Open All Roads Lead to Hestio

[Garuda]

High Above the Watch Tower​

"A wanted man?" Watch Captain Infractus echoed as he moved about the rampart of the Tower Aankh. His cold blue eyes cast down to the pit, five stories below the monolith of brick and stone. Smile curling the corner of his lips. "Are they not all, wanted, Khashatrii?"

The Khashatrii, smaller by four fingers, but squint at the Watch Captain. Steps measured careful between them so that he need not look up to the man. The badge of Argun's golden jackals pinned over his heart, its three hunters sprinting across the crimson red of his robes. "This man is a traitor to the Thirteenth Legion,"

A chuff fell from the Watch Captain's mouth, his eyes scrolled across the countless cells that spanned up. "No more a dog than any other wretch stored here, Khashatrii,"

"Watch Captain Dihvar A piece of parchment handed from the Khashatrii to the Watch Captain. "From Jaghic command."

The Watch Captain raised a brow at the sound of the script being unfolded. Turned about his shoulder and eyed the blanched folio. All the while, the Eyes of Hestio monitored the prisoners from the central Tower Aankh. The burning sunlight glaring down upon the sands of the butchering ground below.

---

Butchering Ground Zero​

View attachment 950
​

The Paligiir was a whole man taller than any in the party of ten before it. One of the Devahni grabbed up the heft of his longbeard axe, and cradled it within his grip, legs trembling. Tail flared out behind him.

"Its slow and lumbering!" The red handed man called out. "Keep to its flanks and watch for its claws!"

Voices cried out from the cells above. A cascade and crash of countless voices cheering and jeering across calls for bets. A roll of smokes. A bowl of rations. Some sugar. Some Rye. A finger on the rat being the first to go. No, the Horncat with the clipped horn.

A bellow trumpeted out from the paligiir's throat. Its whole matted hide shaking with the blast of sound pumped out of its throat.

The elves had to cover their ears in pain.

The red hand shook his head as he grit his teeth. Whole world set to ring. Felt the ground thump-thump, thump-thump under his feet before he heard it. The heavy stride of the crazed beast on the charge. Old crusted wounds weeping open as it gathered speed.

"Move!" The red hand managed to shout.

Dula, wide eyed, grabbed up his splintered spear and was quick to heed the warning. He would not die here.

The clipped horn cat lunged away. Dragging a cut with the axe with him as he dodged. The curved edge failed to bite. The paligiir's long claws did not.

Cleaved right through him in a spray of innards and crack of spine. Still on the charge for whoever or whatever was int its way.

The deva fell to the ground. Awe writ across his face as the massive hole in his side gushed and pumped and oozed golden bright. Innards still stranded out as bits hung on. Their glimmering trail. Their life's blood, flowed. Down. Just so down the sloped walls of the pit's floor. Down to the drain grates at the base of the Watchtower. Down pipes and through filters that lead to important work.

---

Along the Rounds of the Rabble, Wherever Pot Might Be​

"Ho, Pot! Pot!" A guard called out. Shit eating grin too wide across his face. "Come on man, cut me in for the day's delivery, cut me in!"

The bets went on being called out.

"There's still money to be made on the day's scrum!"

 

[Aurelian Vaidyan]

Something changed in the deep.

The furnace burned brighter and the black became oppressive. The Magisterium in that dank place could feel the hands of those who wore the void like perfect skin. One of them, a man known as Shuresh peered upward toward the pipes and filters that helped fuel their life's work. An imperfection in their system led to a single drop of that precious, golden life force falling toward him. The blood called to him. It said 'accept me' and 'know me so you might know the secrets of the universe.'

And that precious fluid fell upon a foul tongue, sickly and white. The whites of his eyes shown and he spoke in tongues too foul to be spoken on this plane. Aurelian rose from his seat, stepping closer to his writhing brother, the red drink in his cup suddenly meaningless in the face of what was before him. Orange smoke and pulsing darkness swirled about the robed figures as they gathered about Suresh. They hungered for the knowledge he spewed as their true masters hungered for flesh. As they hungered for innocence and fear...

Vaidyan tossed aside the worthless blood and wine in his goblet, his eyes fixed on the pipes above. They coalesced from many points on the battleground above into a single cylinder. Meant to rain the gifts of cruelty and viscera as their work required. He held up his cup as more golden blood spilled, precious like metal found deep beneath the earth. Molten and perfect... He drank of it and saw a vision.

It scraped against the limitless ceiling of his mind and potential.
It's covering thin and white as milk and the flesh beneath was pink.
It's mandibles were like swords that clicked to the heavens and made war with the moons.
And when it cleaned down, he peered into it's maw and saw a thousand blades like them.
They ground the flesh of man, elf, and all creatures that breathed.
Their faces were broken and twisted, swallwed by the darkness of that thing.
On it's head were a hundred eyes like mirrors that sparkled with colors he'd never seen
That perfect creature.

