Closed That Bloody Boy... (Matthew)

[Razkar]

21st Day of Winter, 513AV
Outskirts of the Sunset Quarter
23rd Bell

"I should have got her petching name..."

Razkar muttered the words for the tenth time as he stopped in front of a door apparently hiding a good deal of merriment (bought and paid for though it certainly was). He shook his head and black locks stretching past his shoulder swayed and rustled in his ear. He was supposed to be a "professional". A sellsword, mercenary... blade-for-hire who could be trusted to get the job done. Yet when he had a lead fall into his lap, with good knowledge of the one he was after, what did he fail to do?

Get the name of that one. Which was what bought him to the door of the bordello sandwiched between a butchers and a slum, where Matthew was working, and take him up on his offer from the night before.

Which he really didn't want to do. He'd seen Matthew rally and inspire men to charge a damned Balicani of all things, but had he seen him swing steel? Had he seen him kill a man, whirl in a brawl, let go that civilized demeanor he always donned and become the killer some situations need him to be? No, no and certainly not. He simply wasn't a good partner for the work the Myrian had to do that night, and more than that...

Shame if something happened to him. But he did offer, and I do need the help.

He knocked on the door and waited for lumbering footsteps to quake closer. Razkar knew that the bordello (oh, sorry, "pleasure house") would have plenty of lumberers, for want of a more prosaic term. Everything in Sunberth was achieved by force: the handful of major gangs parceled up the city, each territory was run by innumerable smaller gangs and every business, vendor, enterprise and operation that they could squeeze a miza out of was so squeezed. More than that, there were plenty more packs of "independents" who'd raid, butcher, rape and pillage if they got the chance. Hence the security.

Case in point: the door creaked open a few inches and wary eyes regarded him through the crack. Razkar breathed in and smelled booze and something that could be narcotic, but the eyes were alert. They looked him up and down and a deep voice asked: "Yeah?"

"I'm looking for Matthew. Tell him it's Razkar."

The flush of realization and the way it slid to fear was, he admitted, gratifying. In a place like Sunberth, it opened more doors than fire and steel.

[Matthew]

He had made Ruby particularly proud today. After bringing in the Myrian and the Svefra, she had certainly taken a bit more notice of him. Now that she had her eye on him, she was able to see his skill, and now that she was watching the harlot made it a point to show off. He wanted to be well-known, at least by this particular woman. He wanted her trust, and he wanted her to value him as an employee of her Sanctum. The young man was wiping his bare body with a towel, cleaning sweat and bodily fluids that lingered from the day. He was interrupted by a knock on the door of the room he occupied, and one of the Sanctum bouncers peered in. "Lady man. Razkar is here to see you." Matthew nodded thanks, turning the nickname over in his head. He didn't think it was meant to be a fond one, like nicknames normally were. It seemed to be more of a mocking one. Blinking a few times as he continued to consider the nickname, he stepped downstairs to grab his things. He quickly dressed in a plain pair of clothes, mussed his hair up a bit, and slung a backpack over one shoulder. After checking with Ruby and enduring one of her loving kisses, he was soon reunited with the Myrian. "Hello, Raz-kar." A small nod was given to the Myrian, as well as the normal polite little smile. The harlot hadn't acted a bit different towards Razkar after their encounter at the Sanctum. As perhaps predicted, they might as well have gone up to that room to have tea. "Do you know much else about this woman? I asked around this morning, and people are aware of her. The prostitution scene is so organized in Sunberth that it is odd to see one who works alone, so those people particularly stand out." He motioned for the Myrian to follow him, leading him through the mass of people that twisted through the cold streets of the city. It was interesting how people split for the looming barbarian. They certainly didn't split for Matthew. Glancing to Razkar, Matthew studied his black stare, and then offered him a odd question. "Are you a good person, Razkar? Is Myri the one who defines what good is? How do we plan to get the information we need from this woman? Is torture an option for you? Intimidation?" Once again, the harlot's words were unlaced with judgement. At the same time, his pure and untainted curiosity had a downside. The idea of torture had seemingly slipped off his tongue without a pause. The savage might realize that they were going somewhere completely different than the Sunset Quarter, but Matthew seemed confident in his steps. He moved through the crowds surely and swiftly, though the way Razkar parted the sea of bodies certainly helped out.

[Razkar]

The harlot didn't make Razkar wait long, at least. He sauntered down the stairs in clean clothes and smelled vaguely of sweat. A bosomy lady with a broad smile and cold eyes hugged him and kissed him hard on the cheek, like that aunt you always hated saying goodbye to (mainly because of the way she said goodbye).

"Hello, Raz-kar."

And then it was straight to business. Razkar blinked back his surprise, mouth open but suddenly without a target for words, the human already walking swiftly into the deep, cackling night. The previous night had been... eventful and... groundbreaking? Would that be the word? Razkar thought so, and yet some part of him still shivered and hated himself for walking into that room in the Sanctum. Especially with Edreina.

But it procured his services, which is why you're here, and speaking of which-

The Myrian nodded slowly as Matthew spoke, cocking a surprised eyebrow. "Organized" was a word he thought he'd never hear in relation to Sunberth, but Razkar was fast-learning that it didn't have to immediately equate to "government". Everyone paid somebody, whether it was a one-street gang of thugs in rags or one of the "Big Three" that could muster manpower, wealth and influence to match an army.

