Open Wrecking Ball (Noven)

[Razkar]

28th Day of Spring, 514AV
Just south of the Wolf's Den
4th Bell

'Twuz in Sunburf fair cidy... where duh gurls are scho pridy... I first set my eysh on sweet Mol-URP! Molly... Malone...!

"Sylir's piss, would you fuckin' look at this...?"

Nothing warms a blackened Sunberthian heart more than a good bit of street theater. In a place where the whole world seemed to drain all its scum and degenerates, you were always certain of a good show if you kept your eyes open. They used to say the reason there were no playhouses in the city was because every street was a stage. A riot, a fight, a brawl, feuding lovers, gibbering drunks, religious lunatics, snake oil salesmen, merchants selling everything real and imagined...

Just turn the right street, and there you'd find it, ready and willing to stave off the boredom.

Which was just what Maxim and his boys needed that morning. All of them had been chewing on kourma root for bells (all save Roden, petching killjoy), and the buzz wearing off. They'd tried to boost it with a few blasts of powder, backed up with shots of whatever paint thinner they could spare from inside, but now it was getting late and it was sheer adrenaline keeping them going.

That and the money. And what Cedric would do to them if they fucked up on the job.

Watch the street, brace anyone coming in you don't know and if worse comes to worse, hold 'em off and raise the alarm, Maxim thought through a narcotic fug, remembering his bearded master's commands. The hulking ganger nodded to himself and stamped his feet, seeking to ride himself of the chill clinging to his toes. And so we shall, boss. Long as the mizas hold out...

And lo! Just as their morning couldn't get any more sodding lonesome, here was some hermit tottering down the lane, creaky voice belting out something that could generously be described as a song. Maxim and his trio of bouncers laughed and grinned and nudged each other, rising to their feet and intending to have a little fun.

Sure as bloody Rhysol're having it inside, Ebert thought sourly, finishing his last bottle and scratching around his fresh tattoo. Wine, women, song, grub, whole bloody deal. And us? Leftovers and frostbite. Fucking marvelous.

"Gonna serenade us, granddad?" Maxim said with a leer, tipping a wink to his fellows as the hooded beggar came closer, lurching through the shadows and the irregular torchlight with a bottle of amber sloshing around in one hand. "Bit late for a one man band, innit?"

The old goat mumbled something that could have been a throat clearing or a sonnet. Maxim couldn't get it, and peered closer as the piss-reeking relic got closer, drinking arm tipping the bottle upward, as his other hand vanished into his cloak.

Something changed in the odd and rank little group. Ebert frowned, thinking he recognized that cloak. The way it was knitted together from dozens of smaller pieces, some with... hair, on them. Roden spat out a stream of kourma juice and could have sworn he heard weapons clank under the coat. Even Radovan, sitting by the door, stood up and walked over, seeing the glint of ink under that hood... on a face too smooth to be a drunken piece of street trash-

-just as Maxim saw the full breadth of the face. And recognized it. And knew he was about to die.

There was no other warning. No challenge. Myrians didn't fight like that. They fought to win, and didn't care how they did it. Maxim barely got his mouth open before the drunk gripped the neck of the bottle tighter and stabbed the whole thing into his face like a fat-bottomed knife-

-burly brawler screaming as a dozen shards pierced his eyes, his cheeks, nose, mouth, tongue, reeling away-

-as the drunk moved without any impediment now, no sign of inebriation. At his right, Ebert went for the dirk at his back as the drunk whirled on him, left hand coming back out of his cloak-

-punching dagger gripped in his fist, vicious blade jutting out from between his knuckles-

-as he stabbed it into the human's throat, twisting it as he pulled it away and leaving a gaping, streaming, steaming red maw where his jugular vein and voicebox used to be.

"Sh-Shit-!"

Radovan whirled to the door and the Myrian kicked Maxim square in the small of the back, sending the big man sprawling forwards, blindly, heedlessly-

-colliding with Radovan in a tangle of desperate limbs, stopping both before they could raise anything-

"Savage fucking-"

Roden managed to snarl out the first syllable of bastard before he swung his cudgel, aiming for the Myrian's face-

-seeing it clearly now, as the man jerked backward to avoid the blow, hood siding off.

Eyes widening as he saw the patchwork of tattoos and piercings. Sharp, filed teeth. Black, cold eyes that did nothing but reflect Roden's desperate, hateful expression, all framed by flowing black hair bound up into a ponytail.

The Scalper.

That half-tick of recollection killed him. Razkar lunged forward and jammed the ruined, jagged neck of the bottle into the man's forearm, twisting it, making him yelp in pain and drop the dirk-

-left hand landing three vicious kidney punches into his right side-

-all three of them tipped with that punching dagger, ripping the same hole bigger and bigger-

-and Roden fell slowly to his knees, legs going numb, noticing rather than feeling that his head was being held up, no... held back-

-giving Razkar a free line of sight for one final punch to his throat that ended his life. Then he turned back to the sprawled out duo that was left. Radovan was trying to heave the weeping, bellowing Maxim off him.

"Get... off you... fat... fuSHYKE!"

Something tall and dark and merciless loomed over them both, holding a shot blade, double-edged, with a hilt of carved and rune-covered bone. Radovan pushed ever more frantically, trying to make Maxim see, make him turn over-

-and Razkar bought the gladius crashing down into Maxim's back, impaling him heart, blade angled just so to avoid the ribs and slide cleanly between them, punching out the front of his chest-

-and into Radovan's stomach. He squirmed hard, but ultimately it wasn't enough. Now joined to the literal dead weight that was Maxim, all he could do now was holler and yell and scream and pray those inside either heard or he just died quickly. A thousand pokers jabbed at his guts when the Myrian twisted his blade, but then he saw another one in his hand.

Just as lone, but with a hand-guard dotted with a bunch of short, sharp spikes. The Myrian made a quick, dexterous gesture and reversed his grip again, raising it high as Radovan started to beg, plead, shriek-

-and cutting it off a tick later by stabbing it through his heart.

Four dead. Eight ticks. Maybe ten. Better.

Old habits were hardest to break, and Razkar couldn't help but evaluate himself even as he approached the door. The two on the ground should have been his priority; the one under wasn't even wounded. But there was that cudgel to neutralize... but then again, the last one managed to scream himself hoarse, and that wasn't good.

But what did it accomplish? He peered at the front of the dirty little cantina - not a tavern; even Sunberth's liberal definition of the term was too much of a stretch for this glorified shed - and saw frantic, drunken movement through the windows... but no signs of alarm. Strings and drums pounded away inside, a mad medley of music to dance and drink to. He cocked his head and counted... a dozen voices, at least. Maybe two dozen.

Scum. Gangers. No better than the ones that approached you outside the Pits. Vultures fighting over the Robern's carcass.

Razkar grimaced and nudged Ebert with his toe, spying the garish and fresh tattoo on his neck. A striking snake. He knew the others would have the same, somewhere on their bodies, probably the same place. The Sunberth Cobras, that's what they were called, and now Robern was dead and the underworld was an all-you-could-steal buffet, they were staking a claim to this section of the town.

I suppose it never crossed their minds that others would have mixed feelings about that...

