Closed [The Dungeons] A Sahovian Field Trip

[Noven]

Winter, Day 22, 514AV

Noven hated ghosts.

The last time he was standing in the Courtyard, there had been at least three council members present, all of them Nuits, half a dozen fellow Pulsers, and a full blown crisis that left the entire citadel on lockdown. Between the red flares and new faces and bald, undead raptor dropping two humans from its talons before morphing back into a naked corpse, the mercenary could hardly be expected two give to shykes about his surroundings.

But now, standing alone amidst the tendrils of a perpetual fog that moved seemingly with a mind of its own, Nov found himself suddenly appreciating Nuit company--a sentiment he did not possess prior to getting out of bed that morning.

He did his best to ignore what sounded like faint voices upon the occasional, errant breeze, or the flickers of pale shapes that dodged in and out of the mist. Sodding hell, it was long past dawn. Yet, somehow the Courtyard--or graveyard, to be more apt--was still as unnerving as if it were pitch dark in the dead of night. Eerie as petch, this place was.

The merc stood as close to the entrance he'd just used as possible. There was a little crooked, winding path that led deeper into the tombscape, but he pointedly refrained from walking it alone. Keene, the Warden Initiate who had joined Bitzer's group six days ago, would be here soon. Then, and only then, would Noven deem it reasonably safe to traverse the grounds. Though the gloomy and often downright macabre settings of the island suited his black, festering mood, he wasn't stupid. Nor had he forgotten his roots. Any and all things that did not abide to what Nov saw as the natural laws of life, which included dead things staying dead and dogs having no more than two eyeballs, were suspicious. And suspicious things were to be treated with utmost caution and doubt.

Gloved hands stuffed in pockets and wool coat drawn tightly around his hunched frame, the merc stared out into the swirling fog, waiting. He didn't mind standing by; it had always been part of the job and more often than not provided some space to breathe, to relish the stillness. Granted, his current settings weren't exactly meditative. But it was quiet, and foreign, and nothing about it reminded him of her.

Ghosts, he could bear. They weren't pleasant, but Nov could endure the sight of them. His nightmares had grown tenfold in horror and frequency back in the Berth. It was part of the reason why he'd volunteered to leave, to get as far as he could from anything that would trigger more painful memories. And it was a good decision as far as he could tell. If anything, the ghoulish atmosphere of the Courtyard helped more than it harmed, providing real, tangible fears in place of his less threatening night terrors.

There was just one thing he sincerely, deeply hoped would not appear.

Ovek lend me luck and Dira show me mercy...and please, please keep Mistress Wanda busy.

The Nuit was reclusive, Nov had been told, and wasn't likely to bother Pulsers like himself. But she was still a Nuit, and one of the creepier looking ones at that. Witch of the Courtyard, some liked to called her, and always wearing the visage of a hag well past her prime. The merc hoped to avoid interacting with her completely. Something about the old crone made the little hairs on his neck stand on end.

Ever superstitious, the man shook his head and chose to dwell on something else. Thinking about her too much might very well summon her and that was a mistake he strove determinedly not to commit.

When Noven had first heard of The Dungeons and its grisly keeper, reason suggested he stay as far away from it was possible. Alas, he'd never been good at listening to that particular voice in his head. And certainly not with something as daunting as a fellow Vexer to contend with back home.

Nov supposed that had been another driving force to this little holiday of his. The rumors of another interrogator, one far too vicious and bloodthirsty to be him, were growing more and more colorful. Some said it was a giant of a man with a machete for one hand and a butcher's knife for another. Others said it was a beautiful woman wrought in the likeness of Krysus herself, with flowing red hair and an insatiable craving for the blood of virile, young men.

It all sounded like horse shyke to him. But Noven knew as well as anyone that rumors didn't start from nothing. And if even a tenth of the things he heard were true, he needed to find this mystery newcomer's identity first. Krysus was known to pit her pets against one another to see which was stronger. If this was some kind of sick game she was playing, he would be ready for it.

First rule of survival: always be at least ten steps ahead of your enemies.

Or make sure you smash them all the way to Dira's domain. Either way, he needed information. And who better to get it from than a master of torture and interrogation older than time and possibly more cunning than the Goddess of Pain and Murder herself?

The sound of approaching footsteps brought Noven's attentions back to the present. He turned, straightening a little upon seeing who it was, and offered a simple, "Hey."

[Keene Ward]

Keene had arrived at the citadel the night before, and had spent yet another uncomfortable night in the Quarters along with the rest of the "Scars". He had been tasked to keep an eye on them for the duration of their stay, and while he hadn't been averse to the roles of guide or observer, the chill of Quarters had required him to take a small day trip back to the cavern to collect all his clothes to use as blankets to keep himself from freezing to death as he slept. Inspite of the sizable increase in warmth during the night, the cold was enough to wake him early in the mornings, gifting him with the even quieter bells of the sunrise mostly to himself. He spent as little time within the chilled walls of the buildings as he could, choosing instead to take small trips down to the Prairie until his presence was required.

A particular member of the rugged trio had asked for his assistance that day. Noven, the compact brawler type that he'd made the acquaintance of shortly after the events leading to his current assignment. As Keene ambled his way across the dusty plains of the Prairie, he let his mind wander. Noven had stated he wished to speak to the nuit in charge of the dungeons; typically the area was off-limits to visitors, but Keene's vambrace allowed others under his supervision to travel with a bit more freedom than those without. Having little reason to deny the man, Keene had agreed to meet him around the eleventh bell of the morning. He had a fairly stable internal clock that allowed for a good estimation of time, and as he started up the sloped path back to to the citadel, it was just starting to move into the eleventh bell.

What Noven wanted with the dungeons, however, had not been something the man had disclosed, nor was it anything Keene had inquired about. The Scars, for the most part, had their various forms of business on the island, and Keene was meant to keep watch over them not investigate them. He was far too speculative to be a very effective detective at any rate. For all he knew, Noven was simply a sadist interested in the workings of the undead's system of captivity and punishment. It was not something that seemed entirely too far from what could be the truth. The man was sturdy, not in just the physical sense, but from the way he moved, spoke, and interacted with others. Keene did not possess the gift of empathy, but he was not so blind he could not see that there was a weathered quality to they way Noven conducted himself. Whatever had caused him to be as such was more than Keene wanted to know. There were some things that curiosity simply wasn't meant to latch onto, and the man's past was one of those things. Keene was happy to help, and he was curious to see how Noven would conduct himself. The actual purpose of the visit to the dungeons wasn't nearly as important as the fact that the visit was happening at all.

