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An attendant hurriedly moves through a narrow passageway lined with golden channels filled with lotuses, pushing her way past a silver cart toward an Elothean that relaxes neck-deep within a natural hot spring. Approaching the bathing figure, she casts her eyes to the floor. "Luminary, pardon the intrusion."
The Elothean pauses, turning toward the attendant with a silent and stern look. The attendant stops still in her tracks, before gently lowering herself to her knees. "Luminary, an outsider has learned of the knowledge that you so recently shared, and has begun investigating. I have been assured --"
From beneath deep purple locks, the Elothean looks up from the pool. Her voice is confident and succinct.
"I expect that the source of this vicious rumor will be identified and will be dealt with."
The attendant nods her head. "Yes, Luminary."
"Publicly. I want to ensure that any others who would spread such slanderous nonsense are aware of the choice they are making. Now bring me a towel, please."
Milene's tavern is more crowded than usual -- patrons that you cannot recall having seen before cluster about tables. Rather than the overt din that usually fills the Milene's Rose Tavern, many of these newer patrons are silent as they eat.
A young S'Kra says, "Thank you. This city is a confusing maze, and I have never been able to find my way around." She pauses, glancing around. "The locals have seemed less than hospitable to guests to the city. As much as the city is confusing, many of the locals appear to be just as confusing."
As if the S'Kra's words were much louder than they seemed, many of the patrons all seem to glance at the S'Kra suspiciously.
As you watch, you notice that many of the unfamiliar patrons move food around their plates with a fork, but do not seem to be eating anything.
You notice patrons glancing at each other uneasily, and one by one, each abandons their table -- and food, before leaving. In the bustle, you can see a single figure in a grey cloak, but when you turn to look, it is gone. Only the publican remains, quietly using a rag to polish the bar, and watching you with a curious -- but knowing -- look.
The S'Kra pauses mid-sentence, darkness covering her eyes. As her fingers move, a bone spike impacts her abdomen, lodging deeply. The S'Kra drops to a knee, her hand reaching for her meteor hammer. Though useless, her eyes search the darkness for her assailant. She jerks involuntarily as a violent laceration tears across her chest.
Like a striking serpent, the S'Kra swings the meteor hammer blindly at the shadows, connecting with an acid-green wasp covered in hairline cracks. The wasp lurches to the side, twisting from the impact, before recovering.
The wasp fires a second bone spike at the S'Kra, but this time, she is prepared -- she tucks herself low and rolls out of the way, sending the spike clattering uselessly against a wall.
Using the momentum to her advantage, the S'Kra swings the meteor hammer at the wasp, this time much more precisely. The hammer connects with a heavy crunch, leaving the skeletal wasp reeling!
Recovering from its stun, the wasp lurches forward menacingly.
With a horrendous suction noise, the S'Kra is bodily lifted and held afloat. Cracks form in her flesh, in the semblance of parched earth under the sun, exposing the blood and muscle beneath. Amid screams, she is flayed in one horrific instant, unseen forces tearing broad swathes of skin from her body and scattering them with wet plops.
As the S'Kra's corpse begins falling to the ground, the wasp wraps skeletal arms around her collapsing body, dragging her limp form into the shadows into the air.
Struggling to carry her weight, the wasp is only to keep the S'Kra only barely above the ground. It hauls her out of the door with an ominous thrum of its wings, her limp arm trailing a steady drip of blood -- leaving only a long smear of gore leading from where she once stood to the door.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the grey-cloaked figure dissapear out a back door. A gold coin rolls slowly along its length atop the bar, before colliding with an empty glass with an audible tink -- and falls flat on its side.
The publican quietly resumes polishing the bar, seemingly unbothered by the outbreak of violence. He turns at you, and lifts a single finger to his lips. He then gestures, and the stableboy begins cleaning the floor with a mop.
A young S'Kra says, "Thank you. This city is a confusing maze, and I have never been able to find my way around." She pauses, glancing around. "The locals have seemed less than hospitable to guests to the city. As much as the city is confusing, many of the locals appear to be just as confusing."
As if the S'Kra's words were much louder than they seemed, many of the patrons all seem to glance at the S'Kra suspiciously.
As you watch, you notice that many of the unfamiliar patrons move food around their plates with a fork, but do not seem to be eating anything.
You notice patrons glancing at each other uneasily, and one by one, each abandons their table -- and food, before leaving. In the bustle, you can see a single figure in a grey cloak, but when you turn to look, it is gone. Only the publican remains, quietly using a rag to polish the bar, and watching you with a curious -- but knowing -- look.
The S'Kra pauses mid-sentence, darkness covering her eyes. As her fingers move, a bone spike impacts her abdomen, lodging deeply. The S'Kra drops to a knee, her hand reaching for her meteor hammer. Though useless, her eyes search the darkness for her assailant. She jerks involuntarily as a violent laceration tears across her chest.
Like a striking serpent, the S'Kra swings the meteor hammer blindly at the shadows, connecting with an acid-green wasp covered in hairline cracks. The wasp lurches to the side, twisting from the impact, before recovering.
The wasp fires a second bone spike at the S'Kra, but this time, she is prepared -- she tucks herself low and rolls out of the way, sending the spike clattering uselessly against a wall.
Using the momentum to her advantage, the S'Kra swings the meteor hammer at the wasp, this time much more precisely. The hammer connects with a heavy crunch, leaving the skeletal wasp reeling!
Recovering from its stun, the wasp lurches forward menacingly.