That was all the introspection the Myrian allowed himself; enough to retrieve his blades and approach the door and listen to the cacophony behind it. Glasses and tankards sloshing and falling, breaking. Bottles. Stamping feet. Laughing whores and chuckling customers. Men boasting and shouting, cheering, proud and preening in their tiny little kingdom. The stench of half-a-dozen narcotics was practically soaking the wall. The Myrian frowned.

Most of them are drunk or lost to their drugs. They will provide little challenge. He sighed and shrugged, reversing the grip on his mother's gladius and rapping his knuckles on the door. Well... too bad. Work is work, and this will... fill a need.

We waited. He listened. The latch scraped behind the door. The wooden board seemed to shudder as the heat from inside escaped outwards.

Light stabbed out in a long line, door creaking-

-and Razkar drew back his gladius, saw the shadow behind the barely-open door-

-the eye peering out the crack-

-widening-

-as Razkar screamed out and stabbed the razor-sharp blade straight through the door-

-through poor Merril's neck on the other side, pinning him to the door, blood spurting over the harlot attached to his side like a Siamese twin, now falling away and pawing at the blood splattered over his face.

She screamed. The music broke off with a comical twang on the banjos and mandolins. The room still for a moment as the drunken assembly saw Merril's wide eyes staring at oblivion, steel jutting out his neck.

Then the door was kicked open and Razkar stepped inside, ax and spike gladius in his hand, tongue from a best forgotten place roaring out over the crowd.

"FOR MYRI!"

[Noven]

"Take the job, or I'm kicking you out."

Corrosive eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You wouldn't. And I thought we were trying to compromise here."

He didn't think it possible, but Jillian's expression actually grew deadlier at his words. The Isur crossed her mismatched arms and leaned her body forward--all five feet of it--as she said, "Fine. If you do the job, I won't kill you and leave your bloody corpse for Mae to weep over. How's that for a compromise?"

Nov clutched at his head and ground his teeth. How was it that every gods damned person in this shyke hole knew?

"The walls are paper thin, boy," Jillian hissed, as if reading his mind.

Alright, alright!" he conceded, "but I do this, and you give me the rest of the day off. Deal?"

The iron forged proprietress glared at him for a moment. "Deal. Now get these things delivered. Before I change my mind and have you sloshing hog gruel for the rest of the season."

Nov wanted to protest that she couldn't do such thing. But, she could. So it was with a heavy sigh and a few creative expletives muttered under his breath that the dark haired cook went about loading all of the food and booze onto a borrowed cart. Once this was done, he moved to the front and gripped both of its wooden handles. One, two, three! He heaved and bent forward, muscles straining as the cart picked up some momentum and got to bumbling down the street behind him. The wheels were rough and clacked loudly across cobbled stones, creating enough ruckus to wake the dead.

The cook thought about what sort of party these sods were hosting as he labored to drag the cart to this less than savory destination. Normally, Noven wanted nothing to do with Sunberth's lowlife gangs. They were all the same to him, big or small, with the exception of the Daggerhands, who deserved to be strung up like pigs. Every last one of them. And then have their balls slow cooked over a fire and fed back into their mouths.

Alas, these were not normal circumstances he found himself facing. Normal would be him sitting alone in his apartment, surrounded by a sea of mess, facing nightmares and whispers in the dark whenever he let his eyes close.

Pacing about like there was a small fire lit to his ass while he thought incessantly of molten hair and sea green eyes, however, was not normal. In fact, it was so far from the norm that it left him in a right sour mood everyday and no amount of drinking or brawling could appease the strange hole that red headed gadgeteer and burned and left.

"Fuck it," Nov seethed to no one in particular as he pulled the food laden cart. "Fuck it all. What's the point anyway? I bet they wouldn't mind if I joined in on the fun. Krysus knows I need it."

And, much to his surprise, his clients hadn't. In fact, as soon as he showed up with all the food and liquor, they poured out of their little shack-like meeting place and ushered him in with open arms, cart and all. After that it was just a blur of activity. The Cobras passed around all the goods and no one even seemed to notice Nov was still standing there, at a loss as to what he should be doing.

Well, after a few chimes booze was being guzzled freely and the party had started in earnest. Seeing this as the perfect way to retaliate against Jillian's iron-clad reign, Nov wasted no time helping himself to some of the food and alcohol. After all, he was off duty. And he had not a single, petching thing waiting for him back at Sunset.

Between the drinking and the eating, Nov wasn't sure when she'd found him, but next thing he knew a dusky skinned, scantily clad beauty named Lula was leading him up a flight of stairs and straight into some nondescript bedroom. She pushed him down onto the spartan bed and wiggled onto his lap, running her hands over his chest, then through his hair.

"Ehh..." the cook mumbled as Lula lifted his shirt and pulled it over his head. Something wasn't right. He had a bad feeling all of a sudden, and it was too quiet downstairs. As the whore went for his pants he stopped her hands with his and peered around her silky arm at the door.

"Maybe we should..."

A scream ripped through the air, sending the music screeching to a halt. Lula gasped and she scrambled onto the bed to hide behind Nov's frame. The frightened whore held onto his shoulders and whispered, "What was--

FOR MYRI!

Even from the second floor, they could hear the words loud and clear. The sound sent shards of icy fear piercing through the cook's heart and he sprang from the bed to lock the door with a click. He was unarmed, inebriated, and too far from anyone able or willing to help him.

Nov was on his own. He needed to find a way out of here, or die trying.

"Lula, you have to hide," he ordered as chaos exploded below. "And don't make a sound, no matter what happens." The girl was whimpering now, but she nodded her head and did as she was told. There was a small bureau at the corner of the room and she crawled into it, sparing him one last look before she shut the door.

"Now to get out of here," he hissed to himself as he blew out the candles and stood against the walls, listening to the terrible shouts and screams that were quickly making their way up to the second floor.

[Razkar]

It was chaos, but in that storm he was the center, and all revolved around his whirling blades. A messy kaleidescope of screaming, snarling, shrieking, cursing faces from both sexes filled his eyes wherever he looked, but he saw none of them.

Hands. Legs. Arms. Weapons. The glint of metal. Threats, whatever they might be, wherever they might come from.

Not that it would matter much. He had his orders, and barring a few... creative interpretations, he meant to see them through.

++++++++++

"All of 'em. Every petching one. Don't leave anythin' breathin' in that place once yer finished..."

Razkar noticed the stubby human's voice roll between a growl to a high pitch and then back to a growl, right before he slammed back another mouthful from the bottle in his hand. Whoever these "Cobras" were, they'd certainly done enough to stoke his hatred.

"32 Ryland Road." He said for the fifth time, and for the fifth time Razkar nodded. "S'a shebeen. Not even a cantina, just... just a bar with some bottles behind it and a few chairs and tables. Whores upstairs. You kill them too, y'hear? I want the word put out what happens to bitches sell their cunt for anyone but me on this patch..."

Razkar nodded again, uncaring for the instructions and caring even less that he was lying. Did he hear? Oh yes, quite clearly. Would he do it? No, he would not.

This is not Falyndar. They are not invaders to be purged, nor raiders to be punished. I'll not disgrace myself for the sake of some petty thug's vendetta.