There was also the strange way Noven and the other members of the Scars looked at the various oddities and facets of Sahova. There was a guarded distrust, a fear almost, that pervaded almost all of their interactions with both the citadel and those who resided within it. While it was not unwarranted, Keene found it a bit silly. The three of them were not in any immediate danger beyond what they had all already experienced. Of course, the island was not a hospitable environment, especially to the living, but there was a point where distrust and suspicion outlived their usefulness. He gaged the members near the line that separated the useful from the frivolous, but he supposed it was more based upon subjective experiences than true objective existence. As he made his way through the echoing chamber of the Vestibule, Keene ran a hand through his hair, flicking some of the sweat that collected on his fingers to the ground as the tapping of his boots bounced around the stone filled area. Either way, they were his charges, and while he was not directly responsible for them, he had decided to give them the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Not a single one of them seemed particularly dangerous outside of what had become the norm for those he met on the island. If anything, they were more approachable than those of the undead variety, though Keene had yet to take notice of that.

Making his way through the courtyard, the swirling mists playing at the hems of his tunic and pants, Keene altered his course to head towards the Quarters. The area was mostly deserted, though there were some figures off in the distance that were either quietly conversing residents or spirits attempting to pull him from the protective barrier of the path. Set on his mission, Keene paid them little attention, choosing instead to gaze ahead at the waiting figure that stood hunched against the fog in front of the doors to the Quarters. He spotted Keene and gave the initiate a short greeting, to which Keene replied with a curt nod. "The dungeons aren't far from here." He waited a tick for Noven to get himself ready before heading back into the mists. Keene let his pace slow some, as none of the Scars seemed particularly easy treading through the spirit filled courtyard. It was something that had never truly bothered him, though at times he had found it inconvenient. The thought crossed his mind that it was a good thing the three had not come to stay for good. It would have been bad for their health in almost every single way.

Turning to speak to Noven as they raveled over the twisted paths that branched out through the entirety of the courtyard, Keene offered the other man a chance to escape what seemed to be a brooding state of mind with an invitation to idle chatter. It was something he wasn't often wonted to do, but Noven seemed particularly uneasy. Keene didn't want the man doing anything rash or worse, and decided he'd do what he could to ease whatever internal struggles the man faced for the time being. "Did you sleep well?" It was a phrase he'd heard employed by many an idle socialite in Zeltiva. He was never sure what the validity of the question was or how it seemed to open up a plethora of meaningless chit-chat between individuals, but it often acted as a strange sort of key, unlocking the lips of most who had something more they wished to say. Keene was almost certain the answer was going to be something revolving around the more negative aspects of things one might take issue with sleep on the island of the sleepless, but the question was stated none-the-less.

[Noven]

Well, there was no more pussyfooting to be done. The young Warden initiate Keene had arrived and was already leading the way. It was time to enter the Courtyard in earnest.

Steeling his resolve, Nov followed after his guide, unable to help noticing how the fog wrapped around their forms. It felt as if they were stepping into the embrace of an old lover. Or, since he was in a more ghoulish mood, being swallowed whole by a shapeless, misty maw.

The merc shook his head to rid it of the nightmarish thoughts and lengthened his strides so that he could walk alongside the Warden initiate. Keene was rather serious for his age, Nov had noted, and seemed to perform all of his tasks with a clean efficiency and icy calm seldom found anywhere within Sunberth's slummy domains. That, and he was pain-stakingly thorough in everything he did. It showed in the way he'd greeted Noven in kind, in how he'd paused for a moment to allow the other man to find his bearings before progressing into the Courtyard, and especially in the considerably slower pace with which he now led.

It was like the guy was aware of anything and everything. All the time. And Nov didn't blame him; if he'd been living on an island run by Nuits for as long as Keene had, walking through courtyards harboring malicious spirits and facing gods knew what else each day, he'd grow extra eyes on the back, top, front, and sides of his head, too. The more the better.

"Did you sleep well?"

Nov balked at the question for a tick. It'd been ages since anyone had bothered to ask, because anyone who would ask already knew the answer. Back in the Berth, he slept like absolute shyke, every night without fail. And without the doctor's miracle tea he'd regressed to a record number of night terrors, most of which resulted in him being no where near his bed by the time he awoke. Noven had taken to dragging his table in front of the door just so he wouldn't somehow manage to lift the bar, unlock the latch, and go on a people-squeezing rampage.

Crushing someone till he broke one of their ribs was the worst act he'd committed thus far. He'd also yelled, chased, and swung at other, slightly more fortunate folk who had been nearby during one of his episodes. Almost every time he had to be pinned down and forced to wake by either Jillene or one of her staff. And almost every time after that, he felt a wave of helplessness and guilt crash over him.

At least, that was how things used to progress. Before he decided to hide the key, bar the door, and utilize a table.

Surprisingly enough, Noven found that he didn't need to employ any of these tactics here in Sahova. He had been worried before, once seasickness stopped plaguing him, about how difficult sleeping might become. He even considered telling Bitzer or Palaren. A warning that if he started making a ruckus one--or both--of them would have to come subdue him.

The merc came close to fessing up and asking this favor, but had stopped himself just outside of Wolf Girl's door. Just give it one night, he'd reasoned with himself, and see how things go.

Turned out he could sleep like a babe in his spartan, dismal quarters. Didn't dream at all, in fact. Nov wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps it was because there were so many other dangers to worry over--black magic, dead people who were not dead, vengeful ghosts. It made his problems seem almost cuddly. Or maybe it was because for the first time he could remember, he was not in Sunberth, cut off from everyone and everything in his life save two Scars. And even these remaining ties were foreign, bred in far away cities before coming to the Berth.

"I...did," the merc replied at last, surprised by his own answer. "Sleep well, that is. And yourself?"

Krysus. That was a dumb thing to ask. But both question and answer had caught him off guard, and the words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

On either side of their crooked little path, sinister whispers could be heard somewhere in the dense swirl of fog. Nov pointedly ignored them. He focused on only two things: following Keene and keeping every inch of his person within the confines of their path.