It leaned down and whispered to him.
His heart fluttered. It threatening to burst in his chest if he listened too closely.
​

He fell backwards and spoke the same tongue as his brother, but quickly made sense of it... He breathed heavily and clutched at his heart as he rose. Suresh was dead to his left, white foam oozing from his mouth. Blood leaked from his eyes, mouth, and ears. He wasn't worthy. He wasn't worthy to see perfection and to return to this world as Vaidyan had.

"D-deva... I need more Deva. Bring the specimen."

​

 

[Jadzia]

The elves and Jadzia staggered at the paligiir's thunderous call. Ears flattening against her head, she blinked back tears brought up by the dust and the pain of the impossible pitch.

The beast charged, and the ten prisoners scattered. Save for the deva, whose blood bought them a bit of time.

In the coliseums of the capital, there were cheering crowds and the spiced smell of confections being sold. Families with their children, prospectors looking for strong bodyguards, accountants on holiday. The floors were well groomed in rippling sand patterns, and musicians played between fights.

Here, there was only haggard faces shadowed by rows and rows of iron bars, and cloying heat, and the overseers watching from the top of the tower.

And the monster lurking down below, glowing with assiduity.

Jadzia touched a piece of it, when she called upon the shroud. It was not a monster at all, but a machine. Furnace growling, pipes rattling, an engine of destruction barely chained by minds who did not understand its power.

And it drank, and drank, and drank...

The shroudspear that formed in Jadzia's grip was shimmering yellow. She raised it high, and threw.

Gashes in the beast's side, where fur parted and skin oozed, gave way to heat and light. A wound reopened on its leg. The paligiir stumbled with another ear-splitting call. It turned whiplash on its good leg, and swept claws out in arcing rake, looking for the source of its pain.

 

[Nino]

Here he was. A spectacle of the forsaken, promised a bloody end far removed his illustrious existence.

The Deva's bowels found release from their mortal coil much like the noble's bladder begged to do. Oddly enough the beast's roar only served to reinforce the inevitably of their predicament, emboldening Vinicus. He was still a legionnaire, tried and tested. Soft hands were for his siblings, but not him. The din of death was nothing new to the second son.

A whimpering fate beheld by cretins and degenerates of every magnitude could not be countenanced.

He charged the paligiir with demonstrably suicidal intent. Imagine his surprise as his blade actually found purchase. His incredulity would certainly be recorded among the annals of the Empire's resplendent history.

Another howl.

Vinicus raised his pittance of shield as stubbed tail splintered wood and more.

The Butchering's ground did not make for a gentle embrace.

 

[Tool]

---

The drains in the floor did not escape Luka's notice as he stood guard along the halls around the fight pits. Where the hell did these things go? A million gold pieces question that they might find out, depending on how deep this shit hole went. Wrinkling his nose, chewing on a herbal leaf, his eyes narrowed. Taking a mental note, his eyes returned to scanning the cages for the Captain's face. No joy.

---

Manisk hustled along the corridors to his post at Basement Level 1 of the prison floors. Putrid and rot assaulted him as he stepped below. A sliding stone door locked back in place, leaving a plain stone wall like all the others. Humming softly, he did not mind the smell after so many years of working here. The cries of the tortured fell on deaf ears as he took a bite of the bread and cheese Tool had set aside for him—fresh Strawberries and Blueberries on the side to tease the taste buds.

"Oi! Manisk! Whatcha got there aye?!" Heads turned as the two patrolling guards eyed his stash. It disappeared as swiftly as Manisk stuffed his mouth, leaving none to share. "Nuffing I dare say. I've not but crumbs, my good Ian. Crumbs, I say." Manisk offered the empty cloth to show it was now empty. Ian could hardly contain the frown on his face as he side-stepped the man.

"Never mind Oaf! Carry on... Next time I won't let it go.." Ian said as he spat on the floor upon departure up the steps and out into the main halls. Manisk gave a sheepish smile in his wake, prancing ever so gingerly down dully lit hallways. Another few floors down, and he would arrive at his destination. Standing before a blackened iron door, he pushed it open, letting candlelight greet him. Within troops sat in groups checking gear and making jokes. Silence met the big man as all regarded him calmly for a moment. Then faces broke into joy as he pulled out a large sack of bread and goodies from Tool himself. "Yes, Lads, yes! The great Tool has helped us out once again! No more tail ends of food for a bit! Come, come, indulge yourselves!" Grinning broadly, Manisk set the sack down, allowing the troops to come grab a loaf one at a time.

Win the belly, and you may find you often win the mind..