He briefly thought about killing Walden, instead. The insidious little toad was hardly loved and respected. He was just another gang leader in a city with dozens of them. Now the Daggerhands and their empire had fallen, men like him were making the streets scream every night, squabbling and warring over the rackets and schemes left behind. Most were former lieutenants of Robern, his old Generals, but some, like Walden, were simply seizing the day.

No. Work is work and the Blood Pits... they can only sate you for so long.

"How much?"

"Well..." Walden said, scratching under his chin and suddenly coy. "He'll be protected, of course. A dozen of his men, maybe more. It's their headquarters, after all, they're always found-"

"Two hundred. Gold."

Walden chuckled and his two guard dogs did likewise; big, burly men who flanked him upon arrival, now took turns watching their master's back and staring down The Scalper. Unsuccessfully.

"Fair enough, but splitting that between your crew-"

"No crew. Just me."

A stunned tick and then more than chuckling; laughter, rolling and incredulous and disbelieving... until they saw his face... the slow fire gaining purchase in his eyes... and their laughter died to nothing. Walden leaned forward and rasped: "Are you-"

"No. I am not mad, and I grow tired of people asking me if I am. Two hundred. I will find you here at the same time tomorrow. By then, the Cobras will be gone."

He rose from the corner table in the nondescript tavern outside the Blood Pits, always busy thanks to the constant traffic of gamblers, punters, brawlers and assorted riffraff that called Dira's Arena home.

No final words. No vows of destruction or vengeance. Barely even a glance over his shoulder as he left the pudgy would-be crime boss in his wake.

The day was young, and he had his address.

++++++++++

No more words. No more briefings or quibbling or tedious negotiations. All were just veils to what he truly was; the real nature of power in Sunberth, beyond the gold and growls and power plays.

Blood. Enough of it to wash away history.

The Myrian threw himself at the nearest table, four men rising from it, scattering gaming chips and cards as their chairs scraped across the floor, hands reaching for their weapons-

Doomed and unaware of it.

The ax flashed, a horizontal blur of silver-

-turned red when it sliced through the neck of the man to his right, gladius already thrusting in his left hand-

-punching through another's stomach, twisting the blade before ripping it free, sending a stream of streaming intestines plopping onto the dirty floor-

-then kicking the table viciously with a shout, power of Myri surging through his veins, gnosis afire, knocking it back a good few feet-

-sending one man tottering away, and another flopping over it, balance ruined-

-confusion ended a tick later as Razkar's ax came down a second time, splitting his head in twain like a lump of kindling, grey and red and yellow muscle splattering over the forgotten chips and a very promising straight flush.

Damn shame, that.

"F-Fucking g-"

The last shrunk away from the slaughter, trying to make himself small on the wall but Razkar was moving again, weapons bloodied but raging eyes far from satisfied-

-hearing movement to his left, turning from his last target on the table-

-and found plenty more willing sacrifices to the Glory of Myri.

No. Not to Myri. A tiny, venomous voice whispered, goading him even more. To thine own rage.

Razkar roared like a banshee and faced thsi fresh wave, headed by a big, ruddy-faced bastard who ran at him with his arms out, seeking to tackle him-

-only or the Myrian to spin to his side, avoiding those grasping hands-

-and bringing his ax swinging down like an executioner, burying it in the man's back and severing his spine-

"Fucker!"

-jerking up his gladius to block a dirk swung at his face, parrying it away-

-and kicking the beardless youth holding it between the legs, doubling him over with a help-

-before stabbing Edreina's old gladius through the back of his neck, ripping both weapons out of their respective targets/corpses-

-and flying at the other men now marshaled and rallied, weapons all pulled but not prepared for anything like this. A stream of scum, drunks and hangers-on were already jostling and streaking out the back door, unwilling to get involved in this nightmare, leaving a core of brawlers and killers willing to stick with Cedric.

"Rush him!" One of them yelled, hefting a wood ax. "Only way, now do it!"

Five of them heeded his words, charging forward with a wordless cry of anger, weapons raised in a phalanx of desperate fury-

-and Razkar hurled his ax down the middle, djed-enhanced weapon knocking Wood Ax clean off his feet with the impact, creating a hole dead center-

-free hand reaching out to grab the suddenly-squealing figure at his side, the last remaining card player, gripping him around the collar-

-and throwing the man in the path of his fellows, ruining their charge as two fell over him, another two stopped and hesitated-

-but Razkar did not. He flew, instead.

He lunged to his right and jumped, kicked off from the bar where the musicians had been set up, the string and drum quartet having wisely jumped out the window the second his started his rampage. Using the momentum to vault over the mess, Razkar looking like some avenging angel as he swung down with his gladius-

-slicing one man nearly clean through his throat before he even landed-

-left foot snapping out to nail another with a kick to the shoulder, not perfect, but enough to knock him back, give him some space-

-as the Myrian landed behind the trio of fallen, struggling bodies, stabbing down brutally, three times, precise and merciless-

-until all three were still. A mere clutch of ticks and he rose again, the final man he'd sent staggered shrinking against the wall, tears streaming down his face as the light fled from him, Razkar's rising shadow falling over him as he wrenched his ax free from Wood Ax's twitching chest.

"P... Please... Please-"

The Myrian didn't drag it out. It wasn't his nature, not for work such as this, even in his raging grief. His arm lashed out and the ax swung... then the ganger's head tumbled from his shoulders and a scarlet fountain bloomed and spurted from his stump.

Razkar didn't bother stepping back. He just watched, warmed and speckled, until the trunk fell and he wiped his face. But still... noise... sobbing... trembling...

He cast his eyes around and saw a half-dozen terrified eyes, all fixed on him in horror. Three whores, though a fourth had desperately covered her face, trying to make all this go away, like if she believed hard enough, it really would.

Razkar remembered his orders. He remembered the decision he made the second they were given, too.

The whores watched as the blood-soaked beast gestured to the open door in silence. A tick or two for the shock to wear off... and then they ran. As they tottered and fled out into the night, Razkar looked around the corpses. None of them were Cedric, who'd made himself helpfully easy to identify.

Horns tattooed to his forehead, Walden had said. Something about him being "a daemon to his enemies".

Razkar snorted his scorn, then started walking up the stairs.

Little pigs, little pigs, I'm already in...

[Noven]

Nov pressed his ear against the rough, scratchy wood. There were sounds of panicked scrambling, panting, and sobbing coming from the stairs. The mad scratches and shallow breaths of frightened prey.

And they were getting closer.

It seemed some of the unfortunate souls on the first floor had survived whatever horrific bloodbath had ensued. Even from his secluded location, the shouts and screams and gurgles of death had been too loud and abundant to assume otherwise. Another gang, the cook guessed. Must've caught wind of the party and wasted no time swooping in to eliminate competition.

Shyke, damn...piss. What kind of petched up mess had he gotten himself into? Gods above, how tired he'd grown of mobsters and their relentless hunt for power. If the Scars succeeded in ridding the Daggerhands, Nov decided right then and there he wasn't going to stop until they were all dead. No more gangs, no more terror. Enough was enough.

His train of thought severed as something thudded against the door. "Help!" someone wept as they jangled the latch, then pounded on the wood. "Please, anyone, help! Let me in!"