[Keene Ward]

Keene found Noven to be incredibly curious. The man seemed strong, able, and possessed a vitality that was altogether lacking from the island. It was something similar to what burned in the pit of Atziri's being, a flame of quality so foreign to Keene he simply couldn't understand it. And yet, Noven was clearly afraid. Of what, Keene couldn't be certain. Ghosts were frightening enough, he reasoned, and Mistress Wanda was anything but appealing. The island itself was dangerous, and both he and Noven had experienced just how dangerous it could be not that long ago. Still, there was something about the man, the struggle that fought just beneath Noven's surface that intrigued the young reimancer. He had considered commenting upon it earlier, but there had been little preface or reason to do so. As they walked along the paths, it was even more apparent that it was neither the time nor place for such inquiries. Instead, Keene shifted his position to allow the other man to walk beside him, the paths just wide enough to fit the larger, sturdy frame that belong to Noven alongside the wiry, thin initiate.

Noven's reply was as strange as Keene found the man himself. He didn't wear it on his face, however, as it was not something completely improbable. The other man seemed a bit flustered, his focus shifting from introspection to the conversation at hand. Having had the desired effect, Keene replied in his calm, collected manner as the rise of the building that housed the dungeons loomed before them, emerging from the fog like some massive, dark entity. "I slept." He didn't say anything more for the time being as the approached the heavy wooden doors that stood about a head taller than Noven. Gingerly wrapping his fingers around the other man's wrist with a wince, Keene pushed the doors open with his left hand, the vambrace's engravings shimmering for a tick before they opened, revealing the murky interior within. Slipping through and drawing Noven in behind him, Keene immediately let him go the moment they were through.

The sounds were the first thing that caught Keene's attention. Pitiable wailing, sobbing, and whimpering filled the air with the yet living souls awaiting their punishment. He felt a small shiver run down his skin as his eyes passed over the seemingly endless hallway of bars and groping hands. It was, by far, the most abysmal place he'd been to on the island. Footsteps could be heard in the distance as a figure slowly emerged from out of the poorly lit gloom. He wore an old, moth eaten top hat, his dapper clothing driftingly mustily in the stale, fetid air of the dungeons. He moved with purpose, the decrepit body a poor testament to his apparent finesse of step. Keene straightened up as the nuit approached, the mediator between Pulsar and Deader. "Pulsars, hm?" The nuit's hollow eyes flicked from Keene to Noven to Keene's vambrace. The spark of recognition was quickly dulled by a fair show of contempt. "Ah, excuse me, Initiate." He gave a slight tip of his hat, a mock form of politeness. "What do you want."

Keene turned to Noven, raising a brow to signal that he should have an answer ready when he was finished speaking. Keeping all semblances of a disdainful retort out of his soft, cool reply, Keene spoke to the decrepit looking man. "This man has a request of you, if you would allow it." The nuit turned his attention to Noven, sizing the man up with an appraising scowl.

"Well then, what do you want?"

[Noven]

Heh, he slept. Fair enough.

It wasn't long after that they arrived at what Noven could only assume to be the entrance to the dungeons. He had to crane his neck to see the top of the wooden doors, which looked heavy enough to require both of his hands to force open.

To the mercenary's surprise, it only took one, firm push for Keene to pass through. The Warden initiate pulled him in by the wrist, his touch a bit colder than Nov expected but otherwise as clinical and non-threatening as the rest of his demeanor. They were inside within ticks. From anyone else, Nov might have refused in a less than civilized manner to be touched, rather than merely narrow his eyes for a tick at the sudden but necessary contact.

Necessary, because a strange, ephemeral light had shimmered from various engravings on Keene's vambrace before the door opened. It was clear even to his ignorant likes that the armor served as more than just a decorative piece of equipment; its markings acted as some kind of magic key, allowing its bearer access to high profile locations like the Dungeons.

It made Noven wonder where else Keene was allowed access to. Now, he finally understood why he'd been encouraged to ask the young man to be his guide. Not simply for protection, guidance, or surveillance...no, the merc wouldn't have been able to get in by himself at all. Period. Not even with stealth or brute force. As always, magic seemed to be at the bottom of yet another Sahovian eccentricity. The Sunberthian wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get used to it, sorcery and the like being something as unfamiliar to him as wealth, equality, and leisure.

The sights within though...those seemed familiar enough. A clamor of sobs and wails and limitless rage filled the corridors as hands more skeleton than flesh reached out for the two visitors. It was like the entire Tent city of Sunberth's slummiest slums had been crammed into one, horrid building. There were torches lit every few feet, but they were dim at best and seemed only to add to the ghastly atmosphere. Nov could see deep gouges in the walls as his eyes scanned row after row of rusted cells. It didn't require much imagination to figure out what had probably caused them.

"Krysus..." the man muttered under his breath. Not so much for the sounds or scenery, but for the stench.

Some morbid part of him fancied it smelled just like home.

Fortunately, they weren't forced to wait long. Footsteps approached amidst the tortured din, preceding an old Nuit wearing an expression so dour Nov couldn't even hope to compete. The Dungeon's master, as Noven quickly guessed, was a decrepit looking thing, though he possessed the bearing of someone who was as formidable and cunning as his reputation suggested. Just cause the gods knew how old geezer was a bit ragged around the edges, it didn't mean he wasn't razor sharp when it came to his job. Or should it be called his life's passion? Nov wasn't sure. All he knew was that Cryptly was the last person, dead or alive, he'd want to cross in a place like this.

The Nuit and Initiate exchanged a few words, the former with barely disguised contempt and the latter with his usual, ice cold precision, though Noven suspected Keene was no fonder of Cryptly than Cryptly was of him.

"I'm looking for someone," he answered the Nuit, forcing himself to meet the master interrogator's gaze. "Thought you might know a thing or two."

Cryptly leered, showing a row of yellow and black, rotting teeth. It was nightmare fodder at its finest. "And what makes you think I'd tell you even if I did, boy? Who do you think you are, comin' in here like a pair of fools with blood greener than the mold on my arse. Babes, is what you lot are to the likes of me. Best leave before I decide to stop being generous with my patience. Got better things to do than babysitting Pulsers."

Gritting his teeth, Noven undid his left glove and let the crimson veins webbed across his darker skin do the talking.