---

Once the dining hall had been cleared from the meal, Tool sat within his quarters in silence. Laying out the papers given to him, he pulled out a codex to help translate what had been shared with him. Within his chest, his heart thumped heavily at the notes. Anticipation, coupled with crazed rage, urged his fingers to rub the pages slowly. He could not bring himself to translate them just yet. There was still time..

"Oh Hestio.. I weep for you.." His lips quivered gently as a lone tear vanished into the fabric of his shirt. A lot had changed with the company since the Bridge incident. Sitting back in the chair, his posture improved as he opened the codex. It was time to get to work.

 

[Safa]

At the orphanage, many people thought Hanna was in charge because of his size. He was only thirteen but had shoulders like an ox and a big square head. He had given up on shaving, liking that facial hair would hide the roundness still on his cheeks and jaw, so people called him 'man' instead of 'boy.' His hands and feet still looked too large for his body, and the other boys and girls would tease him for his butter fingers and lack of grace. Of course, if a stranger were to say either of those things to their friend, they all would have come to Hanna's defense. Although people looked at Hanna and deemed him to be a man, everyone at the orphanage knew that Hanna was gentle and quiet. His deep voice and strong body meant nothing to a small spider that frightened him as if it were some unspeakable monster from the shadows.

Hanna had the sort of size that worried Safa, she may have been too small, but she started to see how men would zero in on Hanna. If they were drunk, they'd try to pick fights. If they were having a bad day, they would snap at him to see if he'd bow his head in submission. Men and their egos, Safa would think, leading the soft-spoken boy and giving the men a look that could suck out all the bravado in their veins. They never seemed to realize that the last thing Hanna wanted to do was hurt someone, to use his impressive strength against another body. They never seemed to realize that Hanna had a certain way with words, that he hardly ever cursed because he knew of a better word to use.

But that didn't mean that Hanna could look away if someone picked on the weak. So when Safa returned home after an easy night of swiping valuables from merchants who got too drunk at an inn in a city over. It was early morning, and clearly none of the children had gone to sleep -- the little ones still sniffling and the older ones still angry, hands balled into tight fists. When Safa didn't see Hanna, she assumed the worst. But then the children had told her what had happened, and she realized she hadn't assumed the worst at all.

---

"He's a boy! Look at him." Safa was fighting with a guard, throwing an open hand towards Hanna. Oh, Hanna, poor boy. Safa saw the look in his eyes; he had seen things she had never wanted him to see. A part of her felt she had failed as his caretaker, another part turned that guilt into a roaring blaze that would not be extinguished.

"Boy? He's bigger than me, what does that make me, huh?" The guard had been bought with gold. Not the cheap gold, the sort that was too light when held up against candlelight, nor was it too light when held in one's hand. Safa had plans for that bracelet, it was supposed to be for Hanna's future, to get him an apprenticeship as a stone mason, room and board in the next town over, and maybe a chicken or a goat, depending on whether or not there was another wave of pestilence that took the livestock in three years.

Safa bit her lower lip to keep herself from telling the guard off.

"You wanna talk to him or not? Your time is running out, and it doesn't look like you have anything else to barter... unless...." Safa rolled her eyes at the unsaid suggestion. Hanna looked down at the ground.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Safa asked him, coming up to him to inspect his hands, his face, the rest of him. "Your knee, by all the sand, did you get in a fight?" Hanna started shaking his head, but then thought better of it.

"They didn't put me with the women and children," He mumbled, and Safa saw that the inside of his lip was swollen and bloodied, most likely from getting caught in his tooth. They hadn't bothered to shave his head or beard but she could start seeing the bruising on his cheek close up. Safa turned to glare at the guard who was whistling a jaunty tune as if he were strolling down merchant row. The nasty look was lost on him.

"I'm gonna get you out, Hanna." Safa lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. "Where are they keeping you?"

"They said there's no price for me," Hanna whispered back.

"All you did was stop a legionnaire from taking a child out of their mother's arms!" She hissed. "You didn't hit him back, did you?" Safa doubted the children would have lied about Hanna turning his back to the guardsman, trying to turn his body into a protective dome to protect the kid.

"No, I didn't. I swear. I didn't even spit at his feet." But that hadn't stopped the guards from ganging on Hanna and knocking him out, breaking the child's jaw in the process. "Safa, I don't know anything about the floor I'm on, only my cell--"

"Then give me that and I'll find you." Hanna looked as if he might protest. Safa saw her face reflected in his dark eyes. She patted his hand, skin peeling from knuckles, palms rougher than the last time. "You don't need to worry about it. You can trust me." And because Hanna was a kid, he did trust her, even if a taste of being an adult had been forced down his throat. There was still a part of him that believed Safa could do anything because she was Safa, his older sister, his protector, even if he now loomed over her.

