Fray watched the tired grin spread across One Eye’s face and decided then and there that Garrod was probably the bad kind of crazy to everyone else, which meant he was the good kind of crazy to Fray. That was also, coincidentally, the kind of crazy you wanted when shit hit the Blight.

She mulled over being called an optimist as Garrod did the honors of throwing open the trap door. The noise was even louder than when she had turned over the flimsy bed, but there was no sign of anything scuttling away in fear. Which...meant little if the trail was what they thought it was. Fray had no doubt that their day could get infinitely worse, but Fray also had no doubt that if it did, the two of them would give as much hell as they got.

Hmm. Maybe she was an optimist after all.

They peered down into the foul darkness, a truly unpleasant stench hitting their noses. Fray wrinkled hers in annoyance, though more so at the sight of all that bloody Blight, which was messy and splotchy and downright foreboding.

She was in the middle of trying to figure out which part he meant was eighty and which was twenty, when light bloomed and plummeted into the inky darkness.

At this rate, Fray suspected she might actually get used to Garrod’s seemingly endless bag of party tricks. This flame he sent forth looked to be the normal kind, all orange and gold as it danced amongst the bricks. Though her heritage had allowed her to see most of the trail leading down the steps, the fire illuminated even more detail, suggesting in gory clarity that eighty was likely not in their favor.

Garrod rose and moved to enter first. Fray almost protested because he was injured and had literally only one eye, whereas she had two that could see perfectly fine even in the dark. But he didn’t seem the type to brook argument, so she chose for this to mean instead that chivalry might not yet be dead.

Down they went in single file, Garrod taking the lead with his cozy little flame. Its brightness made the furthest fringes of darkness seem even blacker. Fray suppressed a shudder as she followed closely behind.

They reached the bottom without incident, each with their weapons drawn. It looked to be some kind of old, abandoned storeroom, and through it the grisly trail of blight and blood dragged onward. The smell of rotting seawater was even stronger here. Fray stared dolefully in the same direction that Garrod was, contemplating whether they should turn back now and flip those odds in their favor, as the shroudlamps alone were ill enough omens for the mercenary’s tastes. Plus, wherever that tunnel led, the path would be narrow. Longboy’s comforting reach would be of no use there.

But then the whirring of gears broke their uncomfortable silence, and the sound of the trap door slamming down sealed their fate.

Fray damn near jumped out of her own skin, whirling around to meet danger with Fang raised high. She sprinted up the stairs in full denial, pushing against the door with all her might, even attempting to stab Fang through some of the crevices.

It was no use. The door would not budge.

Swearing, she came back down to stand beside Garrod and stare blackly at the tunnel. Before she could even say anything, however, a low, mournful moan echoed through the entrance. It sounded vague enough to be anything, human or otherwise. All the while, the air around them was still, shroudlamps glowing steadily, Garrod’s fire barely even flickering.

Fray let loose a long, wary sigh.

“We were both wrong. One hundred zero. I regret everything.” She threw one last, baleful gaze at the locked trap door behind them, then squared her shoulders as she faced the mouth of the tunnel once more.

Looking around, Fray held Fang in one hand as she picked up a sizable rock with the other. From where they stood, she could tell that the tunnel curved eventually, but if she got the angle and momentum right, she might get it farther than just the bend…

Hefting the rock a couple of times, she judged her distance, wound her arm back, and threw it as hard as she could.

The rock bounced off of the curve and disappeared into the darkness. There were a few thunks before—

“Ow!”

Shit. Fray held up the messer immediately.

“Something is definitely in there,” she hissed.
 
A ripple of bones, tendons and flesh saw the fingers of his left hand ball into a fist. The mote of fire diffused, there with all the shroudlamps buzzing and humming, he felt the strain of such a small spell magnify. Like a hungry crowd had come to sup from the offering of shroud he had offered up.

The lamps dimmed with a shudder.

"We were both wrong..."

Garrod grinned at that. "Not a shred of brain between us," he grumbled. Reworked his grip on his knife. All the good the heavy tool would do him against anything with better reach. But the Cazadore had his claws.

The motion that came next caught him by surprise. Felt it stir in the air, sound bounce against his skin, more than he saw it, blind as he was on his right.

The whoosh of the stone sent sailing through the dark.

Ow!

Garrod's eye narrowed. Brow raised.

Something is definitely in there,

"Yeah," he said, all grin across his lips and fingers set to click clack click as they came tight across the handle of his knife. Held the blade out, long and angled to point. All duelist on approach. Feet careful with how they shift his weight. Balance spread across the balls of his feet. Heels light and ready to spring.