Well, Big Two, if the whispers in the taverns are to be believed...

"I know only what you heard the other whore tell the three of us last night," he said by way of answer, only then noticing that people were almost scrambling out of their way. No. Scratch that. His way. "But that does help us. It narrows down the prey, and if she is an... independent, then the brothels and whore-masters will perhaps aid us in finding her."

He did not wish to go further, and a now-familiar eel of disquiet awakened his his stomach. Was this what he did now? Killing females?

No, he answered himself firmly, as he had done plenty of times that day, we are saving a boy who should not be alone in this stinking city. We are, for once, dispensing justice and helping the needy... not to mention bloody sodding stupid.

Then Matthew spoke again, with that clipped, carefree and curious accent he always had that made Razkar glare briefly, wondering for the thousandth time whether the harlot really was so innocent or if he was winding him and the whole damned world up with a masterful sham.

His mouth opened in a biting reply... then it closed again. The days of Winter had been strange for him; only the last few of Fall had been their equal or greater, when Yahal had appeared to him and Edreina. Mere days before, another shade of that deity's power had manifested in Razkar's presence.

He still thought about the scroll. Brooded over it. Read and re-read and tried to twist its words to ones more to his liking; his own... preferences. Mere bells before, he would have scorned Yahal. Now he measured his response.

That is the lesson, too, methinks. Think before you speak, and even more than that, act.

"I try to be good, for my love, my clan, my friends... those who matter to me," he said eventually, words slow and hinting at their scrutiny before he let them loose. A thin, hidden smile shone under his cloak, then vanished. "But that does not mean I am nice. People always confuse such things... especially in these barbarians lands. Heroes are just and pure and perfect; villains dirty and black-hearted and absolute. Such things are... tales for children..."

Even as he spoke he felt the whispers of Yahal from his chest, seeping into his mind. But he had work to do and he stilled them, focusing on the last part, the part that disquieted him before-

"The female in question kidnapped a boy who has not yet seen twenty Summers. She has probably robbed him and, gods forbid, killed him herself or had others do it."

Razkar's arm snapped out like a steel bar and stopped the harlot across the chest, both of them halting in the crowded street. His gaze had that metallic quality, too. Unyielding and uncaring.

"I will use whatever options I must to get the answers I, Marius and his mother need." Then he gaze softened a touch, a spark of mirth in those depth-less black eyes. "Mayhap she only need see this face, and we can't shut her up..."

His feet began their fierce march again, face just as intent as before... before he sheepishly cleared his throat and realized he'd been following, not leading.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

[Matthew]

Matthew nodded, eyes turning from Razkar and pointing straight ahead to signal their path. They were walking through the slummiest areas of Sunberth, which was saying a lot. The people here looked darker, more vicious, but still not quite as vicious as the looming Myrian. There were more than a few nasty stares shot at Matthew, but the harlot seemed to be completely unaware of them. In reality, he was. He only did his best to tune into social subtleties whenever he was trying to comprehend something a companion had said, or when he was practicing his trade. Otherwise, he just let his natural cluelessness take over. It wasn't that he was ignoring the death glares shot in his direction, he was just that he was completely unaware. "So in this case, she is the evil one?" Once again, Matthew sounded curious. He wasn't judging Razkar's character, that wasn't it at all. The harlot was using the Myrian to literally define his morality in this given moment. But why? Their destination suddenly loomed in front of them, a single house painted with peeling white. The Myrian might notice that Matthew had never answered his question about where exactly they were going. He reached out, putting a hand on the doorknob, craning his head slightly to glance back at Razkar once more. "I learned a lot when I asked around. She was surprisingly easy to track down. She is good friends with one of the girls I work with, and that girl was more than happy to let me know that our target had been stabbed. She had chosen the wrong sort of person to swindle, or perhaps they just didn't like what they paid for. It is an occupational hazard." The harlot's eyes grew distant for a time. It had been dark when he had first started out. It was only because of his skill and good looks that he was in a somewhat safe part of the profession. "Her friend was worried about her. The wound had grown infected, so apparently she had decided to come here this afternoon." Matthew gestured toward the old building, chewing on his lower lip for a short moment. "This is the Doctor's Clinic. I came and checked earlier this morning. She was here. The Doctor was a bit hostile at first, but was delighted to learn that we had use of his patient as well. He said he would leave her here for us." The harlot never blinked, never changed expression, just kept on talking in that calm and passive tone of his. The handle of the door turned as he spoke, his words mysterious but soon to be understood. The door swung open, and Matthew stepped inside, a few flickering lanterns showing the inside of the Clinic. It was a single room, with shelves and racks of medical tools on the walls. It didn't look all that odd, but the true thing of interest was the steel gurney in the middle of the room. It was slanted, and held a shivering woman on it, her clothes completely tripped from her pale body. Her wrists were seperately tied down with leather straps, her forehead locked in place with another similar strap, and her ankles secured as well. She was absolutely drenched in blood, displayed in dozens of fingerprints and smeared lines. The only clean part of her body was a small section of her inner thigh, which had a very neatly sewn stab wound. Her eyes were opened and wide, bright and green, obviously completely and utterly horrified at just the simple sight of the two men. Her whore make-up had been long since smeared into black streams that ran down her cheeks, tears continuing to slowly drip down the flesh. She was gagged with a well-placed dirty cloth, though muffled noises could be heard from deep inside her throat. Perhaps most horrifyingly, a perfectly square patch of flesh was missing from her stomach, easily as big as a spread hand. It had been perfectly extracted, and was now displayed on a little table and tray nearby, bloodied medical tools in a neat line right beside of the flesh. "He has a theory that simple cuts can heal much more quickly if you just surgically remove the cut flesh and replace it with unblemished flesh. I feel like it is a silly idea, like it won't work, and even if it did it would take way too much effort." Matthew's face flickered with shadow and light, blue eyes shimmering. At best, he looked mildly annoyed. He was. The experiment was obviously a stupid one, and the Doctor was skilled enough to know that. What was the point, then? The harlot turned his head slowly, closing the door behind Razkar if the Myrian fully entered, then gazing at him for instructions on the next steps. "Do we just want to try asking her what we need to know, and see if she is scared of your face? We have all night with her, the Doctor just requested me to have her clean by tomorrow morning."