With a horrendous suction noise, the S'Kra is bodily lifted and held afloat. Cracks form in her flesh, in the semblance of parched earth under the sun, exposing the blood and muscle beneath. Amid screams, she is flayed in one horrific instant, unseen forces tearing broad swathes of skin from her body and scattering them with wet plops.
As the S'Kra's corpse begins falling to the ground, the wasp wraps skeletal arms around her collapsing body, dragging her limp form into the shadows into the air.
Struggling to carry her weight, the wasp is only to keep the S'Kra only barely above the ground. It hauls her out of the door with an ominous thrum of its wings, her limp arm trailing a steady drip of blood -- leaving only a long smear of gore leading from where she once stood to the door.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the grey-cloaked figure dissapear out a back door. A gold coin rolls slowly along its length atop the bar, before colliding with an empty glass with an audible tink -- and falls flat on its side.
The publican quietly resumes polishing the bar, seemingly unbothered by the outbreak of violence. He turns at you, and lifts a single finger to his lips. He then gestures, and the stableboy begins cleaning the floor with a mop.
A street urchin makes his way through the desert city, hastily bearing a parchment. Making his way through a byzantine cluster of alleyways, before ducking into one building. Emerging from the other side, he makes his way past a pair of very heavily armed guards, who simply nod to him.
He hands the note to a pale Dwarf with grey locks, who scratches his thick beard, before opening it. With a scowl, he crumples the note and throws it in a nearby brazier, not pausing to watch it burn. He picks up a quill and parchment, and immediately begins writing.
He hastily rolls the scroll, and hands it to the urchin, gesturing for the child to return to the source of the letter.
He hands the note to a pale Dwarf with grey locks, who scratches his thick beard, before opening it. With a scowl, he crumples the note and throws it in a nearby brazier, not pausing to watch it burn. He picks up a quill and parchment, and immediately begins writing.
| Black Toad, |
| Thank you for informing me of the Little Scorpion's fate, and disposing of their property -- no doubt either troubling or incriminating. They are more resilient than they seem. |
| Please inform me of any further developments related to the Scorpion. |
He hastily rolls the scroll, and hands it to the urchin, gesturing for the child to return to the source of the letter.
A small Elothean child with nondescript features delivers a parchment case to the step of a home. Inside, a deliberate, intricate script resembling the sinuous, flowing script of Eth'ral'khh as it crosses a delicate parchment that smells faintly of wolfsbane and oleander.
| I have many concerns after our meeting. Prying eyes have returned, and it has a very familiar feel. Stay vigilant, and be aware that this may be the first of many such incidents. |
| There are those who feel that austerity and autocracy are the way forward. They forget that our autonomy has been built on top of the blood and the bones of our predecessors, and that what has worked elsewhere would have led to certain ruin here. |
Surrounding a low, goldbark table, a number of darkened figures sit on velvet plum-colored divans. The lights are low, and dampened further by heavy silk curtains. An inordinately large figure stands flanking an exit curtain, bearing a large sword strapped to his back.
"Curator, the Little Scorpion and the Hatchet have no business in the affairs in my home. Recall them." A distinctively S'Kra voice speaks in hurried tones.
"It is a pleasure to see you, too." An Elven voice responds, clearly holding back some degree of levity. "We have had no activities within your city. The Hatchet and Little Scorpion do not act on our behalf, and you will need to take their affairs up with them."
The S'Kra pauses, before slowly responding, her words cold and careful. "We will." The S'Kra rises to her feet, before exchanging knowing glances with a seated Dwarf, and pushes her way beyond the curtain.
After some time, and after the seated Dwarf makes his way out, the Elf turns to the standing guard.
"The Viper has been drawn out of her nest, and has shown her venom. Perhaps it is time that the Hands remind the Viper who keeps her young safe."
"Curator, the Little Scorpion and the Hatchet have no business in the affairs in my home. Recall them." A distinctively S'Kra voice speaks in hurried tones.
"It is a pleasure to see you, too." An Elven voice responds, clearly holding back some degree of levity. "We have had no activities within your city. The Hatchet and Little Scorpion do not act on our behalf, and you will need to take their affairs up with them."
The S'Kra pauses, before slowly responding, her words cold and careful. "We will." The S'Kra rises to her feet, before exchanging knowing glances with a seated Dwarf, and pushes her way beyond the curtain.
After some time, and after the seated Dwarf makes his way out, the Elf turns to the standing guard.
"The Viper has been drawn out of her nest, and has shown her venom. Perhaps it is time that the Hands remind the Viper who keeps her young safe."
Flickering across natural stone surfaces, torchlight casts twisting shadows about the area. A thin layer of moisture trickles down cavernous walls, the layers of sediment visible in extrusive formations that cluster about the room. A cool, damp air hangs over the room.
In the center of the room, the immobile, disrobed form of a S'Kra is suspended in a web of thousands of strands of shimmering gossamer. Her body is frozen, not restrained by the webbing, but from a paralytic magic that restrains any movement. Wide open and unblinking, her eyes focus on the shadows in front of her, despite how dry they have become from days stuck in this state.
From seemingly everywhere, she hears the voice of her captor, whom she only knows as the Spider, even as tiny lacerations begin opening on her skin, scales peeling apart like layers of an onion on their own -- seeping blood from the clean wounds from an invisible source.
"Your mind betrays you. We know who sent you -- why you were here. We know who you work for; we know what you wanted."
Her thoughts race. If the Spider knows all of these things, why keep her? What questions does the Spider still seek answer to?
"We want to see who comes for you."
The web of lacerations continue to form, rendering her scales latticed with a network of neatly cross-hatched wounds.
