It was too late, even as Manisk and the rest came around the corner, they saw the backs of the Deadwall unit. There was no turning back now, standing two abreast, Manisk took the front with Cutter shields raised and blades at the ready. Argo and Jax wasted no time; thankfully, they had already loaded their crossbows ahead of time. Yet some modifications had been made to the weapons Tool had crafted for them. Items set to ignite without a shroud, a lesson he learned after glassing a bridge during their expedition.

"Onwards Lads.. This might be our final march.." Manisk shuddered at the thought as he and Cutter shuffled forward like heavy infantry coming up from the rear. From over their shoulders came two heavy quarrels slicked with some poison they had picked up from wild snakes on the way to Hestio. The real toys had yet to be revealed; they could not risk using them too soon. They aimed at the backs of the archer and the wall of a man. Just beyond, they could make out the ragtag group. They all collectively could make out the red hands, the haggard posture of their beloved Captain. As one, they thumped their swords to the shields to draw the Deadwalls unit. Thankfully, there should be no interruptions thanks to the arena being locked down and guarded.

From behind them came another troop led by Curly and several others also armed with crossbows and shields. Curly carried his own bag with some more goodies prepped by Tool. Gesturing, two more quarrels were fired, one now at the snake lady and the soldier off watching the flanks. Curly's eyes scanned the floor, and his breath caught within his chest.

"Dammit! Don't go dying up here, men; you'll become food for whatever waits below these drains. Push!" Curly hissed as he advanced with shields raised to watch their backs with the newly joined troop. Where the fuck was Baker at this time? He was essential to their advance out of Hestio.. Or rather, their attempt to do so. "Baker.. Please.. Hurry.." Curly whispered as his pulse increased as the adrenaline took over. Their enemies were unlike any they had seen before, but that did not stop the unit from advancing. There was only one way, and that was forward; to victory or to death.

They did not expect the quarrels to do much, besides give their fleeing Captain and his companions more time and divert attention. Shields ready, blades drawn, they hummed a slow soldier's dirge for their enemies.
 
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Fighter? She was not that, unless one considered her to be a fighter because she refused to let life crush her. When it came to others, Safa needed numbers. She would never be caught in a fight that was fair, she needed it as unfair as a fight could be, as long as it meant she would be victorious in some way.

If she was called a fighter, it meant her disguise had been too rushed and poorly placed upon her slender frame. It might have meant that life was going to try to smear her blood and guts over the floor. For all she knew, she could be staring at the reason why for it right now. His voice, once alarming, settled her into silent suspicion.

His offer to grab the loaf of bed was enough to get her to trust him just enough to follow after him. His posture behind tables matched hers when she snuck around, scurrying like a mouse between nobility's feet, doing her best not to get squashed. Quietly, she took the bed, tucking it under her arm. Inside his room, she stood, looking around, recognizing little.

"I need to get to the lower levels." Safa whispered loud enough for him to hear. If he was trying to go up then their brief partnership ended here. "To the cells, 3693. Not sure how low that is." She admitted. Would even he know, this place was like a fire ant hill, all chambers and secrets with doors that led to more maze than answers.

Leg bouncing anxiously, she almost could ignore the rumble beneath her feet, vibrations along the walls that had the sturdy floor twitching like a scared rabbit's nose. Brown eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, she looked at the man to see if he could proffer any answer. Instead of waiting, "What was that? What's going on?"
 
Safa said:
"I need to get to the lower levels." Safa whispered loud enough for him to hear. If he was trying to go up then their brief partnership ended here. "To the cells, 3693. Not sure how low that is." She admitted. Would even he know, this place was like a fire ant hill, all chambers and secrets with doors that led to more maze than answers.
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Listening carefully, Tool finished arranging his desk space accordingly; inhaling, his eyes slowly narrowed at the sound of booted feet shuffling in through the kitchen. Gesturing to Safa to be still, he listened, a single long knife drawn at the ready. Then came the coded knock, which the Baker responded to by knocking on the desk. Swiftly, the door opened in came the last five of the group who snuck into Hestio.

"Baker, we need to go now. Deadwall, the anti-shroud unit, has likely found the Captain. We must get there immediately! Curly and the rest have already proceeded below!" Yuto spoke in a hushed voice as he came in, grabbing up the provisions sack and another heavy crossbow. Opening the chest by the foot of Tool's bed were two oddly made Heavy crossbows. Two more began putting them together as Tool wiped the desk clean, knocking the pieces into the trash.