[Razkar]

"This is no healer's temple..."

The Myrian knew that wasn't the proper word for what the barbarian healer's called their places of work, but saying the holy word seemed to dispel some of the crushing malevolence choking him in their clean, ordered and utterly stained room. Ticks before his face had been serene, patiently accepting Matthew's intelligence, both filing it away for later and commending the lad on his initiative. Half the worked seemed to have been done already.

And the location of a healer, too, he'd thought, a tick before stepping inside. Now his mind's mouth choked on the idea and he wondered if he could get drunk enough to forget this place. Those jars. The frozen rictus of terror and agony on the heads in them. The organs and limbs and silently-screaming stunted children that he fervently prayed had been plucked from dead wombs.

Racks and shelves and two spotless wooden tables, loaded and lined with fiendish chunks of metal that even a seasoned warrior like him shuddered at. They were devices to save lives, not end them, but perverted into something that granted neither.

Pain. On command, on payment, on a whim, and worse than even those three, for the interests of natural sciences.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to burn this place to the ground. Nothing more so than the sight of the female strapped down like a pig ready for slaughter. Terrified, pleading eyes snapped to them both and she tried to squirm. What ran through her mind, he wondered? Were they to kill her? Violate her? Have the same kind of... "interest", that the "good" Doctor had?

Perhaps she just wants to die.

Razkar nodded at Matthew's question and walked towards the table almost... afraid. He doubted the Doctor had raped her; the human had far more intellectual urges (which also happened to be just as traumatizing). But that patch of skin had been so expertly removed, preserved, even treated on further. Pins were stuck into it, each a different color... a different time.

The Myrian shook his head and blinked for a long time. No. Stop questioning. Don't even try to get into that mind...

"Female..."

Razkar spoke slowly, and so much more gently than he'd been intending. Several options had come to his mind, as they'd been walking. Perhaps showing her his cloak, regaling her in jovial tones about some of the choice ones. What he'd done to each of the men (and some women) who'd once bore those scalps. Perhaps something slower, more nakedly intimidating: telling her he knew everything (though he didn't) about her, and Marius, and his disappearance, and she shouldn't bother lying, or he would hurt her.

He would have, too. As he thought of it, he had no qualms.

Would. Had. Past tenses.

"Female," he started again, standing over the terrified, half-mad face, cheeks ruddy and turgid with horror, crying behind her gag, "You know me, yes? You know of the Myrian on the docks?"

A frantic, jerking movement that could have been a nod. That was enough for him.

"Good. I knew Marius. The Svefra you seduced. I know you took him, robbed him... I want to know where you he is. Or..."

Razkar leaned forward, willing his face into an expressionless, shadowed mask, made so by the candlelight that couldn't reach it. He had a new plan now. Much more simple. More more direct.

Far crueler.

"... I will leave you here for the Doctor. We've already paid him for you, of course-" he jingled his purse, laden with hundreds of mizas, just to ram the point home that he could do that "-all legal, or as far as "legal" gets in this shithole. You tell the truth, he won't harm you, we'll come back, cut the ropes, and you stay the petch away from the Svefra in the Sunset Quarters. But if you don't..."

He shrugged, looking more nonchalant than he felt. He could hear the calm, steady breathing from Matthew; much like his own, in fact. The whore's came in sobs, floods, ebbs, great droughts, like some faucet that had been scorched and frozen at once. The harlot was probably observing all of this with the same dispassionate coolness as always.

That's his curse. Mine is this.

"... we leave. He comes back. And this..." he gestured lazily down her body, the blood and the black chalk diagrams and lines, the perfect square of grisly muscle and fat, "... all of this, goes on and on, until Dira takes you. And remember: he's a doctor. That won't be until he wants it. Do you understand?"

Another nod, and now her eyes shone with frantic hope, desperate and mad and gibbering, but there, latched onto, greedily taken when offered and Goddess, he would never wipe the stain of this place from him.

Razkar had butchered on three continents. He'd tortured, on occasion. He'd ripped the living hearts from men and devoured them before their dying eyes. He'd slaughtered and he'd maimed. But part of him, hypocrite or child or hero or fool, he had no idea... part of him knew he had never stooped this low.

"I'm going to take the gag off now. Answer swiftly, but quietly." He nodded to the door, adding another white lie to sweeten the deal. "He's just outside."

The Myrian pulled the gag loose, and waited for the torrent.

"PleasesirhelpIswearIdidn'tknowIdidn'tplease-"

Razkar's hand clamped over her mouth and choked off the babble. He shushed her once, then slowly let his palm up... eyes locked to hers, willing some sense into her...