"Time's up," The guard growled, pulling Safa away before she could embrace Hanna. But the guard was too late; Hanna had told her where to find him, had told her about the guards taking prisoners, and had told her how this guard in particular had gotten in a fight with another prisoner that had dislocated the guard's shoulder.

 

[Garuda]

BUTCHERING GROUND ZERO

Claws like scythes ripped through the air. Caught one of the elves clean across the shin bone. Red plumed as tibia cracked and weight of their step caused split. Down hard against the sand.

Meat and bone slammed against the fallen son of house Shan. Knocked them to the ground in a swirl of dust and spitting of sun baked grit. There upon the red iron waste of the Butchering ground, another bag of meat reached down and braced them up.



"On your feet, soldier!" the man with the red hand said behind crazed grin. "Less we make it easy for them!" he barked a laugh as the sun poured down the chimney stack prison.


Eyes wide and wild, the man with the red hand saw where the shroud spear still ate away at the paligiir's flesh.

Wound caused by shroudfire still smoking. Still steaming. Blightborne putrescence bubbled about the wet mouth which bled out its blackened ichor as the beast set its eyes unto the fallen elf. Fists pounding against the ground that shook as it lumbered forward.

The elf with one less leg tried to pull themselves away.

Doubly wounded, the beast hobbled and twitched. Crazed eyes cast one way, then the other. Surrounded and bleeding. Sanity enough to fear crept into it. Caused it to caution. Let out a groan. Pitiful. Almost a plea.

The crowd watched on as the violence lulled. Jeers and insults flew like darts and arrows. Whilst real bricks and refuse flung out from some.

Enough struck the beast to set it to rage. A bellow. Its crusted eyes set to the wounded elf, it stirred to motion.

A pour of breath. A snap of fingers, and the flames of gold that clung and ate at the beast's side flickered up. Popped. Wild and sudden. Like bellow's pump to a forge fire. The tongues of gold plumed. Spread rampant across oily fur matted with grime. Excited enough. Hot enough. They burned.

The beast cried in pain. Shroud lanced, engulfed in wyrd fire. Pelted and stabbed, only the sufferings it had endured It roared.

The man with the red hand held his wrist firm. The Red Lines of Aghni's path seared across his arm. Glowed in the clutched grasp of his curled fingers.

Snapped his smoke trailed hand away. Set his feet with the tower behind him. "Pick up the wounded!" he cried out as the creature thrashed, wild and aimless against the fire that ate at it. It set its eyes onto the man with the red hand. Fire's licking at its hide. Roared. Set to charge.

The crowd cried out with excitement.

Dula stared wide eyed, looked to the downed elf. Stayed the shaking of his legs and looked ot the scillin beside him. "H-help me!"

The scillin blinked. Nod. The two moved to help the fallen elf, still whimpering on the ground with half their leg missing, all while the paligiir's charge thumped thunder against the red sands.

---

Niladeva sat within her confinement cell, huddled in prayer. Eyes squeezed shut as tears welled from where skin folded tight and traced clean paths where it ran across. Her head shook away all the hoots and hollers that sounded around her. The whistles and cheers. The shouts for more. The calls for wagers.

Lemu and Bakti gripped tight the bars to their cell. Glued there little bodies to the gap spaced wall, feet careful not to slip through the grates of wind box.

"Apa! Bakit cried out. "Apa please!"

"Live, Apa!" Lemu shout. "Live!" As they watched their father run across the sands.

A large young man. quiet as he moved, mulled through the crowded cell. His thick fingers tore at a stale loaf of bread, and he passed it out to the others in the cell.

When came Niladeva's turn, she nearly brushed him away. But she knew better, and stole it away. "Thank you, Hanna,"
Hanna nod. His dark curls bobbing over his boyish bright eyes.

A crack shook through the air. A shake. Rumble. The blare of sirens. The flash of red shroud lights.

---

All Guards, Secure Pentagons. All Guards, Secure Pentagons.

Deadwall Unit, to the Central Watchtower. Deadwall Unit, to the Central Watchtower. ​

---

The beast lay in a heap of bricks crumbled and ruined. A hole in the watchtower's walls, just large enough to squeeze through, one by one.

"DOWN THE HOLE, YOU SORRY SACKS OF MEAT! ELSE WE'LL CLOSE IT UP FOR THEM WITH OUR BONES!" The man with the red hand cried out, hacking the dust and swirl out of his lungs as he squint the tears out of his eyes. Hobbled, and ran to the hole. Squeezed on in.

Sounds of scuffle on the other side. A flash of golden fire. Smell of burned flesh thick in the air. The animals, or something on the other side, who could tell.

Out snapped a red hand. "Come on, come on!" it hurried the others in. Red lines smoking off its palm.

