets were hunting each other down, the Guilds had sealed themselves inside for the most part and even Ulis’ shop was said to be darkened and empty!

Not they’d gone into Cheapside at all. There were less part-time cultists and to be fair the just generally swept up in things brigade, here than elsewhere but many of the gangs were suffering from internal killings and strangers were just being gutted on sight. Anath also had precisely zero chance of getting down to any paperwork.

*

In silence now the crowd watched as the priests dark shape came to the centre, his knife dripping for all about him the sacrifice was being made even as he killed each of the dumb struck victims that had been revealed tied and naked in the crowd. Previously unseen and hardly noticed at all even now. In the desperate stillness that now fell all about the chamber the priest moved until he had made a full circle, his dais marked only by the bodies below and the souls above of the dying all.

One by one those present fell to their knees, many marking their own flesh with jagged knives or hooked nails, a few moaning though whether in fear or excitement it was impossible to say. One of the guests, a thin woman whose ivory skin was criss-crossed with slashes of blood screamed and fell at the priests feet and he in turn stopped to pick her up, turned her so that she faced away from him, and held up the knife that was now so reddened it was all of a hue with the filth and ichors covering him now to the shoulder.

She licked her lips, giggled slightly and gasped when her body fell away to the floor below whilst her head still seemed to gape for air. The Club seemed to pulse, just once and then the year died about them.

“Bhaal.” The whisper was like the crashing of some great wave on a shore of crushed and age-dry bone.

By Alan Morgan (CI7V1)