"Whisper, girl. And swift, remember? You know the offer. Make good on it."

"The... the slave market..."

She said, and he was stunned anew to see no shame in her eyes. That she could sell a boy so innocent and fine into eternal bondage like one would pass on a horse or lame dog... but she was a barbarian, he reminded himself. They called the Children of Myri savages, but kept countless slaves.

Such is "civilization".

"Who did you sell him to?" He managed to ask after a few ticks, digesting his digest, letting it fester but keeping on the task at hand. "Quickly, girl, before he comes through that door-"

"M-Malum!" She managed to squeak, fresh tears leaking from her eyes. "He-He h-hangs out in-in the bar! Slaver's Row! As-Ask for him! T-Tell him, Dora told y-you about th-the Svefra boy!"

Razkar nodded slowly. It seemed plausible, all of this, if done in typical barbarian fashion. If it were Razkar - and my the Goddess-Queen rip the soul from me if ever I sink this far - he'd just slit his throat and toss him in a handy alley. End of problem. But "Dora" had a more lucrative idea: seduce, rob and then sell off the empty, spent vessel into the bargain. Very profitable.

Won't buy her new skin, though.

The Myrian sighed and motioned to stand, shaking his head sadly.

"You lie. You stink of it. I already checked the Slave Market, whore, and the boy isn't there. I'll tell the doctor-"

"Nonononono, please, please, please!" He panicked whispers were vomited out like the embryo's of screams, eyes bugging out of her head, not willing to let go of her hope now. "I-I did! Ask Malum, I-I always go to him! I-I sold him f-for a hundred mizas! Gold! A-All... legal!"

The ghost, the suggestion of a smile. Something to make him think she was like him. Razkar shook his head, but it wasn't the illusion of disbelief now. It was genuine. It never ceased to amaze him how people adapted. You just had to take them to the very brink...

"... alright, Dora..." He patted her cheek and then stuffed the gag back into her mouth before she could answer and it muffled her sobbing pleas. "I believe you..."

The Myrian stood, feeling aged and torn in the harsh, surgical candlelight. He scratched the back of his head with one hand... and flexed his right hand with the other. Options, options... always options, but which was the right one? The most expedient? The most noble? The middle ground?

She seduced a boy. She robbed him. She sold him and thus killed his soul, and she has done it before. If you loose her... how long would it be before she did it again?

Razkar sighed, long and low, and bowed his head. He knew what he should do. It was a dirty thing, but... it was a dirty city. Filthy. Corrupting. He would be glad to leave it, once their business was concluded.

He spoke in a whisper that sounded broken, patting her cheek again with real and solemn sadness.

"This is all the mercy I have for you-"

-and smacked his right hand over her mouth, gag and all, while his left pinched her nostrils shut and held her whole head in a steely, steady grip. The straps over her head aided him, and she spasmed and bucked but they were the tiniest, most pathetic struggles imaginable.

Eyes that would haunt him for the rest of his days stared up at his and wept and begged and cursed and cried out for deliverance. Razkar delivered it, and his lips moved, whispered again as he looked at her.

"Dira, come and embrace this soul. Deliver her from pain and weakness; grant her the justice she lacked in this world. Enfold your arms around her and let the life she has after, in this world or the next, be bright as this one was dark..."

He held on until the struggling stopped, then held on some more. Then he let go, wiping his hands-

"Clean." He said as he stood, and as he turned his glare spoke of a cold, barely-leashed anger. "That was what he asked for. 'Clean'. Well... she is clean."

Razkar was already walking for the door.

"You didn't say anything about 'alive'..."

[Matthew]