Safa said:
Leg bouncing anxiously, she almost could ignore the rumble beneath her feet, vibrations along the walls that had the sturdy floor twitching like a scared rabbit's nose. Brown eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, she looked at the man to see if he could proffer any answer. Instead of waiting, "What was that? What's going on?"
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The group recoiled in turn, looking from one another; no one bothered to question Safa's presence. Only one of the group took note of her and placed a crossbow in her hands. "Right, lass. Looks like you'll be coming with us. Do not stray, and I am sure we will get to wherever you need to be after we secure our Captain." Booth smiled his usual gap-toothed grin while adjusting his armor and shield in turn.

"Grab the wic-based items and the main detonators. We leave now; there is no other choice. We are headed to the depths; who knows where cell 3693 is?" Tool hissed with a shiver down his spine. Taking the dual shot heavy crossbows he had made, the Sapper gestured for them to follow, and off they went. They kept a fast pace but not so fast that Safa would fall out of the center of their ranks.

"This way, Baker, I patrolled on that level often." Booth chuckled as he spat a glob of brown liquid to the floor before chewing some of a leafy substance. The rotation shifted, and Booth now took the lead while Tool moved on Safa's left; the other 4 made up the rest of the teardrop formation. No one spoke; their eyes were vigilant shields, and swords were drawn while Tool and Safa both had crossbows in hand.

'Hestio breathes a life unknown, and it terrifies me. We must get Ignas free of this hell hole... Or by the Gods, I will offer up my life and die trying to give him freedom. The Salamanders must rise again. Hear me, oh ancestors, and guide my steps.' Tool prayed within his mind as the long hallways twisted and turned; Booth led them down several spiraling staircases that landed them around a cell numbered 3645. Their pace slowed swiftly as they checked around. With the halls mainly empty due to the breach, the group advanced smoothly.

Holding up a fist, Booth slowed the group to a stop and changed positions, with Tool standing beside Safa. Rummaging through his inner pocket, he pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Safa. "Here, lass, you will need these." Booth readjusted his grip on his sword and shield as the group began a brisk walk down the halls towards cell 3693.
 
Oh no. Oh no, ohnononononono.

She took the crossbow because to not take it might have meant they wouldn't take her along with, and she needed to get Hanna, more than ever she realized. There was something going on, at least with these men, they were after their Captain, but she could feel the tension in the stale air. Something invisible was moving all of them, an invisible chess player or puppeteer.

Safa nodded towards the man who now took the lead, looked towards the first man she had come across, now on her left. She kept pace with them easily, even if she had to take two steps for each one they took. Did she tell them that she wasn't good with crossbows? She would not be fast to aim, would hesitate every moment. But more importantly than all of that, she wanted to ask them a question.

What was a detonator?

At least she knew a key when she saw once, quickly grabbed the metal ring, keys jiggling against each other like a wind chime. If only this could be a hot summer day, and not the day that Safa had to pull Hanna out from whatever was happening in this forsaken place. Another rumble, the hallway feeling like the floor might give out.

"Thank you," Safa whispered, turning her head back to look at the man. He reminded her of everything Hanna wasn't, the look in his eyes could mirror her own. Still, she was grateful. Hanna would be free, this would be worth it because he was free, just another door and

Both the keys and crossbow clattered against the stone floor.

Right where Cell 3693 should be was a big gaping hole, as if something had taken a bite out of the stone, metal and wood.
 

​

Where 3693 Should Be​

It was a smouldering window which lead out to the arena below. A gap that let the grand structure of cruelty through. Floors on floors of cells. Like a hive, compelled to be by the design of some hand far greater than any drone there in that place of stone and mortar.

Cell 3693 was gone. Those around the failed structure, other prisoners so packed into that place. Grime laden. Sweat stenched. Thin. Scarred. Scared. Stared at that failure. The alarms still blaring through the superstructure. The cacophany of so many throats shouting and screaming. Stomping and shaking against their bars. Some men and women on the floor above 3693 peaked down from the gaping hole in the floor of their cells. Those prisoners that were their neighbors, bent and broken there upon the rubble.

"A way out!!!" Some of them cried.

"Move!" others bulled forward. From around 4693, and 2693, the prisoners broke out.