 

[Jadzia]

All piled in to the escape that the red handed man made for them, the steadiest on their feet heaving the wounded above broken bricks. From the dusty blanch of the sunlit coliseum to the muggy dark beneath the tower.

All but one prisoner. The paligiir's bulk fell round a slight figure. The last breaths of the beast heaved out in slowing growls. Half-lidded eyes looked down at the one who had speared it so. Her claws went around its neck. Buried her long nose into the beast's thick fur. There it still was: underneath the blood and fear and hatred.

The smell of the green forest.

"Go there now," Jadzia told it. "To your tall trees. To the place where no one can hurt you."

Just inside the wall, the elf was screaming and struggling against Dula. The scillin had found a length of rope and a broken axe haft and was wrenching the opened vessels of her leg shut.

"Stop, it hurts!" The elf cried. "Get that thing off me!"

"We must close the wound, or you will bleed to death," the scillin said, and twisted all the tighter. Dula held the elf as still as he could, hugging her shoulders with all his might. One more twist and red staunched at last. But the elf had fainted from the pain of it.

"Leave her behind," another elf said. "The guards will be here soon, we have to move." But he knew he would be dead on his own, and so he had not moved yet. Jadzia stomped on long feet through the hole and up to the elf.

"Hush, you! Do you feel that, under our feet?" She jabbed a claw downward. "Her blood, your blood. It does not care! Every drop makes it stronger - and you do not want it to get stronger!"

Unfortunately, none of the other prisoners had whiskers on their face, and their fifth shroudsense was dull to the horrors that ground down below their feet. They did not understand her words.

Jadzia let out a huff of air. She turned on naked tail and knelt down next to the elf. With Dula's help, heaved the unconscious woman up onto her back.

"I will carry her."

 

[Safa]

The hallways were long and winding, like snakes that slithered over and under each other, creating knots that could not be undone unless freed by the cut of a blade. Safa was used to sneaking around fancy estates or grand celebratory city halls, maybe a merchant's caravan or a busy street, but never a place like Hestio. The brutal tower lacked markers to help differentiate the floors, all Safa knew was that she had gone up or down, retracing her steps to only feel like the layout had changed itself. She was lost, but knew that despite being lost, she'd end up finding Confinement Cell 3693 sooner or later.

"Sooner would be better than later," she muttered under her breath, into the oversized tunic that had belonged to the guardsman she had tied up and hidden in some utility closet filled with fuel for the plethora of torches and lamps scattered all over this place. Safa had taken what were obvious markers - his armor wouldn't fit her, but the well-dyed fabric of all the finery outside his armor would fit just enough that she felt like she could blend in. Pulling her brown scarf tight around her face, leaving only her eyes to be seen, she could only hope that the rest of her, her shoes, her pants, wouldn't give her away.

Brown eyes were steeled against the flickering light, listening in on the steps that echoed in front of her and behind her. There was no direction that seemed right, every turn felt wrong, and perhaps whenever there was a sign, all Safa saw were lines and curves and squiggles. Never before had her illiteracy blocked her from a goal, but now as she looked at a plaque near large doors, she wondered if this room was different than all the rest.

Earlier Safa had stepped into a breakroom of sorts, though it was surely not supposed to be one based on all the shelves that had sacks and metal contraptions nearly overflowing off of them. There was only person who was sitting inside there, using the sharp tip of a knife to clean under their nails. They didn't look up when the door had opened and hadn't chased after Safa when she immediately closed it.

But by all the Moons, she needed a map if she were to ever find where Hanna was being held. How much time did she have before the greedy guard was found and ratted them out, giving not only her name but Hanna's, and who would they be able to grab quicker to punish? Hanna. Safa grit her teeth, took a step back. It felt risky to go into a room that she had no idea what it was for.

Staccato echo of heavy boots clomping on the stone floors began to echo about, a tinkle of chains against armor, a cough that cut through the dissonance were the only warnings Safa had to know that a big group was coming. She either tried to hide in a shadowed hall or took the chance in this room. What if they were headed in here? Less suspicious than lurking about the shadows, wasn't it?

That was all the time she had to think, opening the doors and closing them shut quickly behind her, entering smelling the after scent of fresh bread. Safa was lucky, the room was empty upon a first glance. She sighed, realizing what all the chairs and tables meant, the barrels for trash. No way was there going to be a map in here.

 

[Aurelian Vaidyan]

There was a fever in the black.

The old decrepit demons, they stripped from their robes. They stood naked in the sweltering heat of the great furnace. Those spirits and those evils in the darkness spoke through blood soaked tongues into the abyss. The flames answer and casted hellish light upon their naked and pathetic forms, drenched in the red drink of sacrificed virgins who's names now belonged to the aether. The shroud. To existence that would bend to their will and kneel to their twisted mind-grip. Blessed was the Empire. Blessed was the Magesterium in all of their glory. Blessed was Ko who granted them the vision of the truth. A god that was anathema to the sun. Who's maw was that of steel and viscera and the void itself.