He watched and he watched closely. Viewing everything from a passive perch, he could see the mixture of torment and anger on Razkar's face. Was it this place that made him feel in such a way, or was it the girl? Perhaps it was a combination of the two. Perhaps it was disgust at the situation in general. It was an understandably disgusting situation, one that even made Matthew's practiced stomach turn just the tiniest bit. He had use for the Doctor though. He would have to play this very carefully. Bringing Razkar here might have been a mistake. The man wasn't like him. The man lived by his own moral code, and now this place would be subjected to his morality. What could the harlot do, though? He just passively watched, head tilted and blue eyes quick to analyze. There was a benefit in all of this. Morality. Razkar was excellent at the intimidation and interrogation. The woman glanced toward Matthew once or twice, silently begging for his assistance, but the harlot did not move. His blue eyes were the only thing that she could likely see from his position in the shadows, and with the angle of the light they probably glinted with as much apathy as he was feeling right now. This was a well-known problem with coming to the Doctor. You could become a patient for longer than you were willing. It was practically advertised though, so Matthew felt no pity for the woman who had come even knowing the stigma surrounding the place. He would be of no assistance to her. Eventually the answers flowed. Matthew's eyes went glassy, and his mind kicked into overdrive. Slaver's Row. Apart from the Market, contains middle men of the slaving profession. Middle men secure and ship their product, which in this case are people. The dead whore ran a good business. She got the coin when they bought her for sleeping, and then she got even more coin when she sold them to the Slavers. Doesn't matter. Slaver's Row. However, there is a bigger problem. He was stepping closer to Razkar, but was only faintly aware of it. His mind hurriedly stripped down the surrounding scenery, turning it to a blank canvas. With a few motions of his hands he repainted it, bringing to life a single three story house. There were offices in the windows, guards at the door, and a constant flow of slaves going in and out. A single sweep of his hand brushed that image aside, replacing it with a completely different image. This one was a one-story home with not-so-secret rumours surrounding it. Two guards at the door. The image shifted, adding two random passerby. They tried to enter the location, and were stopped. Checked. Sharp items allowed. Some taken away. Weapons check, enough allowed for personal protection? Then there was the one with the markings. Kicked from Ruby's Sanctum. Associated with Maelum. Two violent men. The harlot waved his hand, once again stripping down the scenery. Presented with a blank white canvas, he then painted both him and Razkar. He was no good at Intelligence, but he was good at analyzing. He could gather information easily, but all he could do from that point on was try to use it the best he could. How best to go about this next step? He was snapped out of his stupor by the savage, who was suffocating the woman. Matthew had made an error. He hadn't realized the savage would be so angry that he would kill her. No, wait, no anger. He hadn't been angry at the woman, only at the surroundings. Why had he killed her then? He blinked in response to Razkar's cold stare, and then glanced back at the woman. She was dead. He blinked a few more times and then quietly stepped up to her, running his hands down her flesh to soak his lightly-tanned digits in both ink and blood. She was most definitely not clean. Was the savage using the word in some unpleasantly cryptic way? Wrinkling his brow, he shook his head, following Razkar out of the Clinic. "No, I didn't. I will be sure to word myself better next time." He would have to come back and clean the girl. Fresh corpses still held a myriad of uses. Did Razkar know where the Row as? Matthew would try to move up beside of him, and if needed, would step to lead him. Should he ask about what had happened in the Clinic? Perhaps it would be best to ask later. He had wanted a display of morality, he had gotten a display of morality, but he wasn't sure he understood the display. Best to finish the task at hand. "We need a plan before going into the Row. Specifically, going into Maelum's Den. I am aware of what it is. Both Ruby and Brega, two owners of whorehouses, have spoken of it before. Everything in this city is linked, Razkar. Everything. Sex, drugs, violence. It all interweaves into a web. You tug one string and a dozen more strings shiver. We need to go in there, but we need to blend. We need to breathe the city. Two options, Razkar." He held up two fingers, absentmindedly giving a visual representation. "We go in there to buy the boy. Maelum sells people for a bell of depraved sexual uses. We will need to approach with the guise of needing to use this boy for our combined perverse pleasures, if the boy is indeed there." One finger went down, the other one remained up. "Or we bring someone to sell. Someone attractive, that would obviously catch interest. No matter what, we do not simply walk up and demand our young friend back." The first was a dark act to play, the second was a daring act to play. The second act required a woman though, and Matthew didn't have to say Edreina's name aloud for Razkar to understand who Matthew was talking about. "...you look sick. Do you need a moment?" Matthew went off-topic for a moment, blue eyes studying Razkar. Sick might not be the appropriate word. It was a mix of anger, coldness, disgust... there was a lot mixing on the dangerous features of the Myrian.

[Razkar]

Razkar was beginning to see the wisdom in roping Matthew into this dark endeavor. If it were him by his lonesome, the Myrian would have made a beeline Slaver's Row and made exactly the mistake Matthew cautioned him against: demanding Marius be returned, sale be damned. They would refuse, he would bare his steal and either they would all die or he would. And even if he triumphed, within maybe five bells, every cutthroat, assassin, and paid thug in Sunberth would be after him.

Everything is connected. That means the powers that be don't like some big, dumb savage making waves and petching with their revenue. No... subtlety. Planning. Cunning.

Odd as it sounds, thank god for the harlot.

"...you look sick. Do you need a moment?"

He needed more than a moment. He needed a hot bath and a brush made of metal, enough to scrub the stench and stain of that place of "healing" from his body forever. Then the Myrian inhaled deeply, uncaring for the fetid air... and found his eyes sharpen from simply being away from that room.

Stay focused. The night is far from over.

"I am fine, and I say we go with the first option. I am not bringing... anyone, to that place."

The pause was enough to an observant man that Razkar had had Edreina's name dancing on his tongue, but it seemed the Myrian wouldn't even utter it, as if doing so would somehow sully her. The two of them were making good time away from the Clinic, walking fast through the gloom and sputtering torches that served as Sunberth's public lighting. Shadows and whispers dogged them, but the sight of Razkar with his hood down, tattoos and scars and piercings clear for the world to see, bought them swift and unimpeded passage.

Yes. For now.

"When we get in there," he continued, already trying to picture the den they would dive into, "And are alone with the boy, we'll need a way out. Will they have a guard with us in the room? Standing outside? I don't think they would have windows for us to escape from... too risky."

He frowned deeper. Gods, this was hard. Even the mad swirl of battle, endlessly ebbing and flowing, was easier to read and direct than this little quest of theirs. It wasn't enough to just butcher all in their way and rescue the poor lad. Oh, no: they had to sneak and pretend and slither away from a nest of slavers like they were... ashamed to face them.

Razkar growled audibly, making a passing beggar squeak into his scarf and hurry onward. It was not... fit for a warrior, it was not-

No. It isn't. But this isn't a battlefield, and here, you are not a warrior. More to the point, if you went in with yells and steel, they could kill the boy before you got there.