Guards at those levels rushed to meet them. Naked steel, biting into flesh of one, then two. Three, and four. They died. But there were still others there. So packed were the cells. Desperate. Hungry. Furious for all they had been dealt. They grabbed bricks. They grabbed stones. Threw them. Bashed them. Clashed with the guards. A dozen and then some at each floor.

Cooler heads started to bash open the gates of those about them. Hammerous clang clangs at the steel bars that kept souls locked away. Clang clangs that fought to break more free.

"You there! You there! Let us out! Let us out before they take us below! Hurry! Hurry! They'll kill us all if we don't get out! They'll kill us all if we are left here!" Desperate mouths cried, with desperate eyes there above them. Hands Grasping for their freedom. Swiping at what they could take. Air. As others pressed about. Crammed. Squeezed. "Please!" They cried. "Please!"

Down in the rubble of what was once 3693, bricks stirred. A small voice cried out. "Help!" coughed. "Help!"

Beneath the bricks. The dust. The mortar. Two children. Their mother. And the kindly smile of a big man who winced back the pain, even as the blood streaked in red rivers across his brow. Dripped down his nose and onto the child. "No, no, mister, hold on! Hold on!" While their sibling cried in worry over their Ama.

Some of those souls about the merge of 3693 and 2693 were already digging them out. Fingers tearing themselves apart as they dislodged the stones. "Here, I can see them! I can see them!" one Aurochs man, broad shouldered, with horns docked, called out to any who would help. A Devahni man joined in. A dwarf there after. A human woman too.

All while the alarms blared and the fighting about the prison fortress intensified.

There Beneath the Watch Tower​

There in the central tower, the dirge of the Salamanders echoed loud through those narrow halls.

1786858556286.webp"Gods damn it!" the red handed soldier cried out. "30 paces to clear the null-field! You hear me! Manisk?!" He bat away the dagger of the snake woman "You lot live! You lot cut and run, first chance you get!" He screamed. "Damn it all, Slamanders! SURVIVE! THATS AN ORDER!" he cried out as he turned tail and followed after the survivors he had helped break free. Whistled sharp to the Scillin as the elf with fresh wound limped behind.

The little guy's big yellow eyes gyroscope toward the red hand.

"Help them out! I'm right behind you!"

Big Man, Soldier, and Bowman turned toward the Salamanders firing on them and closing distance. Whilst the Red Hand danced with the sword serpent. Haggard parry after haggard parry, with a sword his hands were only half familiar with.

Was a crossbow quarrel that caught the sword serpent's tail that gave the Red Hand his opening to turn and run.

The Scilin carrying some of the wounded elf's weight.

Down they went. Into the belly of the beast. Fast behind Whisker's lead.

Where Important Work is Being done​


Down below, where shadows tore at freedom's throat. Where bricks oppressed, and stones did drain, all that blood that did remain. In the mortal material gathered there benath it all.

In cells. In chambers. In places kept clean. Sterile. Fresh air pumped in. Tools shining and glimmering. The Son of Clan Vexion would see the true works of Hestio's Harvest. Souls of every ilk and every creed. Carved open. Stitched back up. Taken apart, and put back in ways no body grew organically. Clean scars. Stitched back together by practiced hands.

To make loyal. To make powerful. To make sterile.

In one such room a team was at work. The alarms blaring still. But these levels were well guarded. This work, was most important.

"There now, dear," one kindly eyed man said as he stitched a wound shut. "Now you'll never have to worry about sullying the Imperial Bloodlines." Her skin of ash. Her horns sawn short. She wept. Wide eyed to all the horror of it. But she was too tired to fight back now. Too spent. Her golden blood. So much of it spilled across the operating room. Stained the blades of the operator's tools. "Indarius," they called out, putting their tools asside. Attendants unstrapped the woman, and put her to her feet. "Bring in the next proto-phage bearing shell," a syringe grabbed up.
 
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The room was well lit, despite the shadows that lined the hallways. It was modestly sized for a research facility, containing only the necessary tools and supplies for the work being done. Faine had walked by many rooms like this one earlier that morning. They'd paused outside of one and made the mistake of peering through a door left ajar, catching sight of a woman having her horns sawn off. The nubs of their own horns ached beneath thick hair. They did not make the same mistake twice.