Something akin to glee flickered across Cryptly's seedy features. "Well, well, well...what a turn of events this is. One of Krysus's chosen, I see. How lucky. How very lucky indeed."

The Nuit turned to walk back down the hall, pausing only to throw an impatient glance backwards and bark, "Well come on you two, then. Haven't got all day and can't exactly talk in this shyke racket. OY, QUIET DOWN YOU LOT, BEFORE I DECIDE TO FEED YOU EACH OTHER'S TONGUES!"

That got the cells to simmer down, if only for a time. "This way then, gentlemen," Cryptly gestured with a gruesome smile.

Putting his glove back on, Noven gave Keene an uneasy look before following the Dungeon Master. He took back what he had assumed earlier. The Initiate was there for his sanity as well, because even a Vexer like Nov had his limits for stomaching everything Cryptly's domain had to offer.

[Keene Ward]

Keene stood in passive silence as the two exchanged words. The smell of the place had him blinking more than was usual, small drops of wet pooling at the corners of his eyes. He found it surprising the stench was contained within the confines of the dungeons, though he supposed that could easily be the work of the shields placed over the doors that led back out into the courtyards. He was quite aware his shielding skills were no where near on par with those that had created the massive barriers, as they were still completely invisible to him. There was barely even the hint of power when he passed through, a sign he still had much to learn. Still, the stink was nearly its own entity, clawing its way through his nostrils and sitting with a dank recline on the back of his tongue. Had he not been in the presence of both Cryptly and Noven, Keene might have allowed himself a few disgusted gags to better acclimate to the newfound wretched environment. However, he did no such thing, choosing instead to let his eyes wander away from the disdainful rot of a mouth that Cryptly's condescending voice dripped from and onto the various cells.

He kept his ear trained on what was being said, but the writhing hands and cacophony of cries were too intriguing to keep his eyes engaged on the conversation as well. The majority in the cells were either sickly, bloodied, or frantic. The latter were, presumably, newer additions who had enough vivacity left in them to struggle to a greater - though equally futile - extant as their companions. Keene kept his eyes from making contact with the desperate faces. He found their suffering unfortunate, but there was little he could do to help them. In fact, there was nothing short of getting himself thrown in with them that he could do at all. Thus, he felt no reason to wallow in pity for the helpless or write in agony over his own lack of control over the situation. He did not try to rationalize those imprisoned had been so for just or proper reasons, but he also did not allow himself the compassion to care for them. They were prisoners, and he was no jailbreaker. These thoughts, however, did not completely wash away the feeling of sickness that had settled in the pit of his stomach. Fate or not, the people were hardly going to allow him to ignore them with ease.

At Cryptly's refusal, Keene turned a raised brow to the nuit. He hadn't expected complete compliance, but from the majority of his interactions with the nuits and Pulsars in power alike, most had given him what he needed, however reluctantly. He had certainly misjudged Cryptly's status, and as the pale head shook with contempt, Keene found his disgust for the individual rise a few degrees. He found the nuit detestable, more so for his aesthetic than anything else. Despite his appearance and speech, Keene knew a sharp mind when he saw one, and the master of the dungeons was a razor. Unsure whether he should try to attempt a negotiation or not, Keene looked to Noven, who's attention had been placed on the removal of his glove. The gesture was strange, and as the leather was removed to reveal a lattice of red veins running under the man's dark skin. Both Keene and Cryptly reacted as the same time, though Keene's surprise extended only to a widening of the eyes and a sharp spark of curiosity.

The dungeon master, however, seemed to know exactly what the anomaly of biology was, referring to Noven as "one of Krysus's chosen". Having never heard the name before and knowing Noven was not of Sahova, Keene wondered who Krysus was and why Noven had been chosen. The man seemed to get more and more interesting by the tick. Having been convinced by the strange veins that Noven moved to cover once more with his glove, Cryptly hobbled off, leaving the two men in his wake. The sudden change was a bit unprecedented, and Keene stared blankly at the nuit's back before he beckoned to them. He turned exchange a short glance with the other man. Though his face held little, his eyes had a fair amount of unease. It was something he found mirrored in the dark orbs of Noven's gaze before the two of them hurried off after the decrepit nuit.


Wanting to cause as little issue with the nuit as he could for both his and Noven's sake, Keene briskly followed behind, wincing slightly at the sudden explosion of threat from Cryptly as he forced what felt like a heavy veil over the noise of the cells. It was not completely dispelled, but it quickly fell from a tumultuous thunder to a dull whine. In the newly stilled state of the dungeon, Keene made a point to keep his eyes ahead of him with the occasional flick to Noven beside him or the stones that comprised the path ahead of them. As he walked ahead, Cryptly muttered to himself, the exact mix of emotions too mottled discern, though words like "Vexer", "Krysus", and "petching Pulsers" were heavy players in his outward musings. They walked for a few good chimes, Keene finding conversation under the circumstances a bit inappropriate, though the desire to ask Noven point-blank what it was he kept hidden beneath his glove took up most of his attention. A few times, he let his eyes furtively dart to the hand, his curiosity piqued. He wondered if it were a form of magic, though Noven didn't seem the type to employ, endorse, or enjoy any of the mystic arts. If that were not the case, Keene wondered what was. There were so many possibilities (though most in a realm so near impossible they were not likely), and with nothing but meaningless names and titles to go off of, Keene was effectively stumped.

oocI'm not sure who you're meeting, so I apologize for not continuing the plot! haha, I'm sure you already have an idea of who we're meeting, so I'll leave that to you.

[Noven]

The two men followed Cryptly's asymmetrical form, neither speaking as the Nuit mumbled to himself. Though it wasn't the most comforting of sounds to travel with as they walked past cell after occupied cell--Krysus, how did an island like Sahova have so many prisoners?--Nov could somewhat understand Cryptly's cocktail of emotions.

For a man seeking vengeance, Krysus's mark was simply what it was: a tool. Or more specifically, a knife that cut both ways, lending power to its bearer while also crippling him with its terms. Noven had been hot headed in his youth, sure. But he'd never acquired a true taste for blood and pain. To this day he still needed a reason, a sort of justification for using his mark on someone. And even if said justifications might be as flimsy as "you're a piece of shyke and in you're in my way,' he rarely found it necessary to do anything more than what was adequate, as he viewed drawing out every single victim's pain a general waste of time.

A master interrogator like Cryptly, however...