Rounded the corner.

"Oh eight above! please! Hold on! Oh no! Ghobin's sack! I have so much to live for. Don't!" A cowering man. Thin as a rail, and hairless, for all Garrod could see. Tumbled over some crates and barrels tucked away the hideaway hold there at the end of the turn. Hands splayed and fingers trembling as he coiled.

Garrod cocked a brow. Reached out, snatched the man by the scruff of his shirt. White claws gripping tight. Flanged knuckles pressing into meat and bone about his collarbone. The hairless man eeped. Squirmed. Tried to get away.

"Hey," he said simple, flat. Grip firm. Knife sure in his hand. "You tell us what the fuck is down here," A jostle and shake.

"Oh, gods, I, I can't-"

Held the knife, just the bit closer. "What..." pressed closer. "Is..." Let the flat of it rest at the nape of his shoulder. Point and edge not yet aimed to cut. "Down here?" he tilt it, just so.

"Smuggling! It's a smuggler's den! We, oh, they," shook his head. "It got Jerad, and Colin," he whimpered.

"It?"

"That thing! That twisted, spindly, freaky thing! Gods, it was like a heart, like a putrid black heart! Walking on roots and brambles. Grasping and slapping. We didn't even know what it was at first, thought, thought maybe it was something that had gotten out of the crates!"

A low grumbling from the Cazadore. Let the man go. "There's getaway boats?"

The bald man nod vigorously. "But, but," shook his head no. "That thing, that thing is inside them,"
 
Garrod handled this newfound source of potential danger in typical Garrod fashion: by walking straight towards it.

Fray had been half-hoping he had another fancy trick up his sleeve. Perhaps a fireball he could throw that would set everything down the tunnel ablaze, cleansing it of any lingering evil. Or maybe, a magical scrying eye that could surveil from a distance. But no, the man just walked in with nothing but his knife.

She sighed. Fuck it.

Fray trailed closely behind, the tunnel too narrow for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. Besides, someone needed to watch their backs, keep an eye on their six, be ready for any surprise sneak attacks, that sort of thing. Real brave-like on her part, to be honest.

As soon as they turned the corner, the source of all their paranoia became evident. It was but a ruin of a man, more bone than meat and scared shitless to boot, quivering on the floor as if he had just witnessed the fright of his life. He was strange looking, too. Bald, no eyebrows…no hair anywhere, Fray realized.

The Deva stood unfeelingly as Garrod shook the pitiful creature for answers. All the while, she kept a wary eye on their surroundings, scanning for any sign of trouble.

Smugglers…that might explain the excess of crossbolts back above ground. If there was an operation down here, then it would make sense for crew members to be nearby, patrolling their territory between the den and the docks. Safe to assume they must have heard the commotion and came to investigate. They probably cheered at their good fortune as well, all that easy loot for the taking, so long as they managed to nail a bolt in each of the mercenary's foreheads. Too bad for them to have failed so miserably, though she was beginning to question if dying to smugglers may have been the more peaceful option.

Fray’s mood soured exponentially upon hearing the description of the blighted heart. No doubt it was the same, foul thing that had scrabbled from underneath the vanquished Cazadore’s clothes. She wondered if it there was any trace of Amariel left, or if it was a completely new abomination of its own.

Only one way to find out.

Walking just a few feet past Garrod and the whimpering man, Fray stopped at the edge of the darkness. Her eyes flashed gold as she scanned back and forth. There was not much to see, save for the occasional dripping of water from the ceiling of the tunnels. She frowned. For a moment, she thought she heard some kind of rustling. Turning her head to one side, Fray concentrated as she listened. There was something beyond the drip-dropping of water. A sort of muffled squelching, perhaps.

Fray cast a sidelong glance behind her. "Don't suppose you can make more of that green fire?" she suggested wryly.

A whistling sound suddenly pierced through the darkness. On pure instinct, Fray ducked, assuming it was another crossbolt. Unfortunately, what sailed out from the shadows was anything but. It landed on the tunnel wall behind her with a hideously wet splat. She turned, dread creeping up her spine, to find a small glob of black goo sliding down the stones.

"Gods dammit, not more b—" Fray started to lament as she scrambled behind one of the crates for cover. But then she looked over at the hairless man, and the dread quadrupled. "Oh for fucksake, what's wrong with him now?"

The man was convulsing on the floor, limbs shaking uncontrollably as a line of black liquid dribbled out of his nose.
 