This project was paramount, yes, but not the only reason for the tension locked in their shoulders. There were also the expectations of one Kalinus Setra looming over Faine's head. The Praetor was a tall, imposing man who somehow brooded even more darkly than Faine, and whose disappointment was to be avoided at all costs.

In all earnestness, the Imperial spy found their collaboration to be more tolerable than they initially anticipated. Kalinus was severe, yes, but also practical to a fault. Faine could respect pragmaticism paired with a shrewd mind, even if said mind might decide to bury them under a hundred feet of career death if they failed this mission. And that was assuming true death wasn't delivered first.

Before them stood an operating table and several assistants diligently working to probe, dissect, and catalogue two seperate specimens. One was very much dead, having mutated to take on the form of a grotesque looking bird. The other was pulsating with life and being carefully fed one sea anemone at a time. Leading the experiment was Magister Keritus, a slender man in his middle years with streaks of silver in his hair and goatee. He had his hands tucked behind him, issuing orders when he wasn't simply observing. Salazin, of course, had not been granted access to the laboratory, much to her not so subtle vexation. But there was nothing Faine could do about this arrangement. The old crone had, after all, been the one to earn the ire of her colleagues. She was lucky to have only been exiled.

Faine cleared their throat and performed the rare act of interrupting their work. "Magister Keritus, how much longer do we think it will be before the specimen is ready?"

The Magister made an impatient noise. "If only it were up to us. We are going as quick as we dare, even using two at a time as you've requested. But the nature of Blight is fickle at best. We are trying to pin it down but there just seems to be no consistent pattern, no real rules it abides by. We can only hope that one of these will stabilize sooner rather than later."

This was not, of course, what Faine wanted to hear. But they understood why the pace had been throttled. If only there weren't so many other experiments being carried out at the same. They could have ten laboratories working on this instead of—

Something boomed above, and suddenly the walls and floor were rocking with impact. Faine barely caught themselves against the door frame. Before they could utter a word, alarms blared to life, disorienting everyone even more. The spy was still covering their ears, eyes darting around in an attempt to figure out what was happening, when they spotted the cage for one of the living specimens.

It had fallen on the floor, the door knocking loose. And the creature was no where to be found.
 
Dula pauses at the bottom of the stairwell. Does not follow her further into the dark.

"My family," he says. Heels scuff against the last step as he teeters backwards. Jadzia recognizes it as duty set into his shoulders, and not fear. "I cannot leave without them."

"The way is blocked," Jadzia stops long enough to respond. "You saw it, you know it is death to go back."

A boom rattles the stone walls, causes bits of debris to crumble and rain down on them. The Scillin stumbles into Dula, tugs on his shirt with little claws, urging him forward. The panic of the explosion and the CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! of the alarms leave no more time for hesitation, or argument, or sentiment. They move again.


Rooms and rooms sprawl through the darkness under the earth, cages made of brick and iron. Even the empty spaces are filled with lingering suffering -- stains rim the drains in sloped floors, instruments sit abandoned on shelves, stench of fear soaks into the stone. Jadzia scurries through those narrow halls and empty outer compartments nose first, whiskers trembling with focus and with fear.

"Blight, bloom, borrow," she mutters, teeth gnattering in an attempt to self-sooth. "Bleed-blind-blood," Her fifth sense sprawls out expansively, painfully. The shroud here is shattered and screaming. It is broken glass to wade through, but wade she does. With it she can avoid the still-suffering, and the men who bring instruments of suffering. She guides through shadows unhindered, as they crawl deeper down.

But there is chaos unfurling here in this bloody cradle. The steps of the men with the instruments are hurried and upredictable; they are afraid of what they have created. Jadzia holds a claw up. Makes everyone stop in a dark corner as hurried footsteps grow louder and then quieter again. Shouting echoes from a room away.

"We cannot avoid them any longer," she says in a low whisper. Lets the injured elf slip off, and passes her to the Scillin and Dula, who try to bear the elf's weight between them. "The rest of the way is dangerous. The Commander and I will go first. Those who cannot fight, stay behind and follow when the way is clear."

Jadzia presses forward once more, her claws stretching, feeling the shape of what she could pull from the air. She does not notice the dark presence already watching them. The creature has cloaked itself in shroud, and knows how to mask itself against her.
 