Nov suspected the only real reason the Nuit hadn't already been marked was because he was impossible to control. The Goddess of Pain and Death preferred her chosen subjects to be hot blooded, young, and most of all mortal. They were far easier to manipulate according to her whims, the merc had long since assumed, and to drive further down the path of violence.

That she was driving Noven down this same path was just something he acknowledged, buried, and tried very, very hard not to think about too often. Just until I find him, Nov always assured himself, find him and gut him while he's still screaming. Then I'll figure out how to deal with Krysus after.

Course, the sheer impossibility of him cleanly severing himself from the goddess existed for the same reason Cryptly chose not to deny him. Krysus embodied everything men feared in a spiteful woman. She was ruthless, insidious, and downright insane. Not to mention she had impeccable memory and the kind of lasting grudges that mortals bore generation after generation. Oh, and she was also a goddess with magical, terrifying powers, on top of controlling what was probably an entire legion of homicidal maniacs. Which meant if you crossed her the only thing left of you may very well be a bloody smudge on the ground.

Yeah, neither man nor Nuit was stupid enough to risk offending her.

Nov always wondered what markless interrogators thought of Vexers. He was certain it at least involved part resentment and part curiosity. The merc was no master torturer himself, having only dabbled in the art in spite of his curse, but creativity had never been his strong suit anyway. He mostly just Vexed someone till they passed out and moved onto his next task.

There were drawbacks to Vexation, of course, including but not limited to the massive amplification of pain. Torture and interrogation were only arts when they were performed with finesse, and there was nothing delicate about making some poor sod's world go white with agony. But, perhaps a master like Cryptly would find ways, think of innovative strategies to prolong one's suffering, tinker with his abilities like a mad alchemist with new components to play with. Hell, Nov cold picture it already.

They were descending down stairs now that spiraled further down into the Dungeons. The noises and continued dimness made Noven hesitate for a tick before he steeled his resolve and plummeted after Cryptly. The deeper they delved into the Nuit's domains, the more grateful Nov felt for Keene's presence.

It was something of a testament to the Initiate's self-discipline that he managed not to ask a single question during their entire trip. He snuck the occasional glance at Noven's hand, but otherwise remained silent. Being the rather reserved and misanthropic type himself, the merc had no complaints, plagued as his eardrums were by the din behind each cell. The prisoners were noticeably more quiet though as Cryptly passed by. Perhaps they'd heard his threats one floor up.

After what seemed like an eternity spent walking through the Dungeons, they descended one more flight of stairs before arriving at what the Nuit claimed was the main room. "Well, this is it, lads. The office of yours truly, and as cheery as it gets in the Dungeons. Mind the decor. It might bite back!"

Nov didn't need to be told twice. It wasn't so much an office as it was a strange assortment of ragged furniture, torture equipment, and grisly baubles, some of which looked like they might have been alive at some point this season. Suppressing a shudder, the merc sat in one of the ancient looking wooden chairs Cryptly gestured to as the Nuit plonked himself into his own and crossed his arms, propping his feet up on a moth eaten stool.

"So, 'O Precious Pet of Krysus. Who is it that's got you so desperate you've come here, to me, looking for answers?"

Giving Keene another uneasy look, Noven opened and closed his fists a few times before answering, "There's a new interrogator who's just arrived last season in Sunberth. I don't know who--or what--he or she is. Only that they too bear the mark of the Goddess."

He didn't need to specify which goddess; Cryptly raised his wiry eyebrows for a tick as he soaked in the information. The Nuit hadn't named his price yet, for the aid in which he would no doubt be able to provide, but Nov tried not to dwell. He would pay it, whatever it was. He was still working with the Scars, and therefore the Council as well under contract, and delivered by a Warden Initiate. There was no reason to assume Cryptly would harm either of them willy nilly.

At least, that was what Noven hoped.

The Dungeon Master tapped one, deteriorated finger against his sagging chin. "Well, Sunberth's a messy place, as I'm sure you Pulsers know. What makes you think I'd know anything about one measly little interrogator amongst a herd of killers and thieves? Wouldn't your goddess know more about such things?"

The corners of Nov's mouth turned a fraction lower as he forced himself to maintain his temper. Cryptly's negotiations had finally begun and the merc was in no position to lose whatever small amount of civility that still lingered within the corpse's gruesome frame. "Whatever you want to know about my mark, the knowledge is yours," Noven offered bluntly. "And I came to you because you are Cryptly, Savova's Finest Interrogator and Master of The Dungeons. Or have you worn that title too long and grown bored of it?"

Also, Sahova is the closest inhabited city near Sunberth. If the mystery interrogator arrived with no rumors to precede them, then it must have been a short journey, and therefore they must have some connection with this island.

But Nov kept these deductions to himself, letting the Nuit stew in further annoyance and simultaneous fascination.

"Don't test me, boy. Cryptly knows all and sees all in his domain. I've tasted more blood and pain than you Pulsers will ever know, so maybe it's you lot that needs reminding and not the other way around." The Dungeon Master leered again, this time more hideously than the last. "And as for my conditions, I already know everything I need about your precious mark."

He leaned in closer, claw-like, overgrown nails digging in to the faded armrests of his chair. "I want you," the Nuit pointed, first at Noven, then at Keene, "to test something for me."

Leaning back and steepling his hands, Cryptly cackled at his own ingenuity and asked, "What do you say, lads?"

[Keene Ward]

They walked the entirety of the hall, all the while the groping limbs (for not all were hands, something that made Keene's flesh crawl with disgust, though it was not directed at the bearer's but those that had brought it upon them) poked through between the bars, wearily swaying in the vain hope one of them might be saved. Unfortunately for the souls trapped in the chilled prison of the island of the dead, it seemed they had not come to the dungeons for any of the reasons the desperate eyes sought. The three of them passed in near silence, Noven keeping to himself and Keene doing the same. The atmosphere was not one that inspired conversation, and Keene had the feeling the man beside him was similar to himself in that needless exchange of words was not on the top of the list of priorities. Thus, once they reached the stairs that led ever deeper into the island's skin, Keene turned to give Noven a raise of his brow. The man hesitated for only a moment before following the wake of the rotting figure in front of them. While Keene didn't trust the dungeon master, he was to keep watch over Noven as well as accompany him as they had agreed. Shaking his head slightly, Keene took up the rear, taking his time with his descent and striding back up alongside Noven once they started down the next lengthy hallway of wailing cells.