To speak it's name with a mouth full of blood made the veins bulge. It made men hunger for flesh. To feel it peel beneath their fingers. To hear the screams cry out into the darkness and know that it will answer with power.

Thrull.
Thrull the Eater of Messiahs.
Thrull the Devourer of Moons.
The King of the Black.
The Great Daemon.

The Worm. ​

The furnace groaned. The pipes bent and twisted beneath the fighting pits and pulled them low... Something crawled out of that fire, it's maw open and many eyes looking to devour...

 

[Nino]

His mind swam serenely between worlds before being wrenched back to reality.

"On your feet, soldier!"

Bloody sellsword keeps forgetting his place.

Yet the Arshakan did not resist as he was helped to his feet. Something about the man's manic grin left no room for dispute. Vinicus would later come to understand that, ironically, such insanity was the only way to remain sane.

A soldier's instincts kicked in as he searched for his weapon. It was only then that the ex-legionnaire realized his shield-hand hanging uselessly at his side. He began to wonder at the lack of pain as the conflagration struck. Sheer bedlam shocked him into movement and towards their ever so minimal salvation. Someone stumbled, he hooked under with remaining good arm and dragged them up, paying forward a debt owed.

Vinicus eventually shuffled through the gap into the next hell that surely awaited them. The rodent's ramblings certainly weren't providing any comfort. He wasn't sure what 'it' was, but anything that consumed blood was vile and to be avoided.

Feeling was slowly beginning to return to his arm, yet not enough to carry another...or so he reasoned to himself.

 

[Tool]

A pour of breath. A snap of fingers, and the flames of gold that clung and ate at the beast's side flickered up. Popped. Wild and sudden. Like bellow's pump to a forge fire. The tongues of gold plumed. Spread rampant across oily fur matted with grime. Excited enough. Hot enough. They burned.

The beast cried in pain. Shroud lanced, engulfed in wyrd fire. Pelted and stabbed, only the sufferings it had endured It roared.

The man with the red hand held his wrist firm. The Red Lines of Aghni's path seared across his arm. Glowed in the clutched grasp of his curled fingers.

Snapped his smoke trailed hand away. Set his feet with the tower behind him. "Pick up the wounded!" he cried out as the creature thrashed, wild and aimless against the fire that ate at it. It set its eyes onto the man with the red hand. Fire's licking at its hide. Roared. Set to charge.

The roar of the stadium reminded Tool of the combat tournaments the Salamanders would hold. Only it was more merry and non-life-threatening. Shivering slightly, his eyes opened wide; there was a weaver in there. He could almost taste it amid the dirt, sweat, and gore. Then came the fire, and his heart trembled. "Ignas Spiritus.." Tool whispered as his body snapped into action. Letting out a low, keen whistle, the groups shifted and began to move. Minicing the response from the other guards moving to contain the breach.

Keeping a controlled brisk pace, Tool was joined by Argo and Curly. Both moved like ghosts, their feet barely made a sound.
"Search below, get ahold of Manisk, and get to the sub levels. I will grab some supplies and meet you down there. Prepare for possible extraction.. Turn 'em to Glass.. Tools' voice had a bite to it as pent-up energy began to bubble. Taking a sharp turn, the group split and began to work.

Curly made his way towards the group stationed at the prison cells. Argo wasted no time in getting towards the Sub levels to Manisk for recon. No doubt the rest of the troops were already moving. Tool had to leave instructions for them all, considering the situation at hand. Stepping into the kitchen through a side door, he closed it quietly behind himself. The smell of freshly baked bread applied a band-aid to his mood. Quickly grabbing his knives, he stashed them on the backside of his belt. Next, Tool pulled out a set of handcrafted armor gloves with inlaid shroud stones. Moving a box, he grabbed some stashed items for the exit.

That was all the time she had to think, opening the doors and closing them shut quickly behind her, entering smelling the after scent of fresh bread. Safa was lucky, the room was empty upon a first glance. She sighed, realizing what all the chairs and tables meant, the barrels for trash. No way was there going to be a map in here.

On instinct, Tool hit a low crouch deeper in the kitchen, hearing the door close, his eyes narrowed. Who was in his kitchen at this point during an alarm?! Another Thief? Or..? Tool dared to peek up from the shadows, his ebony skin allowing him to blend better in the darkness. His eyes fell upon Safa as she stared at the area around her. The dishevalment of her uniform and her unauthorized face garb told him all he needed to know. "You look a little bit lost there, fighter.." Tool stepped out from the shadows, slipping the pack of supplies on his back. Sanguine eyes soaked in her presence as his brows raised quizically. "Be quick, follow me, or stay and risk being caught." Gesturing for her to follow, he pointed at a loaf of bread on the counter for her to take. Showing up to an emergency without food or on an empty stomach was bad for business.