Boots smacking the floor like the lips of their landlord everytime came unannounced to check on the upkeep of the buildings. Even if Safa offered him water, the landlord would keep smacking his dry lips as he pointed at a scuff here, a hole there, complaining that it was never clean enough, that the orphans were making it stink like sadness.

Swords glinted like the stars not hidden by clouds, they whistled like the wind, sliced through skin like tomatoes, soft abdomens burst easily as if they were overripe but none of the prisoners could ever claim to be well fed. Some still had their mass, but many did not, and the women and children had never been large enough to begin with.

Boots kicking at bodies like merchants knocking over bags of grain or lentils with their foot. Bags of food hitting the ground hard was still soft, no bones could break.

Shouts and swears from what would be the victors, cries and curses from those stuck in cages. There was blood and dirt, unspeakable grime because all of them were now shoved against each other, two waves pushing back and forth. Neither side looked to be righteous, every face twisted with the grave knowledge of their fate: if they didn't fight back, they'd die, the necessity of it was heavy in the air.

Cymbals crashing like molars gnashing, drums hammering a beat for hearts pounding . A bloody symphony crashing all about them, no pattern, the maestro being chaos and so only dissonance and disarray met every ear, the rumbling of bloodshed and brutality encroaching upon Safa's mind.

It was only a second or two, nothing more or less, before the thief was running towards the rubble. Her original goal had been to save Hana, but now she had two others thrust upon her slim stature: to unlock those in cages and to help dig out the people in the rubble. Safa was selfish, always had been selfish when it came to matters about her family, and so she went to the rubble first because she found it to be entirely possible that Hana would shield others with his body, anyone smaller than him he'd try to protect and many could fall in the category of being smaller than Hana.

Safa left Tool and the others behind her, not asking them if they needed the keys back - didn't these people need them more? The ring of keys she wore around her wrist, slipping it over on her sleeve so it wouldn't slide off her hand easily. Bare hands were quick to dig into stone and mortar, good intentions getting stuck beneath her fingernails as she digged, digged, digged like the flea-ridden mutt the Empire thought she was.
 
"Listen well, Yoton; strategy is said to be very important in times of war. It is also argued that improv is the most valuable skill one can hone in times of stress. Do not forget to leave room for creativity, my son." The words played back in Tools' mind as he observed the scene before him and the mayhem unfold. Booth and Yuto moved without orders, speeding to Safa's side. One began bashing door locks to open cages; the other helped Safa dig. The remaining four paired off, taking down some of the oncoming guards in their hallway. Loudly, Tool shouted two choices for them: flee or fight.

Those who could fight did not waste time in picking up discarded weapons and gear, dressing themselves and their companions. Pulling into the space behind Safa, he traded places with Yuto to observe and check on the bleeding man. Or was he a boy? It did not matter; what mattered now was that the youth was in good enough condition to flee. He did not know, but perhaps someone might find a new way out for the captives. He had only one exit card, and he could not afford to spend it now.

"Is this who you were looking for? If so, we must get going; we cannot save everyone, but the keys can be passed down to open the doors. It is only a matter of time before these halls are barricaded and we become trapped and starved or burned out." Tool spoke to the woman as he swiped the keys from her arm when her arm came back from the cleared stone. Passing the keys over to a now armored captive, he nodded towards the other doors Booth was unable to smash the locks on.

"Baker, we have to get to the Captain! Deadwall is likely close to them as we speak! These captives have trained soldiers with them; they will survive. We must secure the Captain!" Booth barked behind Tool as shouts came from their right side; a new batch of guards came hustling in to quell the rebellion. Bodies tumbled to the sides, floors slick but draining of blood in some spots. Tool waited to hear Safa's response before he could yield any more time to aid in their evacuation.

"We plan to escape; we all may die in the process. In fact, many will die before the day is done; you can follow and hopefully get out.. Or you can stay and wander the halls with the rest." Speaking loud enough for those who stayed close, the Baker rose and exited the cell. Their group of six was now increased to several hands' worth of haggard but trained individuals, and growing fast. With Tool and Booth in the lead, the group headed off, picking up stragglers who wanted to fight and some who sought to carry the wounded out. Food had been rationed out in small bits of jerky, one to a child, woman, or man.

Turning back to check their numbers, Tool grimaced at the toll in their wake. "Dalut and Keb, you both lead these people down to the designated area. If we do not arrive on time, blow this stall and flee. That is an order." Tool clapped both men on their shoulders, handing them a small bag to take with them. Tool saluted, leaving with the other three and several groups of armed militia at his back, heading to find the Deadwall and his Captain.