Nov grit his teeth. Other voices were rising in the same fashion now, some of them female. But this one was not. Ignoring a few pangs of guilt, the cook waited until the man gave up and moved to another door to plead to. If the assassins below were here on orders to slay the Cobras--all of them, most like--then it would be suicidal to assist any of the targets.

Not, he reminded himself, that he hadn't already marked himself for dead as soon as he'd set foot into their headquarters. In all likelihood, the hired hands would sooner slit his throat than wait patiently for an explanation. He needed to find a way out, and the front door was no longer an option.

Fumbling around in the darkness as a cacophony of death rose once more outside, Nov moved along the walls and circumvented objects as best he could. He rammed his hip into the edge of a night stand at some point, but stifled a hiss of pain as his feet pushed him onward. Eventually, his fingers ran across a ridge of some kind. Was it a door? Feeling around in complete blindness, the cook tried to find a latch or knob. Half a chime's worth of searching yielded no results.

So, with his typical subtlety in problem solving, Nov backed up a a few steps, braced himself, and kicked with all his might against the loose plank.

Crack! It split along the center, as far as he could tell with a touch quick enough to avoid splinters. But, it was still not broken enough for him to crawl through. The madness brewing outside was growing ever louder. Wasting no time, Nov kicked one, twice, thrice more, until his foot left a sizable hole--big enough for him to squeeze through.

Still shirtless, the cook made his way into the next room as carefully as he could. There would be a few cuts on him come morning, no doubt, but going back for a shirt would be stupid. His convictions were further cemented when the sound of wind whistling through an open window greeted his ears. Leth's pale light streamed in just enough to make out the silhouette of a small square up on the wall. Almost collapsing with relief, he pushed himself through the hole with an extra burst of energy, like a giant fetus exiting the womb, and landed side first onto the cold floor.

Fuckin' hell, Nov thought as he rested for a moment to soak in his incredible luck. He'd never felt so grateful for the city's shyke construction.

It was time to get out of this slaughter house at last.

That was when two pairs of rough hands grabbed at him and pinned him to the wall. The young merc was too stunned for the first tick to do anything more than gape. His brain whirled in denial. No! it shouted, no, no, no! I was so petching close, the window was right there...

"'Who the fuck is that?" a gravelly voice hissed. Nov felt the grips on his arms tighten as a shadowy figure approached through the dim light. The air was thick with tension as blood drenched screams echoed through the walls.

"I was the delivery boy," Nov answered for himself, daring nothing louder than a whisper--acidic of a whisper as it was. He was in deeper shyke than he had been a chime ago, as impossible as that sounded. If he had use of his hands, he might've had a chance, but the two goons on either side of him ensured no such opportunities. "Don't want no trouble. Just let me go."

There was a stretch of silence. Then, the boss spoke.

"Kill him."

[Razkar]

He knew the narrow confines of the stairs and the halls above would not befit his long gladius now his ax, made for slashing and hacking. Instead he sheathed them and as his left hand drew his kukri from his chest, his right snaked to the small of his back... and when it came back, it was drawn into a tight fist-

-with the two inch blade of his push dagger jutting out from the middle of it.

This should be instructional...

His lesson was not long coming. A shadow fell from the top of the stairs, the floorboards creaked and Razkar knew there was someone waiting for him to enter the doorway. But with what? He listened closer... pausing on the last steps... hearing the heavy, panicked breathing of one pressed against the wall... wanting the unseen demon from downstairs to just come and be done with it-

-and he saw the rude, triangular outline of an ax, lit by the lone candle in the hallway, took one step forward and then jumped low, rolling instead of walking-

"Shyke!"

-as his unseen assailant swung anyway, at about chest height, but the blade flew over him and lodged into the dooframe, just as Razkar rolled back to one knee and slashed backhanded with his kukri-

-the ganger yelping in pain as it cut through his calf, sending him down to one knee-

-and the Myrian spun to face him, still crouched, right fist snapping around-

-once, twice, three times-

-blade and knuckles making wet, ugly, snapping and slurping sounds as they ripped a hole into the man's throat, eyes wide and unbelieving, hand groping to them, ax forgotten, trying to staunch a river with a handful of sticks.

Razkar rose and ignored him. Four rooms. Four possibilities. A myriad of small, innocent sounds came from each one but they could have been anything... and Razkar was in no frame to be over-cautious that night.

He turned and kicked the first one open, then immediately slid to the right of the open door-

-heard the twang of a crossbow, saw the steel-tipped blur as a bolt flew out the opening-

-thunked into the wall and wobbled there as if embarrassed it had missed-

The Myrian surged into the room and hurled his kukri at the half-naked ganger desperately trying to pull back the bow-

-but the human was quick and Razkar's skill with the kukri meager; he hefted up his crossbow and swayed at the same time, cumbersome construct blocking the whirling blade and missing him-

-but Razkar was still running, leaping over the bed where the whore the ganger had been screwing lay under the covers quivering, right fist cocked back-

-exploding outward as he got close-

-and the Crossbowmen shrieked just once as the push dagger was buried in his eye, Razkar returning it with his own triumphant yell, forcing it deeper, deeper, until his knuckles hurt from pressing against the sides of his eyes socket and something not blood oozed from the ragged hole.

A door opened. Razkar's head snapped around and withdrew the dagger, letting the twitching ganger fall. Whispered voices. Slow movements... time enough for him to reclaim his dagger and think about tiptoeing-

Ah, what the fuck's the point? They already know.

He slid out into the hallway and saw a couple of gangers pause in mid-sneak to the stairs, shorts swords in their hands, faces paling as they saw him, bodies tense, unsure-

-Razkar didn't wait for them to decide, and just lunged.

One of them cursed worthy of a Zeltiva sailor and stabbed out at his stomach-

-kukri parrying it, knocking the blade away-

-and Razkar grunted in pain as the hammer blow punch to the ganger's temple pressed the handle of the push dagger hard and sudden into the heel of his hand-

-burying it into the man's brain. He could see his eyes fizzle and his soul spasm in confusion, lump of brain matter shorting out and he had no idea why-

-and he couldn't pull the fucking thing loose-

The second man saw it, feral snarl of joy lighting has face as he thrust higher, seeing the savage frozen, unable to move-

-and Razkar jerked the twitching nearly-corpse in front of the blade, the last man impaling his friend and making him a full-corpse, Razkar letting go of the push dagger and cracking the upright corpse hard in the side-

-sudden movement puling the short sword from the other man's hand, his smirking victory now turning horrid-

-and as soon as the first was clear, Razkar's kukri thrust out low, into the second's belly. A shrill cry of agony was ripped from his throat and ended wetly as Razkar gripped the weapon with both hand and carved upward-

-feeling blade puncture a lung, brief gasp of wind on his bloody hands, blowing from the pouring hole-

-pulled the kukri free and grabbed the man by the hair, blood and more blood pouring from his begging lips-

Better to make some use of him.

The Myrian remembered the top of the stairs; the first room. These Cobras liked to lay traps? Fine. They he'd feed them well.

He took a firm grip on the dying man and threw him hard into the nearest door, momentum and weight smashing through the door, into the darkened room-

"GOTCHA!"