"Don't suppose you can make more of the green fire?"

Garrod's eye cut to Fray. The threat of a grin crept across his lips. Showed hint of his sharp teeth. "If the needs must,"

A dart. Felt more on the hairs across his skin than anywhere else. Splat. The sound and the wet feeling of it vibrating through the air pulled his eye to the gibbous horror.

Black as tar. Tendrils and roots unspooled. Reaching and snatching before it sank unto the floor. Skittered, zipped. A beeline toward Garrod, he drew in his breath and felt his eye bulge. Stomach sank down to the base of his spine as he stepped back.

The thing, blighted and unholy, shift shift, almost like some part of its smelled, sniffed at the air. Skittered away from the one eyed Cazadore. Up the hairless man's leg. A screech, a scream.

Spine contorted, fingers snapped as that thing spread. Black ooze ran from his nose. From his eyes. From his mouth.

Knife flicked from right hand to left. White claws reached out. Grasped at skin of scalp and flesh of skull with a hard digging yank. Left hand drove the knife in under the soft of the hairless man's jaw. One motion. No hesitation. Straight up into the brain. The convulsing stopped. Pulled the knife out. Blood spilled in font. Drove the knife through the neck with a hard thrust. Point through the gaps of the vertebrae. All nail into the wall. Wiggled. Run the edge sawing one way. Shlicked out. Hacked it back in with a squelch and a crunch. Sawed it out the other till the last bit went pop.

Off with the head. Save what little was left from turning.

Body fell to the ground in a heap. Still for a breath. Blood spurt and gushed and hosed in pumps from the execution. Started convulsing. Thrashing. Black tendrils sprouted from the headless corpse' stump of a neck. All reaching hands and grabbing tentacles.

"Fuck," Garrod hissed, with a step back. Heard his fiend laugh all gleeful cackle in the shadow of his missing eye. Still held the freshly severed skull, clamped betwixt the white claws of his right. "Belephus." he grit through his teeth.

The opalescent jewel gleamed bright. Almost seemed to expand. As if to draw in a breath. Plates of the armor giving way to something like air. It filled lungs it shouldn't have. Armored fingers flexed like clamps coming closed about the skull, all raw material clutched. Green flames licked and sparked and hissed about the wounds still fresh at he end of hooked claw's grip.

Ate, so gleeful as their myriad tongues lapped at what their bearer had offered. Bone cracked. Fist came shut in a spray of flaming green gore. Shroudlamps whooshed out, and the fiend fire blazed in Garrod's right hand. The gauntlet, clean as winter's first fallen snow. The head of the dead man. Gone to the flame.

The shroudlights came on.

The body was writhing its way back up. Garrod's eye, wide and wild, face spread in tigerous grin. Yammed his claws right into the corpse thing's back. Rent them out in a slash of green fire trailing.

The corpse went up like a match. All wicked flame.

Down the tunnel. A thing once a crossbowman loaded the tool it once wielded, but was now a congealed and blighted part of him. Another bolt, with gibbous blight horror, racked onto its rail. Cranked some part of itself to fire another shot down the tunnel.

What other shambling changed horrors stalked the halls were drawn to the demon's fire. All moths to a flame.
 
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“Oh thank f–eugh…AAGHH!”

Fray had risen to a half crouch as Garrod skewered the man’s Blighted head. Her relief over his ever-present efficiency, however, was short lived, morphing first into mild disgust when he sawed off the head completely, and then into open horror as black tongues shot out from the bleeding stump of neck.

She barely heard the word he uttered over her own shouting. Belephus. Whatever the hell that was.

One-Eye held up the severed, dripping head. Green fire erupted once more from his gauntleted hand and, at the exact same moment, every single shroudlamp died. For a few seconds, the blaze of green fire was all Fray could see. Her eyes adjusted enough to watch the fire eat away at flesh and skull as if it were a living, hungry thing. By the time the lamps returned to life, there was no more head left in the bounty hunter’s grasp.

Of course, that was when the headless body decided to get up and try to do a merry jig. Fray swore. Thankfully, Garrod did not let it get far, lighting it up like a human candlestick.

I’m going to need at least ten pints and a bed locked in a steel crate after this, she thought miserably to herself. The merc was thoroughly tired of being attacked by goo. She wasn’t going to feel safe for ages, unless she was in a windowless room with only one way in and every crack sealed.