"You will introduce us," he muttered as they turned onto Slaver's Row, making a beeline for the well-lit building at the end of it. "Say I am looking for..." His mouth undulated as if he was trying not to vomit. "... interested in fucking and beating the boy. Tell them I have coin for it, and want to choose my own. We will need your eyes, my friend... and the djed within them."

Another precedent reached: Razkar was actually advocating - nay, requesting - a mage use hypnotism for his benefit. The thought almost made him smile, and his starkly-shining teeth were the first thing that the dark, tattooed man standing outside the building saw when the two approached.

Kostaja looked him up and down. Cool and calm, collected, and Razkar observed him with the same clinical eye.

A fighter, this one. He can barely hold in all the awful things he wants to do to the world.

"I help you?"

"Hear you have house for petch." Razkar's voice seemed to devolve in the space of ticks. Gone was the accented but fluent Common; now it was chopped, growled, snarled like a Myrian barely out of the jungle. He nodded more, too. The barbarians seemed to think that made all foreigners stupid. He had no idea why. "You have boy? For, ah... for beat, too." He slammed his fist into the opposite palm and chuckled like a Akila Hound choking. "Pay more for beat boy..."

That's right, play it up. The brutal savage who can barely speak and only knows enough to fuck and maim. Given this town, you'll fit right in.

[Matthew]

He didn't like using Hypnotism. It had been a struggle to learn the art, but he had persisted for the sake of his profession. Once he had obtained it though, he had balked once he had discovered the dangers. It was addictive, singing through his veins and demanding that he indulge just a little more. It damaged him, leaving his eyesight blurry and his ears ringing for days after he had inspired Razkar and company in Syliras. Personal magic was deadly, and while he had felt that Hypnotism came naturally to him, he also felt that very sensation was part of the danger. It felt easy, and it was easy. That made it all the more tempting, and all the more dangerous. Matthew was very intimate with temptation. His veins were already buzzing at the very sound of the magic, hungry for use, hungry for Djed to flow. He took a breath, the wheels churning once more. Razkar was probably right. He would need it. Why did he ever agree to this in the first place? He would have to use it carefully, wisely, and sparingly. He prepared himself as they approached the man, slowly sipping Djed from an inner cup, filling his mouth with it as he focused. He made sure to keep focused on something other than the magic, feeling more comfortable if he didn't completely indulge himself in the flow of Djed. Razkar greeted Kostaja, and Matthew went to his inner library. The Myrian is showing an impressive amount of restraint. This is important. Play it right. Combat perhaps an option. No, not an option. Too many, too enclosed, can't expect Myrian to win while defending self. Discard option. Last resort. Find the way out. The way in is defined, plotted, planned. They want you to be in. But to take the boy out? Harder. No windows, the pleasure rooms are underground. No way out but the way you come in. Think harder. Enclosed room. Enclosed rooms. Ground floor, underground floor. Other pleasure seekers. Other slave traders. He could offer himself. He knew he could make more money than the boy could ever hope to make. Matthew could make ten times the amount the boy would ever make in a year here. He was but a boy, and there were very few who would stoop that low. There were some, but they didn't come loaded with money. They were the bottom of the barrel, the dirt. Matthew was an adult, handsome, ripe. But would he survive? He doubted it. Discard. Think harder. House for petch. House for twisted pleasures. Twisted. Debauchery. Breathe it in. Matthew took a breath beside of Razkar, sucking in the dirt and soot of Sunberth. It flowed through him, staining his lungs with filth. Breathe the city. Feel the pulse of the city. Feel your heart beat in time. Pulse. Twisted. Debauchery. "And I want to kill him." Kostaja didn't take his eyes off of Razkar, even at the sound of the harlot's voice. He was skilled enough to know who the genuine threat was, at least in the here and now. He had also heard quite a few depraved things, and had indulged in some of them himself. Someone coming here to commit a 'legal' murder was no surprise at all. "He is for repeated use, not a one time pleasure." Matthew didn't hesitate, eyes boring into the side of Kostaja's head. "How many times has he seen use, then?" Kostaja paused, and finally slid his eyes towards Matthew. Razkar's act had worked, and Kostaja considered him the socially stupid one of the bunch. That didn't mean Razkar was any less dangerous, though. He was still very aware of all the blades on the Myrian. Matthew continued on, matching stares with the violent fighter. "Not many men want to petch a young boy, not when there are women for the taking, or healthy young men. We'll pay to petch him, kill him, and have his corpse. I have personal pleasures to indulge on it, and then the Doctor will take it from there." He slowly ran a hand through his hair, the bloodied digits smearing on his forehead and on his black locks. He needed to associate himself with the Doctor, and what better way than by a small show of crimson-stained fingers? He finally struck with his magic, lacing just a bit of Hypnotism into a single word, bringing it to the forefront of Kostaja's mind. Doctor. Kostaja was a fighter. A quick scan of him showed plenty of scars, and a recent stitching on his neck. The stiching was done with a very thin black thread, the same exact sort of thread that had been on a spindle in one of the Doctor's shelves. There weren't very many Doctors in Sunberth, especially not ones who could handle men like Kostaja. This Kostaja was a customer. A repeated customer. He knew the sort of uses the Doctor would have for a fresh young male corpse. He'd thank me, even. Matthew used his eyes this time, gently slipping the Suggestion into Kostaja's mind through their matched stares. The intimidating wouldn't flinch away, Matthew was convinced of that. It was best to be in favor with the Doctor, of course. This promised that you were actually medicated and healed, not used for some sort of gruesome experiment. Kostaja grunted and then stood aside, his voice steely but a glimmer behind his dead stare. "Myrian petches the kid, then the Pretty Boy kills the kid and does whatever petched up thing he wants to do. But if you are taking the corpse with you, then you bring it by me on your way out. And you will pay extra." The harlot nodded his thanks and moved by Kostaja, motioning for Razkar to take the lead. They were met with dozens of men, some here for the pleasure, some here to sell. Most of them glared at Razkar, which is exactly why Matthew wanted him to lead. Their way was made obvious, a distant staircase downwards echoing screams and moans. Matthew had a plan, and hopefully Razkar would see that in his cool blue gaze. The Myrian just had to locate the boy.