Dalut and Keb turned to face the rest of the growing number of freed captives and now militia men and women in guards' armor. "Listen close, you lot! We're gonna find a way and free as many as we can along the way. Prepare to fight! Help the wounded and most of all stay together!" Dalut shouted for all to hear, as he began heading for the next set of caves. Keys were passed along to the doors. Fighting started and stopped as small fights broke out to kill or subdue guards. The number of free folk rose every several heartbeats.

Garuda said:
"Gods damn it!" the red handed soldier cried out. "30 paces to clear the null-field! You hear me! Manisk?!" He bat away the dagger of the snake woman "You lot live! You lot cut and run, first chance you get!" He screamed. "Damn it all, Slamanders! SURVIVE! THATS AN ORDER!" he cried out as he turned tail and followed after the survivors he had helped break free. Whistled sharp to the Scillin as the elf with fresh wound limped behind.
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Hearing the Captain's voice was like honey to bees. The dread they once felt in their chest washed away with calm determination. Two thunderous steel-to-shield claps answered the Captain as the dirge grew more soulful. "Don't fret, Captain, we've got some bread for em!!! You heard that, lads, 30 paces till the dampening zone! Keep your wits about you, the Baker is coming, have no doubt. Without this plan we wouldn't even be here now! Have faith!" Manisk hissed from behind his shield with a chuckle; nothing else needed to be said in this message.

"Keep your blades from my Captain, you slithering cur." Argo barked at the woman as the captain broke free to run. Banging his shield, he pointed his blade at her; calm eyes had been observing her movements the entire half-step march as he closed the distance. Another round of quarrels flew to strike the members of Deadwall.

"Spirits, I pray, guide our steps in this slow descent into uncertainty. Steady is our resolve, and so we toss these dice. So we march, one foot before the other till Death takes us." - Tool, Sapper of the Salamanders. Day ?? of time within Hestio's walls.
 
Unearthing Hanna was a process that was both feverish and quick, chilling and long. The surrounding cells and people stuck inside blurred together like the ocean and the sky at twilight. The only thing she could see was the wide shoulders of Hanna, the heavy shoulders that shouldn't belong to a boy but did.

She was pulling him up and pushing him onto his back to check his vitals when Tool spoke to her. Hanna had a faraway look in his dark eyes, but he turned his head towards Tool.

"Who's he?" He mumbled, moving to sit up, wincing and reaching for his head.

Now or never. What choice was the right one to make?

"We'll follow you, Hanna, get up. We're going home."
 

Where Manders Dare Break​

Slither and shift. Whip and hiss. The bolts flew by. Struck stone. They missed Snake Momma, but Snake Momma didn't miss. Kopesh curve hooked over tall shield's brace. Yanked down for dagger's bite to find chain mail. Luck, skill, some slimy pile of those two between eachother eked out just enough to keep that stab from piercing the links. Finding skin. Tainting blood. A tail whips harsh against them though, near knocks them off their feet, but he's braced by the Mander behind him.

What fire burns in Argo tempers some. Cooled. But hot still there in the blood that pumps through his arms enough to whip out a cut. Clang bright as it is harsh sounds out from the guard. A salamander there beside him, Trini, bashes away at the snake woman with her own shield. Grunt all flint strike sparking through her chords.

An arrow plunks off her shield. Then another zips by her head.

Manisk growls as he takes a short spear and thrusts. But the snake momma is all smoke and glittering mirrors. Her eyes cold as the black between the stars.

Big man thumps towards them. One... Two. One.. Two.

"They are closing in!" Joff alerts. Tension dialing back up.

But the dirge goes on. Steady. Blades knock against shields.

Manisk squints. "Double back to the narrower paths that lead us hear," he commands. "We can't use our numbers in this hall, nehow, but we can force them in the same damn line!" he says with a harsh grin.

Swords thump in unison against shields. They peel at the ends. Short steps to set up their cover as they retreat. Bolts loaded and fired to screen. An arrow catches one in the shoulder. Kilen.

Big Man trudges on toward them as the Bowman claps his feet and knocks another arrow. No matter how the rest plays out, those Salamanders beneath the tower pulled the Dead Wall toward them, and off their Captain's back.