-and a man built like an outdoor toilet lurched from the side of the door, hacking down with a longsword, nearly cutting the poor ganger in two, ending his agony-

-then frowning, body paused as he realized that-

"Isn't that-"

-he was a dead man.

Cedric nearly choked as he saw a dark hand holding a silver streak stab into the side of Ronald's bull-like neck, curved blade as adept for thrusting as it was slashing, and then rip outward, forward-

-kukri slashing through flesh and airways and blood and muscle-

-and Ronald fell down to his knees and the threesome in the room could see the figure clearly now.

Soaked and bathed in scarlet, but the tattoos of red and black and blue stark under the crimson coating. Pure black eyes around wide whites in his eyes, piercing through them one by one as he flicked his kukri to one side, getting the majority of the gore off.

A face and body he'd seen a hundred times: hired muscle in mediocre clothes, heavily-muscled and tattoos about his face, holding by the throat-

-someone barely even a boy, by his judging of things. Dark-haired, handsome but with skin and eyes hardened, roughened by years in a perpetual, merciless anarchy, dark eyes flashing between him and-

-the final man. Somehow wedged behind his muscle and Razkar... a man with horns tattooed onto his forehead.

The Myrian just nodded slightly in satisfaction, and sheathed his kukri. Confused glances were exchanged, and Cedric's lips almost twitched in mirth, opened to spout some bullshit about hiring him-

-then that hope died as the Myrian unlimbered his ax once again, thin smile on lips that tasted like raw steak.

Without a word, he advanced on them all.

[Noven]

The door exploded inward as a body smashed through solid wood like a hapless, human battering ram, flying through the air alongside splinters and hinges before it hit the ground with a sickening thud. Sheer momentum would have kept it rolling, limbs akimbo, face bloodied beyond recognition, if the tree trunk of a Cobra hadn't leaped into view--like the genius he was--and hacked down the first sign of flesh his beady little eyes spotted.

Before anyone could so much as twitch, a blade tore through the hulking thug's neck and sliced it open, sending blood splurting forth. There was a single, wet gurgle preceding death. Then the man tipped like a felled tree to reveal his killer, as quickly forgotten as last night's dinner.

No amount of time in the coming years could fade the single image that followed, seared into young cook's mind like red hot iron to flesh.

Standing in front of the doorway, drenched in fresh, slick blood through which innumerable tattoos gleamed in a patchwork of red, black, and blue all over his lean body, was Death itself. It drilled them each with a gaze as dark as pitch, moving from one victim to the next as though passing final judgment upon each. When its calculating, coal black eyes pierced into those of Nov's, the cook found himself grateful for the brainless muscle that kept him propped up against the wall. Terror washed over him in tidal waves, all but knocking the strength from his legs.

Yet, there was something else too...Nov squeezeed his eyes once to rid a strange, nagging sensation worming its way through his mind. At first, he thought it was his pain itching to return. But, then the odd feeling passed, leaving him once more with nothing but plain, naked fear--the kind he came to expect only in the throes of restless sleep.

Fodder for nightmares, this crimson coated executioner was.

Noven waited with bated breath for reinforcements to show up, slowly coming to terms with his inevitable doom. But, none did. Not even when the black eyed butcher sheathed his blade and lent the Cobra leader with a false sense of hope...however short lived it was. Nov knew better, though. Whoever this lone, reaper of souls happened to be, he wasn't going to slay what seemed to be every visible soul within the building just to let the biggest target go.

No, they were dead. All of them. And nothing short of a miracle was going to save Noven now.

"Myrian," the young man heard someone whisper. It was the meathead to his right, wearing a look of fearful awe on his craggy features. There was a split tick of recognition that sparked in Nov's head. Something Nona had said long ago as a threat. But, at the moment, his thoughts were more concerned with how the thug's grip had begun to slacken. If it loosened just a little more, perhaps...

Said Myrian had an axe in his hand now, lips stretched in an eerie smile that sent every hair of Nov's neck on end.

And then he advanced.

Everything exploded into action all at once. The men who had him pinned released their charge to reach for their weapons, right as Nov dropped his weight to his feet and remained in a low crouch. He had every hope that these fools would make for a good distraction. Long enough so that he could find a way to bust through that single window and escape this horror show of a night.

Easier said than done though, the cook was forced to admit as bodies heaved and blood flew. He had a hard enough time dodging feet and blades, let alone figuring out a way to reach that little square of a doorway to his moonlit freedom.

"Petch it all," Nov muttered under his breath as screams erupted--and died--behind him. There were rapidly fewer bodies to buy him time.

It was now, or never.

With a grunt and push, the young man planted one foot against a rickety old chair and propelled himself as high up as he could. The chair promptly toppled over the moment he used his full weight, but by then his hands had found purchase on the edge of the sill. He grit his teeth in effort and strained with every fiber of his being to pull the rest of his body upwards.

Come on, he goaded himself, just a little bit more...

[Razkar]

Like all good things, it couldn't last, but Razkar was satisfied that it was good. The scum downstairs were hardly a challenge. Inebriated, stoned, sozzled, taken by surprise and simply outclassed by a warrior, not just another alley-crawler like them. But he expected the chief rat to keep more efficient muscle next to him. Cedric did not disappoint.

"Geddim!"

Their scrawny victim was forgotten in in a blink, tossed down as the pair of mooks lumbered over to Razkar... and he could see right away that was the wrong word. Their movements were almost catlike, careful, watchful.

Hmm. You underestimated their looks before. Don't do it twice.

The Myrian came in low at the one on the right, swinging for the big man's stomach, almost sneering when the brave or stupid barbarian jerked his forearm down to "block" a petching ax-

-and parried it instead.

Razkar's shock lasted as long as it took for him to work out how he did it. He heard the sharp clang of metal against metal, felt it grind against the pates hidden under the bodyguard's long sleeves. Then the big man lashed out and forced Razkar to sway away from his fist-

-as his partner kicked out at his side-

-foot connecting with the barely healed knife wound in his side.

Gomehs frowned as the supposedly-indestructible Myrian screamed out and crumpled to the side after just one blow. He exchanged a quick, confused glance with Larch and then ignored it. The fucker had wiped out the crew, caused gods knew how much damage... nope, the boss wanted him dead, and fast. He came in closer, unsheathing a broad-bladed wilderness knife that was almost as big as a sword.

Get up! What were you expecting?! A sojourn in Syna? Get up and finish this before they do it for you!

"Fuck it, then," Gomehs muttered, raising the dagger and getting ready to lung, "Not gonna look a gift 'orse in-"

Then the Myrian exploded at him with a wild yell, pleasure and pain mingled together as his gnosis coursed through him, ax swinging wildly, forcing him back, Larch already moving to the side-

-but through the haze of red at the rim of his eyes, Razkar saw him coming, not fooled a second time-

-dropped down low into a full split as a rock-like fist swung for his head and missed, screeching groin ignored in favor of the inferno in his side-

-as he screamed again and backhanded with his ax at the incredulous Larch's leg-

-hacking it off at the knee.