[Razkar]

Down and through they walked, until the misery seeped through their skin and the sadism whispered in their ears with perfumed words. Razkar thought the lair of The Doctor was a nightmare, and it was, but it was a clinical nightmare. Eveything in order; all his tools for debasement and agony sterilized and numbered and organized.

Though Razkar would not admit it to himself until long after, part of him understood the horrors of that place. The necessity of such horrible pain for the greater medical good. Mayhap it was better for The Doctor that Razkar did not know the true reason for his "research": he enjoyed inflicting pain, in such ways that an uneducated man couldn't even conceive.

But the bowels of Malum's hovel were far, far removed from that. Howls and screams and sobbing pleas seemed to screech and sputter from the very walls, even the floor they walked on. The slaver didn't bother putting a varnish of respectability or even normality onto his business. The paint peeled; the furniture was beaten and rotting; the drapes were rags and everywhere were smears in various hues of blacks that Razkar didn't want to even guess at.

Down and through they walked, and the Myrian felt his gnosis burn and growl... and then something else.

Justice. Justice for those held her in bondage. Justice for the abused and degraded. Violated and butchered for the sick carnality evil men harbor.

Razkar gritted his teeth when he realized the whispers of whispers were coming from Yahal's curse. The Lord of Faith was as disgusted by this place as he was. Well, at least that was one thing they had in com-

"Right, 'ave a look and pick one, will ya?"

The Myrian nodded, grinning with a hungry, spiky mouth and stepped into the room their burly minder had unlocked. Naught but straw and stinking buckets lay inside... and the six wretched specimens of humanity huddled against the walls.

Rags. Sores. Scars. Eyes holding nothing but fear... if they were lucky. The filthier ones seemed to have nothing in their eyes anymore. Razkar had seen the same eyes in men he'd killed. Lifeless. Hopeless. And the whispers grew louder-

Focus! Find the boy!

"'f'I wuz you," the minder drawled, scratching his beard and picks squirming things from it, yellow sneer catching the dirty light, "I'd 'ave the one at the en'. Nice 'n fresh..."

Razkar followed his advice, walking to the end of the line... and found terrified, trembling blue eyes he knew well looking back into the hood. Marius stared back at him with dim but slowly comprehending eyes. He'd known Razkar for that long journey from Zeltiva to Sunberth; trained under him, sparred with him, and his Svefra partner.

But he was doubting it now. Doubting eveything before two nights ago. Razka's flickering eyes caught more dried blood and bright bruises than he cared to remember. The boy had suffered. Been used and then thrown into a pit with others as damned as he.

Now, for some glimmer of hope, his mouth opened and he would splurge, give it all away-

"Hush!"

Razkar clamped a hand over his mouth and pushed him back against the wall, hard, grinding his pelvis against him as he did and fighting the bile back down his thorat.

"No talk, boy..." He managed to say with a skin-crawling chuckle, sniffing the ragged boy, almost tasting him. "Better if you not talk... just scream..."

When he was close to his ear, however, Marius' mind reeled anew as the fluent Common he'd remembered whisper rapid-fire, urgent and clear.

"Getting you out. Play along."

The Myrian turned back to the minder and caressed Marius' cheek. "Some place to go? Room? Where we go?"

The minder poked his head out into the corridor and with his eyes thus averted, Razkar seized the chance to shoot a loaded look at Matthew. His snarling, sneering sadism had vanished; replacing it was the true face he wore. Confused but not desperate; going along with Matthew's ride, trusting him more than he trusted most.

Summed up, it would say: you better have a fucking good plan...

[Matthew]