Stepping into his room, he began organizing the state of his room with ease. Setting certain markers and seeds in his space, he paused. "What are you looking for? I have my own task to come, but I would help you if I can.."

All Guards, Secure Pentagons. All Guards, Secure Pentagons.

Deadwall Unit, to the Central Watchtower. Deadwall Unit, to the Central Watchtower.

Manisk popped up out of his bunk with ease, snapping on his gear, and the rest moved to take their stations. Booted feet stomped down the hallway as Manisk passed by to check on the hall door.
"Quite the time for such an alarm. It must be big.." Cutter said behind Manisk as they both trotted up to the Hall door. Checking their backs, they made sure none had followed them before opening the latch. In stepped Argo and Jax before sliding the door shut. Adjusting the bag on his back, Jax mouthed: "Gift from Baker".

"Ignas Spiritus is here; they blew a hole in the West Tower wall." Argo said at a rapid pace, matching Manisk's hurried pace towards the West wing. Thankfully, that wasn't far, unfortunately, it really wasn't far from It.. Growling lightly, Manisk waved for them to be silent as he raked his brain. The Deadwall Unit was nothing to sniff at. If people considered the side of these hallways, compared to a normal man, they would ask more questions. Why did they stand so high and far apart? It wasn't for grandeur nor the necessity of structural integrity.

"Pray, Lads.. Pray that the Deadwall does not get there first and that we do not encounter them. I hope there is a weaver among you and you have some of Baker's Bread.." Manisk hissed his voice carried a wave of fear and unease. If only the baker were here with his bombs, they would have a time, maybe even subdue them, perhaps. Shroud was a fickle thing around the Deadwall.. One of the many reasons it got its name.

[]The Worm. [/]The furnace groaned. The pipes bent and twisted beneath the fighting pits and pulled them low... Something crawled out of that fire, it's maw open and many eyes looking to devour...

Curly shuddered as they ran down the hallways. He had spent weeks attuning himself to the faint shroud energy built within the halls. Something had arrived, born of the blood of Hestio's victims. All the life essence he had felt disappear down below now came to light.
"Gods help us.. What have they made here..?"

 

[The Prince of Tatters]

When I found you, you were broken and shambling. A noble and gaudy thing turned wretched by the works of evil men. Now you lay beneath brick and earth as but a wisp of vengeance... Have I not made you strong? Have I not made you worthy of the title bestowed upon you. I play now with your ancestors as precious things betwixt my fingertips. They look down upon you now in despair. What will you do to appease them, Quintus? what is it you are made of? Or must I find another instrument for my will? Breathe, son of Vexion.

I command thee.
​

As Tetron commands, so must he perform.

They did not see him wake from behind his false visage. How long had they been trying to remove it? Hours? Days? Months? None of these were out of the question. He had waged this war for longer than the gods had seen fit to grant him memory of. Yet every corpse brought him closer. If not to the truth, then to something. And so he laid still and allowed them to work their magicks. They spoke a foul language on the air. There was something in this place that gave them power. Something on a deeper level than where he lay. He could feel it's pull. A thing that drew him into a miasma that tasted foul on his tongue.

Yet he lay still.​

They spoke in frustration as they worked. Their hands moved over him in a cacophany of colors that were of the nether. that was of viscera and demonic intent... They wore masks he did and yet they were of mundane substance. The cloaks they were dark as his and adorned with markings observing vile powers. The likes of which were alien to him. It mattered not. He counted five that were present. Five who's blood should feed the stones.

They were armed with daggers. Their confidence would be their ruin.

A sleight of hand was all it took to disarm he that was closest. The dagger came free from it's sheathe with a whisper and his own movement made no sound at all. All that came next was the sound of dying and men attempting to shape reality ill-shaped shroud. He cut the throat of the man who'd given the weapon. Torches snuffed out in his presence and the rest died screaming in silence. Great was their suffering in the justice that was void. There was no second wasted. No time given to pleasure... but they suffered in ways that would please him when he dreamed of it later.

Torches snuffed out in the halls as he moved as a specter. He fought his way towards freedom. He fought his way towards vengeance as fiercely as he ever had and though he would never admit it, he fought his way to avoid whatever it was that stirred in the deep...

_____

​

Big Man carried the Bowman upon his back and moved faster than a man carrying a shield that size should move. They didn't breathe. That was reserved for men. The sort of creatures that needed air to survive. Brahmus was kind when he arrived at the fortress. Brahmus gave them something to live for outside of their families, who never need worry again after they made their sacrifices. Brahmus promised them gold for their loved ones. Brahmus promised them virility in exchange for their manhood. Brahmus promised them the love of the Empire rather than the touch of their children. Brahmus promised them glory should they give away their soul. Brahmus promised them the thing that all men desired even when they denied it for the sake of honor.