Their journey into the underbelly of the citadel continued much in the same fashion it had the level above. The "residents" were a bit louder as they passed, but they too had a hush over them, presumably from the fear instilled in them from the shout Cryptly had bellowed earlier. These, Keene took time to gaze at a bit more than before. There were creatures imprisoned that were unlike anything he'd seen before. Men with wings and furry tails, pale women with violet gazes and white hair, even golden skinned humans with multiple arms. They were strange, but each and every one wore the same, lifeless expression of one who had been defeated, consigned to fate. Few returned his gaze, and those that did held what was almost contempt as they stared back at him. Keene found the whole of the lengthy walk to be absolutely unpleasant. He was there because he had agreed to be there, but he was quickly finding the dungeons were not his favorite place to be. An entitled thought, certainly, but Keene could do little for the prisoners. He found little reason to taunt them with his presence and tentative grasp on freedom. It was, in a sense, a torture all on its own; one he had agreed to unknowingly.

Descending the final flight of stairs, the stairwell opened up into a large, grotesque room filled with all manner of devices that ranges from appearing lethal to nightmarish. There was a collection of furniture that appeared less dangerous than the rest; Cryptly, after his rousing invitation, gestured they sit. The comment about the decorations "biting" was not well received by the young initiate, who gave a wicked looking blade that was attached to what looked like a miniature windmill a small distance to his right a distrustful frown. Noven took his chair quickly after Cryptly flopped down in his own. Keene remained standing, his proximity to Noven closer than it had been when they had been on the levels above. He was not frightened, but he was wary. They were in the deepest part of the deceptively decrepit nuit's domain. While he would have liked to believe his status as a Warden's initiate gave them some immunity, Keene was hardly convinced. Cryptly did not seem the type to honor status for no other reason than that it was what it was. If he made an advance, Keene was prepared to defend them in whatever capacity he could manage, though having no idea what the nuit was capable of made Keene a bit apprehensive. His nervousness only showed in the fact he refused a seat, to which Cryptly gave a smirk.

When he asked his question, the name of Krysus once more came into play. Looking to Noven, the two exchanged a glance as Keene nodded that it was best Noven handle the speaking for the time being. His response gave Keene both the reason they were there and an answer to the identity of Krysus. She was a goddess. Keene raised a brow at that, his appraisal of the room halting to devote some stock to Noven's claim. He was a man marked by one of the ambiguous immortals. It was not something Keene had ever really put much faith in: the gods. They were distant, and he had believed them to be near non-existent. While Noven's dark veins and the nuit's strange interest in him were indicators that he might have been wrong, they were not definitive proof. Keene settled in to the conversation, his interest throughly piqued. Cryptly's retort had merit, a sharp man beneath a blunt image made him all the more dangerous. Keene's eyes flicked to Noven, watching as the man's arms tensed for a moment before he replied with a terse statement of what he was willing to share for the information. The addition of the taunt was, perhaps, a bit much. Keene inwardly winced as the words left Noven's mouth, and his eyes followed them to the the nuit's displeased face, his jaw clenching in annoyance.

Cryptly's reply, however, was much better controlled than Keene had anticipated. His rotting grin was something close to a night terror he had had as a child, of which, Keene was grateful he had grown out of. The image before him, however, was still more than enough to twist his stomach and force an aversion of his gaze. Keene was strong of will, but he was not entirely unyielding. Cryptly was, by far, the most detestable nuit he had had the displeasure of meeting yet. His final request was more of a statement. He knew what the answer was before he asked it, yet he let it hang like a taunt, holding it out with his festering leer and clawed hands folded neatly on his lap. Keene turned to Noven, a cold but sincere nod that he was willing to see the job to the end. It was not his place to speak, so instead, he turned back to give the nuit an impassive stare while he waited for Noven to give his reply. Whatever it was that Cryptly wanted, Keene was almost certain he wasn't going to enjoy it.

[Noven]

Keene gave a nod both cool and genuine in its conviction. It seemed he meant to follow Noven into whatever hellish designs Cryptly had waiting for them, no questions asked. Whether the young man would stay till the bitter end or not remained to be seen. But there was a measure of unexpected comfort there. A reassurance knowing this quiet, efficient Initiate was fully intent on fulfilling his job down to the letter.

"Isn't much of a choice, then, is it?" Nov answered in a wry tone. "We'll agree, then, vague as your terms are. But within reason."

He'd tacked on that last bit in hopes it wouldn't be necessary to state the obvious. Though, judging from Cryptly's grin of unbridled greed, maybe not mentioning it would have done them an equal amount of good.

"Goood," the decrepit Dungeon Master crooned and cackled, "very good."

Sweeping his feet off the stool and back down to the ground, Cryptly pushed himself up from his chair. Nov swore he saw dust and bits of other unknown things crumble off the Nuit as he stood erect once more. It reminded the merc of roots being pulled from the dirt; a mostly quick yet still messy and laborious process that left the plant consigned to a slow but sure death.

"Well then, lads. Shall we get to it then?"

"Get to what...?" Nov muttered under his breath as he reluctantly chose to follow after the hobbling Nuit.

"This is how it's going to go," Cryptly explained as they climbed yet another set of stairs. His voice was like rough wood being vigorously sanded. "We're going to play a little game with one of the prisoners. If it goes well, I tell you what I know. If it doesn't..."

He shrugged, the motion jerky and ill-boding, and didn't deign to say more. All the while, Noven forced himself from fidgeting anxiously as he continued following the Nuit. He was no stranger to pain and suffering. Nor could he claim he hadn't interrogated his fair share of victims with less than merciful grace. But Cryptly was on a whole different plane of existence when it came to the art of torture. Whatever he had in mind the merc was unwilling even to guess.

They didn't go far this time, just up one flight of stairs before arriving in the level right above the main floor. Things were a bit quieter here. There were less prisoners, Nov saw, and for obvious reasons. He was unable to keep from staring as they passed by these new rows of cells; the creatures inside...he'd never seen anything like them. Some had tails, others tails and wings, but all possessed human torsos and the utterly dejected, lost expressions. Many appeared as if they'd once been rather elegant creatures, reduced now to lifeless heaps of parts Nov never thought he'd see all on the same body. A couple looked like they might have still harbored a spark of hope, though they kept it safely tucked away, likely knowing full well what an interrogator would do if they discovered such flickers of spirit.