This was all both foreign and familar to the harlot. He had researched the darker of pleasures in the depths of Ravok, an educational vacation he had took when he was younger. He had subjected himself to abuse and torture, and came away from the experience knowing that it wasn't for him. He understood the need for such a place, even supported it. If darker desires could be fulfilled in such a controlled manner, then perhaps it would prevent them from seeking out their pleasures in public streets or unlocked homes. At the same time, this place made him feel uncomfortable in a sense. These people were not here willingly, and that made it wrong in the eyes of the harlot. He knew there were those that would disagree. some would say that these people were weak, that it was their birthright to be taken advantage of by the strong. He did not have such logic behind his own personal feelings on the matter. He just trusted his instinct. If an emotion was strong enough for him to undoubtably feel it, then he paid attention. His soul told him this place was wrong. He walked with a stone face though, ignoring the cries and moans. He had long since grown numb to such sickness. Instead, he once again breathed air, letting the filth of this place seep into the pores of his flesh. One with the city, one with the heartbeat. Razkar was surprisingly calm. While Matthew's morals were a gray area, the harlot had thought that Razkar had clear ones. Matthew was slowly finding out that he did have clear morals, they were just defined by something different than your average human. They were defined by Myri perhaps, the reason why Razkar breathed. Matthew breathed whatever he had to breath to seamlessly fit himself in to the body of whatever place he was in at the moment. Razkar breathed Myri, no matter where he was at. Whatever his personal views on this place though, he hid them well. A tightening of the jaw was the only sign of discomfort. Or perhaps anger. They met with a man who spoke with an accent that made Matthew's ears ache, and were ushered towards six huddled masses. He could smell them. Salt and dirt, tears of their own and stains of the city streets. It smelled like urine as well, but Matthew didn't see a place for the waste. Perhaps they were expected to do it on the floor. He had no idea, and didn't think it was worth figuring out. Razkar paced the line until he paused at one, hopefully the one that he was looking for. Matthew crossed his arms, tilting his head. The dirty burly one smiled a yellow grin at him, which Matthew returned with a short nod. Matthew and Razkar had managed to find a dynamic, the harlot the cold and intelligent one and the Myrian as the sadistic brute. Razkar played a sadistic brute quite well. Understandable, considering that was what most people seemed to automatically think of him. The slow grind of his hips caused Matthew to raise an eyebrow, not expecting Razkar to take the act that far. It was that important that he get the boy out, hm? The Myrian shot him a look, one that Matthew didn't quite understand. He assumed that the Myrian was questioning the plan, which would be a smart move, since he had no idea what the plan was at this point. What was it that folks normally did in this situation, to silently assure that everything was going according to plan? Matthew shot Razkar a quick wink, which consisted of a few rapid-fire blinks until the harlot managed to figure out how to get only one eye to blink. Hopefully that would do it. They were led to a private room with a bed, and then locked in. Matthew automatically turned to the boy, crouching to get down on his level, speaking at a quick whisper. "If you want to be free, you will have to trust me. Clear your mind and accept everything that I do. Listen to everything I say. I am going to do something that will make it easier for you. Just don't resist, do you understand?" The boy quickly nodded, eyes wide, desperation for survival pushing him to rely on this one last hope. Matthew closed his own eyes, breathed in, and focused. Djed sparked somewhere deep inside the abyss of his body, and he slowly reached out for it. He didn't like doing this, but he was too far in now. This was the only option he had. He found the Djed and he squeezed it, shattering it, dispersing it through his veins. He tugged at it, breathing air in and out, the Djed traveling through his body to spark at the back of his eyes and the depths of his throat. When he made eye contact with the boy, he transferred hypnotic power from both eyes and mouth. It was a direct and steady flow of power, and the boy flinched back as he felt it caress at his mind. Shuddering just a bit, he bit down on his lower lip and focused, trusting Matthew and letting the wave of power sweep over his mind. Seconds later his eyes rolled into the back of his head, though he remained standing. Matthew continued to trickle power, testing the potential of this trance. "What is your name?" The boy answered, his voice slow and slurred. "Marius." Matthew nodded, and then fired a piercing thought deep within the boy's skull. Scream for me. The boy let out a horrified and drawn-out cry, the slurred terror giving a creepy effect to the sound. Matthew stared down at him, eyes burning blue, power sizzling in his head. Breathing deeply, he slowly sat down in front of the boy, rubbing his forehead to ease the ache that was already starting. Marius's mind was practically laid out before him, easy to access in his willingly trance-like state. First, Matthew would have to give the illusion that they were doing exactly what they said they would. ***** Almost a full bell later, the boy was a trembling mess. He had been subjected to horrifying thoughts and flashes, all of which had resulted in the appropriate sound of torment. If anyone was listening, they would hopefully be convinced that the child had been fully and abusively taken advantage of. Now for the hard part. Now for the trick. Carrying the boy out the front door. Matthew worked quickly, tearing a strip of cloth from the boy's raggedy clothes. Leaning down to the boy, he looked dead into his rolled-back eyes, the child shivering and sweating from the strain of everything his mind had experienced in the past bell. "When I slap the back of your head, you will hold your breath. When I slap it a second time, you will begin to breathe again." The harlot struck out, whipping his knuckle across the boy's lip. It instantly split, dripping blood, swelling a hot red. Taking his hands, he smeared blood and black ink all over the childs nose and legs, making him look even filthier than he had before. He tore a second strip of cloth from the boy's shirt, and then went to work. The binding was tied around both arms, right under the shoulder. It was tight enough that it would effectively stop the pulse for as long as the cloth was tightened. The boy was already breathing slowly and in a practically dead-looking state from his trance. If he held his breath, his sweaty and pale face would hopefully further convince the guard at the door that the boy was dead. Turning to Razkar, he spoke quickly and quietly. "Throw him over your shoulder, and position him in a way that his neck is difficult to reach. If the guard wants to stab him to ensure he is dead, make sure that he understands we don't want our merchandise marred. I'll slap the boy on the back of the head when we approach the exit, and if all goes well, he will appear completely dead. We must move quickly or his arms will become damaged. Once we are out of sight, we can loosen the bindings. You will have to pay whatever the guard asks. Do you understand?" As long as the plot was understood, Matthew would do exactly as he said he would do. Razkar would be left to make sure they made their exit smoothly. Matthew cut off the trickle of Djed, blinking rapidly a few times as the world swam. His eyes hurt. It was like a headache, but in both of his eyes. An eyeache.