Now it was the bodyguard's turn to go down, and stay there. Cedric snarled his disdain for his useless "protection", utterly ignoring the scrambling figure at the window, pulling a double-bladed dagger from his back and eyeing how fast he could get to the door-

-as Gomehs recovered his form and darted in at the Myrian, kicking out he was down, leg splayed outward-

-and Razkar swayed back, legs kicking up and keeping the brute at bay and then, when his shoulders touched the ground he throw his middle up, jerking his head forward-

-snapping back to his feet, recovering his balance and hacking at Gomehs, the bodyguard only just evading and coming back for more-

slashing low, then stabbing higher, lithe and tanned Myrian dodging away each time-

-but the human was far from slow, always keeping his distance each time-

-until Cedric finally made his move, starting to dash for the door-

"No!"

-and on instinct Razkar hurled his ax at the ganglord's, shimmering blade whirling like a sharpened star as the two objects seemed to come together like rivers in time-

-and Cedric shrieked like a woman as it crunched into his side, staring with fish eyes at the hunk of metal embedded in his kidney-

"Not smart," Gomehs sneered, eyes fixed on the unarmed Myrian, "Getting rid of-"

Razkar grabbed the nearest thing to hand without a word, letting the human get the first part of his gloating out the way, letting him fall in love with the anticipation as his hand found something... heavy, wooden, easily gripped-

-Gomeh's eyes popped as the chair swung sideways towards him-

-then grunted his surprised as it smashed around him, bruising him, staggering him, splinters and impact ruining his vision until he slammed into a wall-

-and a shin like a hammer swung between his legs and sent him briefly airborne. Bile filled his mouth, stinging flames his crotch and he went down nursing himself, doubled over like a gasping baby-

Thunk... thunk... thunk... crunch!

"F-Fuck... me...!"

Larch wasn't the most tanned individual at the best of times, but the sight of the enraged Myrian stomping Gomehs' face in until he heard the final, telling crunch of a crushed skull was enough to turn him positively waxen. Even his own severed leg as briefly forgotten, then remembered as the Myrian turned to him-

-in the context of "petch, now I can't use it to run!"

"H-Hey, man!" He said, trembling and sweating and distantly wondering where he could find crutches. "B-Boss is right there, j-just leave me, alright?"

"You... fucking... coward!" Cedric spat out, jerking and twitching on the floor, but not bad enough not to aim a sloppy kick at Larch's bleed stump. "You... think he's gonna... just let us go?!"

"He came for you!"

Cedric managed a hard, cruel, and knowing smile as the Myrian drew his gladius. Razkar cocked his head as he saw it, a glimmer of respect in there for one who at least knew to meet his death with dignity.

"He came for us all." He squared his jaw as the Myrian drew back the weapon, moving behind him, in no rush. The mortally-wounded human could feel him there, breathing heavily... and he closed his eyes. "Make it quick."

Razkar did, right in front of Larch. The gladius sang through the air in a blur, a fan of light marred with crimson, barely stopping as it lopped Cedric's head from his shoulders, toppling from his neck with a tiny sigh and the slightest gurgle.

Rolling towards him as he panicked, begging now, screaming, the larger man but a dwarf compared to his master's courage in the face of his killer.

Razkar grimaced like he smelled bad meat as he reversed the blade and stabbed down brutally, pinning the man to the floor, and twisting, turning, making him groan and whimper until he ripped it free.

Done. Well... nearly.

The loose end was still struggling with the window, and Razkar all but rolled his eyes. If it were that easy, Cedric would have been up and away through that exit, but... well, he was fatter. The Myrian walked over swiftly and pulled his ax from the gratefully departed deceased and reached out with his left, pulling the boy down by the back of his breeches and throwing him into the light of the last candle standing.

Just one more quick blow, a final message and he could go. He raised the ax high and my Leth's light he was like Dira's Messenger, terrible and merciless and caked in viscera, eyes shining with-

-shocked confusion as he saw the mark on the boy's back-

-flames, but in such a pattern, almost an arrangement; unfinished but what there was... no, it couldn't be.

He remembered flames among flames, in a city far from this one. Children of Myri with tattoos burned onto their flesh that flickered and shimmered whenever they danced in front of the bonfires. They danced whirled and as the young warrior of the Shorn Skulls looked, he couldn't tell where the Myrian ended and the inferno began.

Razkar blinked and was back in Sunberth. The tattoo... yes, that's what it was. Noven trembled on his belly and was probably cursing the savage for drawing out his dying so sadistically, until he heard-

-something not Common.

"You are Raging Fires, yes?" Razkar asked urgenty, noting the barbarian's (gods, was he even that anymore?) bewildered expression. "The mark on your back. What brings you here?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition, and Razkar's eyes darkened. Could it be he simply did not remember? No... no, that wasn't possible. How could he? And yet the ax continued to lower, if not his grip. The Children of Myri squabbled and feuded, true, but the Dark Days were firmly in their past. They did not murder each other, just as a brother would not kill as sister. Only in the most extreme circumstances would such a thing be permitted... and try as he might, Razkar could not define this as one of them.

"Who are you?" He snarled in Common, accent making him sound like he was chewing gravel, despite his fluency. "Where do I know you from?" Now he peered at the boy like he was a curious exhibit at a zoo, barely noticing the patially-dismembered corpses around him, nor the fact he looked like a hemophiliac's nightmare. "You work at the Quarter, correct? Speak, boy!"

He pointed with the blood-slick gladius at the only-just-familiar face, nodding over his shoulder with those black, curious eyes.

"Where did you get that mark on your back? Speak swift and do it now, barbarian," he said coldly, pausing only to reach down and pick up Cedric's head by the hair, eyes half-closed like he was trying to nod off, "I'm in no mood to wait..."

[Noven]

He was almost there. The cool, evening air was so close he could taste it. Elbows pressed flat on the sill, Nov pedaled his boots against the wall as though he were trying to run along it. Which he was, for all intents and purposes.

So close, he seethed as every muscle on his body strained toward this single, desperate endeavor. Just one good push and he was home free. But his feet kept slipping, finding no purchase upon the bare walls. So gods damned, shyke stained, mother petching fuck all piss hell close. If I just--

One tick he was scrambling toward salvation, the next he was lying face down on the ground, feeling for all the world like he was back at the Pits. Lost in a daze of confusion and pain, Nov groaned as he tried to push himself back onto his feet.

He lifted his head and froze.

There, silhouetted within Leth's pale light streaming in from the little window, was the unmistakable shape of an axe. And who else but the Myrian would be holding it high above his head, silent and swift in execution?

Noven rested his forehead against the cold floorboards in defeat. He breathed in slow, every fiber in his being convinced it was the last. The cook never quite imagined himself dying this way, but what was the use in even caring anymore? There was nothing waiting for him at that ghost of shell he called a home. Nothing but pain, guilt, and unattainable vengeance.

He fought the panic and lay as still as he could. Waiting. Counting the breaths until his life was forfeit to Death incarnate.

But, the blow never came. Nov found himself shaking from anger and fear, just a tick away from shattering his self imposed submission and making one last, feverish attempt to live. A thousand reckless scenarios were speeding through his mind, each more suicidal than the next, when the Myrian looming over him said...something.

The cook looked up, mystified. He had no idea what the blood soaked nightmare had just said, but the fact that it had said anything at all left his mind blank with shock. Was this a trick? Or some kind of baffling ritual?