Brahmus promised them invincibility.

Brahmus promised them eternity.

All they need give is everything.
​

They could smell their quarry on the wind. Feel their heat on their air and the vibrations from their feet. The Deadwall Unit came when called by the voice on the air. They were frantic. They moved jerkily and in ways that would unsettle mortals... Something below them made them faster, more focused. The Bowman took aim from Big Man's back and fired. The Bowman never missed. The Bowman salivated as his arrow flew through the air....​

 

[Garuda]

There Beneath the Watch Tower​

Whistle did the arrow zipping through the dust staled way. Glint of its head caught shroud traced eyes made the brighter by knives hidden here in those same shadows down below. His hands though. His hands were his own. Red lines smoldering smokeways that burned honor in the name of his ancestors across bone, sinew, and vein.

The red hands snapped their red fingers. The Bowman's arrow caught to light. Shaft turned to quick wicked flame. Barbed steelhead arrow flung wild. But it still struck right into the flesh of his shoulder.

Buzzed right through his meat. All rip and tear.

Big Man came charging after. Shield raised. The red hand, blood drawn there in the heated confines of that tower. tried to spark up another flame. Snap snap went his fingers. Echoes bounced off the walls. Shroud too thick. Too heavy. Dead as a horse with a lance through its heart.

"Fuck," he grit his teeth. Got slammed by shield all the way back. Landed with crack and skate on the ground. Groaned. Stars in his eyes. Coughed. "Shrouds nulled!" he hacked out. "Form up, try and take them one by one!"

Snake Momma slipped and slid forward. Kopesh hacked at a spear haft one of the elves lanced forward. Kriss dagger struck out there after like a viper fang.

Bowman took aim. Still latched on to the Bigman who turtled behind great tower shield. Katar'd fist cocked ready behind its plank. While The Soldier stayed behind and covered their gaps.

That big wall, that big shield. Whiskers might know it killed the shroud around it. Their amor, inlaid with armonium that frayed the threads about it.

"You all try and hurt, Brahmus," Big Man said.

The Bowman cackled, and clapped his feet. "You all try and hurt Dead Wall!"

Snake Momma wriggled and hissed, swerving back, her poisoned blade blood stained along its edge where it drew the elf man's blood. "You all try and escape, Hestio,"

The Soldier, behind his hawk feathered mask peered dead eyed and sullen. "There is no escape, but death,"

 

[Jadzia]

More blood spills onto the ground, seeping into cobbled cracks and dripping down, down, down. Against pipe and siphon, gear and Wall, they are all being ground. It is the red handed hume that spills first, hacking out commands even as his ribs crack. Then it is the elf, hacked by a blade which reeks of paralyzing poisons.

Jadzia's nose twitches. Her ears telescope forwards and behind. The twisted forms of the soldiers coil and lumber closer, threatening and thrumming with fervor. She hears them, but she does not listen. The red hands' command is ignored.

try and escape,​

no escape,
​

Maybe this is the other's first time, but for Jadzia, this is Attempted Escape No. 38 —

and it will be her last. Of this, she is sure.

---

The soldiers are dusty. They smell of the already dead, skin dried with salt and bodies stuffed with aromatics. The thing that makes them smell like this is the armonium padding underneath their armor, spun to thin, fibrous glass and woven in complex elemental arrays. Armonium normally sparks shroud bigger. But mix elemental kinds together, and a strange staticky thing happens. Fire and ice, makes nothing. Air and earth, no movement. The shroud fuzzes out, pulled in too many different directions.

Jadzia does not know this. What she does know is that the static dulls her senses. And how far it goes out. When the Proctor first came to her cell, and walked toward her with those silver shackles, she counted his steps.

"Commander!" she shouts at the red-handed one. "Deadwall is anti-weaver unit. Thirty paces and the shroud clears. They are slow. Run!"

Not an easy thing to do in his state. She hears his broken breaths. But she already has another's weight to carry.

Jadzia shifts up the elf woman on her hips. She steps towards a staircase that coils like a stony-scaled snake into the clawing darkness underneath the tower. Deeper down. Down, where the blood is dripping to. Where that newborn thing waits for them to fall into its maw. If they can avoid being eaten, if they are quick-stepped enough, then beyond that terrible place is fresh air. Ocean breeze. She can taste it, metallic and corrupted as it is by the hungry in-between of them and freedom.

But how can she say this to all these unwhiskered? There is not enough time to try explaining. Only trust can pull the others.

"Dula, come with me," she moves further away from the fighting. "And you, the Legionnaire. I know the way out."