These creatures, whatever they were, clearly weren't made for battle. That much was obvious in their colorful, translucent wings and complete lack of legs. Nov wondered to himself what the point of imprisoning them here was...and if he truly wanted to know the answer to that question.

"Eh, get over it, boy," Cryptly grunted as he glanced back at the duo. "The Akvatari are plenty interesting to look at for the first few times, but get to know any of them and you'll find the only things they're really good for are weepy tales and even weepier paintings. Well, lookie here. I see our newest guest has decided to play with ol' Cryptly after all. Wutcha got there, laddie?"

The Nuit had stopped in front of a specific cell and bent forward to peer a bit closer. Stopping beside and a little behind him, Nov looked within the dismal confines as well. There was another one of those creatures--Akvatari, as Cryptly had divulged--huddled amongst dirty straw and cold, uneven stones. It appeared to be male, given its flat chest, and was holding something very close to its heart. Nov could make out the hints of a sack, but other than that he had no idea what it was that both the Akvatari and Dungeon master were so interested in.

"Your bargain," the young man...fish...butterfly thing stated. "Does it still stand?"

He looked frightened enough, but his voice was steady. Desperation tended to lend a bit of focus when it came to grasping onto one's only ticket out of a living nightmare.

Cryptly chuckled. "Course it does. You ready to give up what I want in exchange?"

Without hesitance, the Akvatari nodded. Then he slowly, cautiously drew the sack away from his chest and opened it to expose its gleaming contents. Noven was confused for a tick. Was that...gold? He'd figured Nuits as old as Cryptly might not care for--or even need, for that matter--such worldly necessities. But that certainly didn't stop a glint of greed from flaring in his undead eyes. The merc swore he could see the gold mizas filling up the master interrogator's pupils from rim to rim.

"Yes...very good..." Cryptly straightened and rubbed his hands together. "...very good indeed. I'd ask where you'd been hiding it all this time, but that'll come later. Along with everything else to be sure. Now, to finish your end of the bargain."

Noven was so utterly lost he didn't think it worth mentioning. But the Nuit had a plan and he was ready to execute it. Jingling a set of keys, he ordered the creature to move to the back of his cell. The prisoner did as he was told. Cryptly then unlocked the iron door and ushered both mercenary and Initiate inside. No sooner had they managed to squeeze in did the Nuit pull it shut again, looking down at the captive with glee bordering on mania.

"So here's how the game works," he announced, pacing slowly around the medium sized cell with unshakable confidence.

"G-game?" the Akvatari stuttered. "W-what...we agreed on nothing of the sort!"

"Your delicious mizas are to be your lifeline," Cryptly plowed on, deaf to the creatures pleas. He was so old and experienced Nov was sure he'd taken selective deafness to a whole new level as well. "I'm going to ask you some questions. If you don't answer them, willingly and truthfully, my associates here will convince you otherwise. Every chime that it takes to satisfy my curiosity means you lose one gold. When you've run out, so has my patience and generosity. If you somehow manage to finish before you've run out, you get to keep whatever's left and be on your merry way. Understood?"

The prisoner blinked several times in shocked confusion. He didn't look the least bit like he understood. Not so much what the rules of Cryptly's demented little game were, but why he was even doing this in the first place.

"I...I don't...why are you..."

The Nuit dropped his keys into one of several pockets and folded his arms. "Right then, shall we begin? Vexer, be a sport and retrieve the mizas, I'm starting the count of chimes as soon as I've got them."

This was madness. What was even the point? And when he said count, Nov could only assume the Nuit meant in his own head. Which meant he did this sort of thing often enough to have time itself internalized. But anyone inside of that musty, awful cell could see Cryptly was being dead serious. Seeing no use in arguing with the Nuit, Nov stepped forward to the panic stricken Akvatari. Then, shooting the creature an apologetic look, pried the sack of coins from his feeble hands.

He tossed the bag over and Cryptly caught it with surprising nimbleness. The merc hadn't wanted to comment before, but he felt worse now after having done the deed. No, better to keep his mouth shut and get this over with. Sooner the better.

"The count begins," the Nuit declared. "Question number one: Where exactly is it that your sister's hiding?"

Jaw dropping, the Akvatari's eyes widened to the size of saucers. He made a choking sound, gaze darting from Nuit to Nov to Keene, all in quick, helpless succession. What was he to do? What kind of sick ploy was this and why did he ever think it a good idea to agree to it?"

Grinning ear to ear, the master interrogator removed one coin from the bag, stroked it lovingly for a couple ticks betwixt his rotted fingers, and then pocketed it. "That's one chime. Seems like our friend here doesn't feel like talking quite yet. Initiate, let's start with you first. I've always wanted to know what uses those abilities of yours could inspire..."

He stroked his chin a few times. Nov felt a twisting sensation begin to roil in his stomach.

"Well then, Initiate. How about we start with the wings? Show me what you can do, and don't be afraid to get a little...creative."

[Keene Ward]

Noven agreed to the terms, ambiguous as the were, as Keene had expected he would. His premonition had not been based on any intimate knowledge regarding the young, but rather the principle of logical progression. Noven had already decided what it was he was going to do, and while he seemed to draw confidence from his icy companion, Keene had little doubts the man who sat beside him would have refused even had Keene displayed apprehension or disgust. The wry reply was also to be expected, whatever Noven's goddess stood for, it was not impassivity. The man was a veritable window into the inner workings of his emotions. Keene found it impractical, but fascinating enough that he was easily able to overlook the downsides to appreciate the nearly visible formation of thoughts and impressions. While it would have been exhausting for every other person to conduct themselves in a similar manner, Keene found he almost enjoyed watching Noven mull things over. Had the circumstances been different, it may have been a bit more agreeable.