His palms grew sweaty as the Myrian's gaze darkened. Something about Nov's silence had been off putting, though why the young man couldn't even begin to guess. When the warrior spoke again, Nov fought a reflexive flinch against such course, brutal Common. The questions came in wave after wave, but all he could do was stare up at his interrogator, dumbstruck.

Not because he was still alive, or because this killing machine actually wanted to know who he, a nobody who spent half his time cooking for orphans and the other exchanging fists to vent his rage, was. Nor even because the Myrian was calling him the barbarian and pointing a bloodied blade at his face with one hand and clutching a severed Cobra head in the other.

No. The young merc remained prostrate, peering up at this complete loon of a nightmare, because at the Myrian's unexpected words, a single, vivid memory flooded into Nov's consciousness. Well, memory was a strong word. More like the echo of a searing, agonizing sensation blazed upon his back. Sounds of feverish chanting, of giant flames roaring. Then a sharp jerk as someone yanked him up and dragged him away...

Nov blinked, suddenly very much aware of the sharp weapon pointed right between his eyes. "Wh-what?" he managed to splutter, eyes narrowed now in pure suspicion. Pushing himself cautiously into a crouch, the cook felt the small of his back without thinking. So faint, barely even noticeable beneath the touch. Why would the Myrian be interested in a nondescript birthmark? "I don't remember getting a mark. I was born with this, as far as I'm concerned."

Now that death wasn't looming so imminently, his mind jogged into motion once more and worked backwards through the quick succession of odd questions. Nov answered them as best he could and without inhibition, if for no reason other than prolonging his time spent in life.

"I do. Work at Sunset, that is. Delivered all the food and booze here. Jillene promised to hand my ass to me if I didn't. I've never met you until just now. My name is Noven."

He halted to an awkward stop. What else was he supposed to say? The cook struggled for a moment, the effort making his head throb with more than just frustration and exertion. A curious feeling nagged at him like some infernal itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch no matter how hard he tried. With nothing to show for after a handful of ticks of furious churning, Noven simply finished with, "What...did you think my 'mark' was?"

He stared at the Myrian with open dread and doubt. And a hint of intrigue as well, faint as it was in its budding stage.

[Razkar]

The Myrian stalked to the window, weapon and trophy in his hands and almost as forgotten as the boy crouched on the floor. He stayed to one side, out of the light of Leth, peering out at the street... and seeing the detritus were starting to get their courage back.

Tramps and beggars, thieves and opportunists, assorted trash and bored drunks, all were forming an impromptu barricade, coagulating and coalescing like over-sized bacteria around the open would that was the ruined tavern.

Those slain outside will have already been stripped and robbed. Can't waste time forever... but in a good light, at least I don't need to worry about the law.

Then he snorted sharply at the boy's words, turning to him with a disbelieving frown on his face. "You think you are born with ink like that on you?"

Once again, the boy's face showed no spark, no recognition, and Razkar silently corrected himself. The mark was so worn with age that there were not raises, no bumps, no sign that it hadn't been etched into the skin from moment he was born. Why would he think otherwise if...

If he really doesn't remember anything, Razkar thought to himself, regarding the boy with fresh and almost piteous eyes, which could be the case if he was... taken, or his parents removed him young from the jungle. Goddess... am I going mad?

But there was no time to dwell on that at the moment. Razkar shoved the boy ahead of him when he got upright, leading him down the hallway, past the bodies and the blood-splattered walls, down the stairs, listening carefully and ignoring-

-the charnal house that he'd turned the ground floor into. Bodies everywhere Noven cared to look. The wreckage of tables and chairs. Gaping wounds and dead, sightless eyes staring into infinity. Blood pooled over floorboards, flowing in places like cold lava towards the door-

Not too far from a very familiar cart.

Razkar grunted sullenly as if upset to be proven wrong. "Well, this proves you're not completely full of shit, at least." He grumbled and ripped his gladius from the door, letting the man he'd impaled with it slump down with a final thud. "But we're not done here, Noven."

His black eyes flickered over and found the boy nearly quaking in the devastation, but his eyes... they were steady. Like any Sunberth barbarian, he'd been raised around chaos and death; he'd seen it in the street, his home, his work, everywhere and everyone. This was just one more atrocity that would blur with the rest... the only difference being, he was currently at the mercy of the perpetrator.

Razkar grimaced and stooped down for a second, sheathing his ax in favor of a dirk one of the dead gangers carried. He checked the tip and the length with professional scrutiny... then nodded.

"Move yourself, boy."

The growing crowd hissed and murmured like they were at the theater when the two clashing figures emerged from the doorway. One taller, inked and scarred and glaring out at the world from under a layer of blood, weapon and swinging head in his hands. The other, younger, half-naked, eyes not scared but far from comfortable, confused.

One final touch. And, before that...

In full view and with full contempt for it, the Myrian held the head steady and ran the dirk from temple to temple, just above Cedric's hairline. The Myrian had to struggle not to roll his eyes.

Goddess, I forgot how irritating this is when it's not attached... ah-ha, there we go!

The head fell to the ground with a wet thud and the Shorn Skull ducked his trophy away. Myri would know his full accounting for this night, of course. She saw through the mark etched to his forehead, and when his back had the skulls embellished, there would be further proof. But Razkar himself? Well... his Cloak wasn't going to grow itself.

That formality seen to, Razkar held Cedric's head up by the warm, dripping stump in front of the doorframe, making sure the mouth was open before cocking his arm back and-

THUNK!

-the crowd gasped once with one voice as the dirk stabbed through that open maw, through bone and muscle and the back of his head-

-into the wood a good few inches, nailing the skull into the wall like the grisly warning it was. Razkar stepped back and proudly regarded his work, surprised that given the weight difference it was-

"Ah, shyke..."

-slowly, mockingly, the dome of the skull pulled the rest of it down... and around... until it was upside down. The Myrian could have sworn he heard a titter from behind him.

Well, can't have everything, boy.

"Get your cart, boy."

Razkar waited until Noven did just that and directed him down the nearest alley, paying no heed to the crowd that scrambled from their path. A few twists in the shadows later - with the executioner's hand firmly on his shoulder - Noven would find himself bought to a stop and spun around.

Black eyes like a bird of prey looked steadily at him, trying to weigh him without the scales. Razkar wanted to believe something about the boy, but... it was too outlandish. Too bizarre. But what was more likely? That the boy had been kidnapped, perhaps? Slavers? Sold into servitude in Sunberth? Or maybe he'd seen the pattern on another visiting Child of Myri and-

He deserves some answers, he found himself thinking, unable to ignore the longing in Noven's eyes. Terror and resignation had given way to curiosity. Perhaps he's gone his whole life without them...

"The mark on your back," he said slowly, carefully, not wanting his accent to ruin his revelation, "is the symbol of the Raging Fires clan, of the southern wilds."

A glimmer of understanding did he see, but clouded by the same disbelief that warned Rakar no Child of Myri could ever be so ignorant of his heritage. He hammered the point home with a sigh.

"They are Myrians. The people of dancing flames..."

He watched the myriad of reactions rise and fall across that young, confused, incredulous face... then remembered Syna's rise was not far away. He was wounded, the stitches had popped, and soon the exhilaration of combat would give way and he would collapse. He'd prefer that be in his own bed, and with the gold he was owed weighing his pockets.