The body did not scream, as it no longer had a mouth, but it crackled and peeled in that special way burning flesh always did. Blighted tendrils hissed as they shriveled in the flames. A comforting sight that was, to be sure. Yet, somehow, through all this unholy din, Fray heard it. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that telltale (and also slightly squelchy click) of a bolt being loaded. She’d heard it too many times in the span of a few short hours to doubt her Devahni ears.

“Get down!” Fray bellowed and dropped, not waiting to see if Garrod did the same.

Another splotch of black sailed through the air and landed somewhere with a wet thunk. And then, more unsettingly, came various other noises. Things shuffling, scraping, and…groaning?

Shit… Fray stood up a second time, feeling for all the world like a rowboat being thrown about in a storm cursed, Blighted sea. Gods, how she hated this mother fucking goo.

Something shivered along her back. Fray whirled around, Fang brandished at the ready, but there was no enemy to greet them. She cursed again, confused and utterly drained of patience. Give her a fiend or fugitive any day and she’d happily put it down. But gods damn these putrid little globs of Blight for being so hard to kill.

There it was again, another shudder! This time, the merc realized it was coming from something on her back. The rapier. She had bundled it up in the dead Cazadore’s old coat and tied the sleeves to her chest. But now it was doing something truly odd, vibrating every time she felt another surge of hatred for their nebulous enemy. Panicking, Fray ripped the bundle from around her shoulders and dropped it to the floor.

It lay there rather innocuously, as still and elegant as it ever was, with just a sliver of green along its edges as Garrod’s unnatural fire burned.

Glaring down at the cursed thing, Fray tightened her grip on Fang and sliced a piece of fabric from the coat. She then sheathed the messer and wrapped cloth around the rapier’s hilt before gingerly picking it up, careful not to let any part of its elaborately swept guard touch her skin. A minor mercy to be wearing long sleeves and half gloves today, came the bitter thought.

As soon as she held the rapier properly, an oily and somewhat menacing sensation ran up her arm. The Deva would have begun to regret picking it up, if another shink didn’t echo from somewhere down the tunnel, and before she could even think, she was moving, arm following the sword as it twitched.

There was no time to process what happened next. One minute the sword was hummingly angrily in her hand, and the next it swatted away a blast of goo aimed straight at her head, redirecting it into a nearby wall.

Fray stared at the rapier in disbelief. Shink, shink. Again the blade moved of its own accord, almost like it knew exactly where the Blighted ichor would be, drawn to them before repelling them into oblivion. The silvery metal never touched the evil stuff, stopping each glob just a few hairs short before launching them in another direction, away from Fray’s stupefied face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

With each swipe, she was forced to take another step forward. Soon, she was past where the last semi-functioning shroudlamp flickered, the yawn of darkness before her deep and riddled with strange noises. Fray stared out, panting, wanting desperately to drop the bewitched blade but also desperately not wanting to be shot in the face with Blighted slime. She could hear things approaching, inhuman sounding things that dragged and moaned.

Suddenly, she realized there was a reprieve in the onslaught of goo bolts and began to back away hastily. Her eyes could pick out grayish shapes moving now, which further fueled her haste, causing her to bump bodily into a barrel. It toppled over, old wood cracking as mysterious liquid spilled onto stone.

“Something—somethings are coming our way!” she called out as she maneuvered around the leaking barrel, hoping against all hope Garrod was still alive and fit to fight like hell.
 
"Get down!"

"Fuck," the curse choked off. Knife edge turned, leg slipped out beneath him as he hit the deck.

Fleshbolt pinged-squelched-smashed against the wall.Wriggled and bounced. A huff through silver scarred throat, run long across its width. Up he went, knife still clutched in left hand, right hand out, fingers splayed and ready to catch. Ready to slash and claw.

Muscles turned about, all long blades out and ready to cut. Slice, parry and stab. Could see it in how her muscles twitched. How her foot planted and legs wound.

Saw how she searched. Eyes hungry for something to kill. Something she could sense.

"What is it?" he grunt. Eye scanned about. Did one of those bolts start crawling again? She ripped the bundle at her back to shreds. "Fray!" he called out.

But she was deaf to him. Ears full of something only she could hear. A feeling he knew too well. The roil of boiling laughter curled and smoked within his mind.

Eye huge. He stared at her as she stared at the blade that had clattered on the ground before it. Bright green at its edge.

Lost. The pair of you. Oh Bearer Mine. Lost and damned to this horrid place. All teeth and jagged glass.

Saw her pick up the cursed blade. How it rattled in her hand. How its gnawing power coursed through her. Made the hairs across his skin stand on edge. Hand gripped tight across the hilt of his knife. Claws flexed. Arm rattled and shook with excitement.