Where for Every Soldier There are Twenty Dogs​

Each cell broken open. Each hand armed. Faces as dirty and gaunt as alley cats and street hounds look on with wide and open eyes. Damn the guards. Damn this place. Damn the hands that put them here. Damn the hands that would keep them here.

"We are going home!" They cried to each other.

Hanna stared at it all with wide eyes. Wound wrapped half hazard by the mother's hands. He looks down at his sister. "Safa," he says. Something inside him not that same scared boy she seemed to remember him as. He nods. "One way or another," he accepts.

The killing stink is everywhere. The fear. Wet rusted iron in each lungpull mixed with hot dust that burns all the way down and sticks to the skin. Itches. But its too late. There was no containing it.

"WE ARE GOING HOME!" the shouts burn through lungs as bloodied hands smash locks. Bull through those last gaps of doorways.

What careful plan may have been laid unravels. Another distant boom goes off. Red mists with dust and rubble. Bread gone off? A prisoner, shroud touched, let loose? A desperate guard flooded with all that fear they had dolled out, whiplashing back through them now that all those scrawny faces could do to him what he'd done to them, folded over for each soul there to doll it out. It didn't matter. The boom booms all the same. Stone shatters. Cracks. Blows. Survivors pour out.

Soliders, sure. But people. So crammed packed to the fucking brim behind those tall stone walls the empire called Hestio. They are flooding out. Crashing. Raging. Some at anyone or anything near them. But they are put down. The rest. Most. So many more. Break for freedom, however they can find it. And they will find it. Stomping over the guards. Voices rise over the chaos. Draw order, give command.

Mothers. Fathers. Friends. Siblings. Total strangers.

For every soldier, twenty dogs there. Flee bitten. Mangy. Innocent save for the guilt of being dogs there to be caught to fill a pen. They run through the prison. Breaking out. Howling. Biting. Ripping and tearing. At all those hands that treated them so. Tore them so. Took them so and locked them so far away from all the life they had.

With no promise but the pit. No promise but that promise they had seen dolled out to all the others. Again and again. Until those who had seen it long enough could not see anything more but those blood stained sands, and how all those dark trails seeped down toward that tower's base. A monument they would feed.

A ripple of words reaches Hana, the Mother, Her children. "Daybreak! Fresh air! They've found it! The way out, in Sector Seven!"

"We are just in Sector Four, we aren't so far,"

Hana looks down at the children he had risked his life for. At the mother who had helped him. Trying her best to comfort them, those little ones who have been so strong, despite all the hell they have been through. "We are going," he lets them know.

A sure hand slaps him on the shoulder. "Thats it! We could use a big man like you!"

A freckle faced woman grins gap toothed, amidst the odd calm they had found themselves in. "Aye, the more's the merrier,"

In Shadows Beneath it All​

1792040703390.webpThere they crept, though the thing with tendrils and spindles, thorns and teeth, watched from its nook. How they clung to their cover. Guards rushing by.

Still, the knives went on cutting. The hands went on stitching. Each cell. Just as important as the last. Each Magister, just as mad as the one that came before them. It was all such important work. And theirs would be the most important. The greatest. The breakthrough their beloved Empire needed.

A passing moment. The way was clear. The Red Hand moved forward, through the rake of shredded shroud field. Grit his teeth for all the hurt that burned up his red lines of ancient aghni.

Another boom shakes the walls. The alarms go on blaring. Something falls and breaks, all crackle and clink. A guard looks for the sound. finds arm wrapped around his neck and experience twisting his bones and ligaments all the wrong ways till they go snap. He struggles some as he wheezes. A knife puts a stop to that.

The thing made of vile hopes and wicked dreams, so fat on anemones, likes the shape of these ones linking through the shadows. Slinks towards them. Slow.

Steady.

Dula says. "What the hell is that thing?"

The scillin flicks their tongue. "What?"

Dula shifts the weight of the elf. Nods towards the tangle of wet roots that starts to look like a man. "The-that!"

The alarm goes on. And on.

Guards come about. Shout. Draw swords. Go forward. The thing of pulsing tangles shrieks with all its grinding teeth. Lashes at the guards like a tree falling toward them.

"Fucking hell, lets move!"

"I can taste fresh aaaair," teh scillin tries to call out to the others. Ignoring all the horrors about them.