If only for the sake of completion. Not like you need it, after all...

"Get back to the Quarter, boy," he growled, demeanor of instruction suddenly replaced by the blunt savage Noven had seen before, gesturing down the alley, "My night isn't over. If you wish to know more, we will talk later."

Razkar turned on his heel and walked swiftly, sandals slapping the cold stones, Cloak billowing behind him before he pulled it closer, weapons covered and hood thrown back over his eyes.

"I know where to find you, after all..."

[Noven]

Ink.

The word made slow, agonizing progress through his brain. It was at once preposterous and intriguing, alien and familiar, impossible and...not. Nov felt as though his mind was tossing the concept around like a hot coal. There was no winning in this, only burnt hands to mark his stupidity if he tried to catch it with neither the proper tools nor understanding.

And the only person able to provide him either had just murdered an entire building full of Cobras in less than a bell.

Though he couldn't see much beyond Leth's trickle of light, Nov kept his gaze near the general vicinity of the Myrian's heavily pierced face. He would be a fool to do otherwise. And it wasn't as though the rest of the local scenery was exactly pleasing to the eyes.

Rising slowly to his feet, Noven looked at the darkened forms of carnage before him, the stench of blood and death filling his nose. His stomach twisted and he was suddenly filled with an intense, inexplicable longing for his shirt. It was lying somewhere in the other room, tossed aside by the dusky skinned whore who was still shut inside a cramped, wooden bureau. Maybe he could just ask the Myrian for a quick tick to crawl through the hole and retrieve it. Open the bureau, too, and show Lula his newly re-interpreted birthmark.

Petching ridiculous. Had he lost his wits along with his clothes?

He forced back down a strange urge to bark with laughter and straightened himself to full height, mindful of fresh cuts and bruises. The cook opened his mouth with another question in tow. Then he forced it shut again as the warrior shoved him forward, over butchered corpses and out into the--

"Empty night," Nov breathed as he took in the blood splattered walls, crumpled corpses, and severed parts. How did one person manage so much savage destruction?

He would have asked, had the unbearable smell and sights not required all his attention and strength to walk through. It wasn't that Nov was unused to such imagery. It was that he wasn't used to it in such sheer, massive, brutal quantity. Just the scent itself was sickening enough. He shuddered and his stomach roiled, but he kept his gaze steady. The cook tried not to imagine what it would be like in a day or two when the rot was in full swing. Someone would need to burn the building down to prevent sickness and infestation.

He had to cut his stream of worries short when his cart came into view and the Myrian mumbled admittance to his integrity, however sullen said admission was. Nov didn't mind. So long as he wasn't being axed to death, he took it all as a pretty good sign.

A body slid to the ground as the Myrian retrieved a blade from the door. Not done? Nov thought incredulously. How could they be not done? There were no more bodies...

...Oh. He moved aside on command and watched with a poorly suppressed wince as the scalp of Cedric, King of the Cobras, was sawed bodily away from his skull. Noven felt a bit of his dinner and imbibement creep up to his throat but willed it to retreat.

Then the Myrian speared the disembodied, scalpless head against the wall as a grisly warning.

The crowd, for one, seemed to be faring better than he. Which, Nov took as a hearty warning. These people were not Jillene, or the orphans, or the group of grumpy misfits he called friends. If it hadn't been for the Myrian's gruesome spectacle, this ragtag collection of Sunberth's most desperate, low-trodden scum would be swarming into the building as one heaving, likeminded sea of greed. They'd strip the former headquarters clean and more likely than not leave a few more corpses to the mix by the time they were done.

And he was sure as shyke not going to be here when that happened.

Slowly but surely, the head began to slide around the blade pinning it up. Nov stifled a half-delirious chortle at the bizarre display. Then the Myrian gave another curt order and the cook flinched into action. He wasn't overly fond of following instructions, but neither was he keen on facing the hungry stampede of countless cut throats and beggars.

That, and his bloodthirsty acquaintance had one, firm hand on Noven's bare shoulder. The cook wasn't about to argue against a guy and his freshly cut scalp. Besides, the Myrian had more weapons than he could count, where as Nov had...zero.

Gods above, they were heading down an alley. Could there have been a more fitting location for what inevitably had to come next?

But, to Nov's complete surprise, he was spun around to meet a very different pair of eyes than the one he had prepared himself to die beneath. They were still ink black and as unsettling as ever, but the thoughts behind them seemed to have changed. This man saw something, the boy realized. He recognized my birthm--no, my ink.

In the course of just one evening, Noven felt the dam he had so carefully crafted eighteen years ago at Nona's doorstep crack, and found himself filled with a longing so strong it near knocked him off his feet. For the first time in almost two decades, he wanted the very thing he had denied himself for his entire life in Sunberth.

He wanted to know. He wanted the truth.

Something in his gaze seemed to have convinced the Myrian to speak. And speak the man did, opening doors in Noven's head he never imagined in a thousand years he would be peering through.

Raging Fires clan...southern wilds...Myrians, people of the dancing flames. The itch in his head returned, but try as he might, Nov had no access to it. He'd entered a new realm of possibility with one key, only to find that it had no effect on the second set of ominous doors. A storm of emotions swept through his suddenly too small, mortal frame. Frustration, bewilderment, excitement, anger. What did this mean, now that he had the first clue to this daunting mystery? Should he even care? Would this mean all his plans for his age old vendetta were null and void?

Nov snapped back to present reality as the sound of the Myrian's gruff voice demanded his attention once more. Back to the quarter?? No, wait...

But the man had turned his back and was leaving. For a moment, the cook warred with himself, torn between insatiable curiosity and a healthy dose of self preservation. He was relatively sure that if he defied this avid Collector of Scalps, he would face nothing but bad endings to this already horrific mess of a night. But he couldn't just return home like a whipped pup with his tail between his legs. Not with what he'd just learned. Not when this foreigner--no, this potential kin--knew as much as he did.

Without a word, Nov gripped the cart and pulled it forward with a grunt. The cool, evening Spring air sent goosebumps up his bare flesh. He paid it no mind. The cook dragged on until he spotted a familiar figure loitering outside of a small tavern.

"Oy, Mik," he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. The man raised an eyebrow and detached himself from the grimy wall, arms crossed and tobacco poking against his mouth.

"Wat," Mik spat.

"Got a job for ya," Nov offered as congenially as he could. "Take this back to Jillene. One gold up front, two when I get back and see you've done it."

"Five," Mik blurted, expression deadpan. "Two up front, three when you get back."

Nov couldn't have cared less if the man had said a hundred gold mizas at that moment. "Done." Mik gave him a queer look at the lack of argument, but shrugged his shoulders, took his money, and hauled the cart away without so much as another word.

Wasting no time, the cook raced off back down the street. He ignored the riotous activity as he passed the former Cobra headquarters and slowed to a jog after a few more alleyways. For a moment, his heart sank. He'd lost the petcher for sure. But then he caught the edge of a familiar cloak whipping around a corner and sprung back into action.

Nov knew nothing about this mystery killer, other than the few, indisputable basics. Not his name, not his clan, not his purpose in this city. Nothing.

And he was bent on changing that.