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[Lucillus Nitrozian]

39th of Summer, 514 AV

"Light the bastard up."

"Light the bastard up."

The words swam through Luc's dizzy head, fluttering like wings before his hazy vision and making his temples pulse uncomfortably with pain. "Light the bastard up," the thug had said before leaving the room, "and let's get out of here." With just one casual statement, as if he was asking that the men take out the trash, he had sentenced Lucillus Nitrozian to death. Not only death, but torture of the most unimaginable level. It was a crime and a travesty and a bloody injustice and it made his body turn sick and feverish just thinking of the words, "Light the bastard up." Luc, being Luc, had often spared a great deal of thought on the exact manner of his death, as well as how he would feel upon reaching that most dreadful point. Deep down in his soul, he knew that passing away peacefully in his old age was not the ultimate end his fate was dragging him towards, but he also knew that something as noble as a warrior's death was never going to be in his future. No, he had always envisioned expiring from an over dosage on one of his favorite drugs, foaming at the mouth while trapped in a stinking alleyway until finally the lights faded from his eyes and he fell, clumsily, into the canals and was lost forever. It promised to be a painful end, sure, but at least preceding it was an evening of amazing pleasure.

He was never supposed to be burned alive. Never, in a million years, did Luc imagine that this would be his cause of death. But the thug had said, "Light the bastard up," and his cronies had done just that.

Infuriated, Luc summoned up his strength and screamed hoarsely at the now shut-and-locked door. "Light the bastard up! Is that the best you've got, you ugly petchers?! Come back here and let me sink my goddamned knife in your throat, see if you like the favor!" His words sounded tinny in the space of the housing cubicle... his voice was pathetically weak, and he knew that nobody in the adjacent rooms would hear more than an angry racket. But regardless, he continued to scream for help and curse his departed murderers, hoping that perhaps Rhysol might observe the scene, extend his hand, and let all of his sins be pardoned. "Do you know what my name is? It's Lucillus Nitrozian. Nitro! Zian!" Throwing out his voice like this made his throat feel awfully parched, especially in the smoky haze that was now filling the room, but yelling made him feel better about his impending demise. "Do you know what that means?! It means that you aren't safe in Ravok! You aren't safe anywhere! I will buy a thousand goddamned swords and get them to chase you from here to petching Taloba! So you better start running! I love me a good chase!" He would have continued his fruitless tirade, had a sudden spasm in his throat forced him to bend his head over and start choking.

The voice robbed from his lungs, Luc looked about the room in dismay. Just two bells ago, the housing cubicle had been immaculate; recently rented from the NHC, it had been pristine, elegant, and filled to the brim with expensive furnishings. Not even the party that Luc had just experienced - of which he could only recall a few scant details, all of them colored pink in his memory with a drunken sense of giddiness - had been enough to truly trash this place, save for breaking a few wine glasses on the floor. Now a whole lot more than the wine glasses was broken. Chairs were overturned and had been defaced and eviscerated with knives. The bed was ripped in two, feathers scattered on the filthy, stained floor. The curtains, once a deep and rich velvet, had been torn from the walls and piled into a heap at one corner of the room, a burning brand having set the whole pile ablaze. Now that fire was beginning to lick at the wooden walls and crawl up the rafters, threatening to transform the whole room into an inferno at any moment. Right now it was more akin to an oven, filling the whole place with an uncomfortable heat that made Luc, struggling in vain against his leather restraints, sweat profusely. This can't be the place I'm going to die. This can't be it. It's too... too... too filled with shyke and wasted opportunity and, oh Rhysol, this is it. I'm going to die.

Just two bells ago, Luc hadn't thought that he was going to die. It was just another fun social event at his dealer's home, populated with the best sort of whores and associates that he could hope to call friend. Wine had been drunk, vices had been indulged, and for one happy evening, Luc was able to forget about everything that made him pissed off... at least, until the door had been kicked open and a trio of armed thugs had walked into the room. The bastards had the worst timing, too; the lawyer had just managed to convince Shailai to wear the wooden cock that she had developed quite a reputation for, and had been looking forward to at least a few chimes of playtime. But Shailai hadn't stayed for him when the thugs demanded everyone step out, nor his dealer, nor his other roguish accomplices and companions. They, one and all, left him alone in the room with the seriously intimidating thugs, without even a word of farewell. The most amount of kindness Luc had been able to get was from the thugs themselves, who allowed the Nitrozian to pull up his breeches and belt them before they beat him within an inch of his life. Rather than just squash his head underfoot, however, the criminals had gotten the brilliant idea to stage the murder as an unfortunate casualty as a result of a house fire, Luc's charred bones giving the mastermind a great deal of comfort when he imagined the consequences of this assassination.

One, "Light the bastard up," later, and he was here. His only solace at this point was that the window to the cubicle had been left open, allowing smoke to filter outside the room and into the neighboring streets... although the chances of somebody saving him in time were remote. "Petching bastards!" He screamed once more, trying to at least let the gods hear his final words before they were drowned out by flames.