Cryptly, however, was true enough to his name. Not only did the deteriorating husk of a body seem to have recently risen from within some dusty mausoleum, dripping and sloughing off bits and chips of time from his rickety looking frame, but his intentions were entirely masked by his sneering cackles. At his next question, while Noven was one to speak his confusion, Keene shared in with a knit of his brow. He had thought Cryptly would explain their payment in form of task once they agreed to it, but from the cryptic bubble of the nuit's excited voice as they once more began to ascend the stairs they'd only recently just arrived on, Keene found the torturer never truly rested from his work, however plebeian the acts he chose. Though, there was enough information to cue Keene that they were to participate in something similar to what Cryptly did every day. A small shiver of disgust ran down his spine, but Keene pushed all other thoughts about his from his head. He'd chosen to accompany Noven on order of Atziri - in a roundabout manner of things - and, he planned to do what was necessary to ensure the man's visit was a success.

Returning to the floor previous, Cryptly sauntered in his crumbling, jerky motions over to particular cell. Once more, the menagerie of fantastical creatures peppered the cells, and Noven took notice of them. Before, he had been too focused on his own thoughts to truly notice the environment around him, and Keene watched him as he glanced around, his jaw tight. Even Cryptly took notice, offering a short lesson on anthropology that Keene was quick to absorb. The Akvatari, as they were called, were locked away as "weepy artists"; it was taken with a sizable handful of salt, however, and Keene doubted Cryptly's sincerity in all things. The name, however, seemed reasonable enough. As they stopped before a particular cell, Keene stared through the bars, his analytical gaze appraising the creature before them as Cryptly spouted some nonsense about games.

Huddled in the center of the cell, face bent low over the leather pouch clutched in his grimy hands, quivered one of the strange race of Akvatari. He had sandy blonde hair that stuck out at all angles, giving his head a mushroom like appearance. His wings fluttered behind him, golden gilding with blue and teal stripes that seemed a sickly pale in the torch lit cell. The strange, furry tail was a dark grey at his hips that tapered down into a soft white, black circles freckling the back all the way to the tail fins. His skin wasn't as pale as many of the other creatures in the dungeons, and it seemed filled with more vitality than most; a recent arrival. When Cryptly spoke, the imprisoned man raised his face, his deep green eyes wide with fear but not without a spark of determination. His voice, too, was strong despite the hoarse rasp that often came when one was deprived of water for an elongated period. Keene found the Akvatari's courage impressive, yet he doubted it would be enough to save the desperate creature.

When the Akvatari moved to reveal the contents of the pouch, Keene frowned. The glittering reveal of the golden Mizas within seemed anticlimactic. Nuits had little use for gold on the island. Cryptly, however, seemed to burst with excitement. Keene gazed with a perplexed knit of the brows as he watched the greedy glow of avarice spark within the deadened, crafty eyes of the dungeon master. For whatever reason, it seemed that gold was an acceptable, even desired, form of bargaining. As the two of them were shoved into the cell, with the door clanking shut behind them, Keene found their situation rapidly growing worse by the tick. He shot a curious grown at the grinning nuit as he began to explain, the increasingly frantic tones of the Akvatari hitting his ears as noise as Keene focused on the purpose behind Cryptly's sickly grin. Once it was done, Keene turned to face the now desperate, silent plea of the Akvatari's eyes. They were to play, for the time being, the role that Cryptly so accurately portrayed. It was unfortunate that the Akvatari had to play a part, but Keene supposed one could not torture something that wasn't there.

Keene turned his head to check on Noven. The man didn't seem nearly as calm as Keene felt, and he offered the young and a small shake of the head. They both knew Cryptly wasn't going give them anything if they didn't play along. Noven, however much he seemed to find the situation undesirable, still moved forward to take the coins. While force was required, Keene raised a brow at the gentle way he seemed to handle himself. He doubted Cryptly would take much pleasure displays of a similar caliber. As the pouch was snatched out of the air by the greedy nuit, Keene stared with an impassive frown, waiting for the first question. It proved to be a difficult one for the wide eyed creature, his imploring gaze finding little remorse in both Cryptly and Keene's eyes, settling on his only chance in the dark gaze of Noven's own frown. Whether compassion was found or not, the Akvatari blubbered out a sick whisper of, "I- I can't..."

The rustle of coins signaled the Akvatari had missed his chance. As Cryptly beckoned him to give the pitiful creature his predetermined reward, Keene kept his eyes focused on the increasing panic before him. He was given the wings and told to be creative, whatever Cryptly expected, Keene wasn't sure he could produce. While the creature before him was alive in the technical sense, Keene was not making decisions based upon the sparks of hope in a hopeless situation. Cryptly enjoyed the game, but he didn't seem like the type to play anything he could lose. The Akvatari's chances were as close to zero as they could be of getting free, it was simply a matter of whether he would curse himself with his weakness of will as he rotted in the cell or not. "Please!"

"No." Keene didn't take a single glance at his companion, requiring focus to keep his face blank and eyes icy. He didn't enjoy the fact of what he was about to do, but he was no empath. The blubbering mess before him, while pitiable, was merely a step that had to be taken to gain what it was Noven had come for. Lifting his right hand, res pooled, slowly swirling above his palm. "You should answer his questions to spare yourself further pain." He extended his hand, the res drifting in a slow wobble to coat the Akvatari's right wing. The creature pressed himself against the wall, shaking his head and pleading. Rather than stare at the tears that ran down the creature's burning face, Keene pressed the res deeper into the wing's tissue, leaving no spot uncovered. When it was fully coated, Keene wasted little time, snapping his fingers and completely freezing the appendage into a cold, blue white.

"No! No, please!"

Keene stood, his face cold as he regarded the creature. "Where is she?"

"No, I'm begging you-" Keene pulled another handful of res, a sphere about half the size of his fist. The wing had been frozen long enough, and as he launched the projectile at the center, snapping his fingers to turn it into a solid object, the wing shattered, its pieces crashing to the ground as the Akvatari let out a scream, clawing at his face for lack of anything more productive to do. Keene stared at the nub that had been left, the blood oozing from it in a thick liquid. He had not waited long enough, it seemed, to numb the entire wing. Cryptly, however, hardly considered it a failure.

"Oh! Yes, yes! Very good, Initiate. Perhaps I'll have to ask for you help more often, eh?" He snickered at Keene's unamused stare, the sobbing, wheezing moans of the Akvatari seemingly ineffective against both man and nuit. He kept his gaze from Noven for the time being. Choosing instead to take a step back to lean against the wall, contemplative frown staring down at the small pool of blood that ran from the creature's back. He waited for Cryptly's next question, wanting to get his little "game" over as soon as he could. The sooner Noven got what he came for, the sooner they could leave the god's forsaken place.