"Whiskers, you track it with that snoot of yours!?" the commander calls out with a crazed grin.
 
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From that pit where light once came, there was only the abyss. And never before had he felt such ecstacy...

Upon his tongue and the tongue of those that followed was a promise more solemn than any that had come before. They who held together the very stones of Empire and fed it from the ichor of their black minds. They gave themselves to more than steel and to more than fire. They'd given themselves to more than weak hearts could ever fathom and rewrote the laws of reality in this space beneath the suffering of undesirables. Those who's suffering brought pleasure to their loins and brought glee to the void where their souls used to exist. Their voices carried carried his name through stone and through bone and through flesh so that all that fled might hear them. Let them hear malice upon the wind. Let the sky open up and shed the blood, for the Mother's vision was imperfect and in need of correction.
​
"Thrull! Thrull! Thrull!"

It came forth with many legs like swords. Many eyes that sought whom it might devour and a maw that would grind flesh and bone into sweet pulp. It cried out with the call of many newborns. Where its legs found purchase on stone, it cracked. Those men in that deep place that brought it forth found themselves impaled in the darkness. The points of its many limbs found chests and pierced through hearts. Others were lifted and thrown into the black of his mouth and died on jagged edges as it screamed into the heavens to come closer. So that it might consume all who fled and all who sought salvation from tyanny.

To higher levels it crawled.

A child fell down it's throat of swords. A mother. A father. Their voices added to the thousands that cried in hunger and pleasure from it's gullet as it thrashed this way and that. Vaidyan was the last of his order left in the depths left trembling and naked in dust as it broke through stone. He cried in horror. In awe. The way a father might have felt when seeing a child born. When cutting it's cord and watching it feed for the first time. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he continued his chant through a dust coated throat. Thrull. Thrull.

The name died on his tongue as he lost consciousness. He lay in the dust, blood, gore, and shit of his brothers as the Eater of Messiahs rampaged. His vision was complete...
 

"Whiskers, you track it with that snoot of yours!?"​

Said whiskers twitch in indignation.

"That is what I have been saying--!" Jadzia grinds out between long teeth, nose already needling towards the next way to go, a room with a closed door, and beyond it more guards, and beyond that the grind and metal scrape of machine come to life, thrumming, thrumming, Thrull...

Gnashing rows of teeth like the churn of a thousands swords at war, thrash of metal carapace body flays stone and earth, clawing its way to the surface. Gush of pipes, bent and torn and spewing blood and steam. To call it a beast went against the natural world, which could never create a violence such as this. Its voice ground like the machine it was born of, and when it spoke to Jazdia through the shroud it had blood on its tongue:

ALL BECOMES DUST IN MY WAKE,

It said, turning its gaze briefly to her and the others. Not an eye -- an eye would be too full of remorse -- what it had instead was an emptiness which could not be filled.

MY THROAT, NEVER SLAKED,

With a scratch of claw and heave of breath, Jadzia pulled the shroud up around them, twisting it into hardened knots. The barrier sparked and scraped against centipede-point leg, a shift of dark mass which pulled apart the ceiling and walls around them like flesh off the bone. One of her long, clawed feet stepped forward, her tail flat against the ground. The clash of sword's edge was held at bay, as Jadzia summoned as much strength as she could.

"No more blood!" she cried out against the thrash of newborn god, but not to it -- not to the one who could only see what it had been created from: fervor, ambition, immolation. No, she spoke to those who would survive. To Dula, whose name she would always remember, and to the others, whom she would never know the names of.

The shroud barrier crackled out of existence as Jadzia stumbled backwards, spent.

"The monster has opened the path for us." Below, in the aftermath of roiling destruction, the sound of rushing water could be heard in the darkness. So too, there was the wet yawn of a tunnel's mouth, fetid with mineral-touched air that even the most insensitive of them could taste on their tongues. "The way is down, down into the drink."

Turning to face the others, she put a claw on the scillin's shoulder. The scillin mirrored the connection, and they two, scillin and varlin, stood in half embrace amongst the ruin.

"Cousin, you are the strongest swimmer. Show them through the aqueducts," Jadzia said.

"You are not coming with." Voice full of sorrow, it was not a question.

"There are some who cannot swim. I will find them another way."

A rat's smile, squint and chitter. Jadzia pushed the scillin away from her.

"Now go, and live! Live into victory!"
 
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