A good meal, Oh Bearer Mine.

Grit his teeth. Clenched his jaw.

Bolt click. Loose. Whistle and worble. Shnickt. Cut. Again and again. The blade moved like a thing alive. Its own malice moving against the blighted bolts. Throwing them aside.

What in the fuck. He thought as Muscles cursed again and agin as they stepped through the darkness.

He followed close behind her. Eye trailing after each splattering mess she and the cursed sword sent flinging away.

Limbs moving on instinct. Impulse. Rush forward. Live. Fight. Kill. Or die. The barrel dumped. Crashed. Viscous liquid, shimmering and slick, smelled like ozone and creosote as it spilled across the stoneway. Garrod slowed his stride. Cursed.

"Something- Somethings are coming our way!"

"Fuck!" he cried out.

The grey things shambled. Hooks and clubs grafted to their limbs by black growths. Vined and twisted, ripped through discolored flesh. Anchored into ligament and bone. Moved the bodies clumsy.

"Fray!" He called out. "Handle the bolts!" he barked. Grabbing at the mercenary with his white hand, and yanking her back. Slashing down at one of the blighted fucker's with his knife, just behind a swerve step out of club's fall and into tendon of wrist. Like knife through butter most the way through. Save for the snag against blight twisted bone.

Tormented face fixed in a grimace. twisted and crushed by pulsing roots, too thick to just be veins. Snagged between eyeball and brow of skull. Cracked through the space between bones and muscle. Midnight, oil slick, goo oozed from wounds.

All grunt through the teeth. Breath hissed and heated as claws nailed into flesh and tried to wrench off the stuck limb. A clumsy knife swing from the blighted dock worker, fused to his chopping tool. Slashed against chain mail shirt. Rattled and scraped free. Blighted mass bulled into Garrod, knocking him back a step.

Spiked fist cracked against the once-man's skull. Hard and with melon-cracking-force. Ditched his knife in the one thing's arm. Grabbed and wrenched, and dipped over hip the knife handed fucker. Slammed the abomination down into the odd oil come out from the barrel.

Couldn't quite spark them to hell without burning himself to death.
 
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Fray had been trapped out at sea in a storm, once. An abysmal experience, being locked in a cabin and tied down to whatever she could manage to feel out in the sloshing darkness. Never in her life had she felt so small, so helpless. No light, no relief, only the violence of wind and rain doing its absolute damndest to smash the entire ship into smithereens. Focused as she’d been on bracing herself and keeping loose objects from sailing into her head, she eventually lost track of time. Her whole world had devolved into surviving from one moment to the next.

Struggling to keep up with the single-minded will of the rapier, Fray felt like she was back in that lightless, watery hell. There was the briefest surge of relief, when she heard Garrod yell in kind, then something yanked her back as a knife chopped down at the blighted fiend before her.

Fray barely had time to register that he had just saved her life before the rapier flew again, this time slicing two gooey bolts mid-air in one sweep. The halves plummeted to the ground, near where the headless body still crackled merrily, and almost like they had a mind of their own, the flames leaped forth and began eating up the evil blobs.

And so it was that the unlikely duo found themselves fighting not for coin, but for their very lives. And oh, how they fought.

Garrod had been decisive, quick, and ruthless against the Amariel. There was no doubt that he possessed ample skill, and experience to match. But here, in the dingy confines of the blight filled tunnel, he fought like a raging animal. He stopped for nothing, alternating between slashing with his knife and pulverizing with his fist.

Inspired, Fray picked up a broken barrel lid she had noticed on the floor. Its iron lid served well enough to turn it into a makeshift shield. Whenever some abomination got too close, she bashed it in the face, or kicked in one of their kneecaps with full force. She had considered briefly pulling out Fang instead, but she could not risk getting a sword stuck in Blighted flesh. She needed to be free to let the rapier react and cut down anything flying their way. Nor could she risk using her beast form, for fear of presenting an easy target for even one Blighted bolt to infect her. And then poor One-Eye would have another massive problem he didn’t ask for.

So she settled for the most scuffed version of sword and buckler she’d ever had the displeasure of using. Even the sickest minded fighter could not come up with something this fucked.

Within a handful of adjustments, the two of them became a whirlwind of violence, buffeting back the Blighted horrors that were slowly but surely clogging up the tunnel. It seemed like it would never end. As soon as one got cut or knocked down, another immediately took its place. Fray could feel her energy flag, even as the cursed rapier continued operating on its own.

Another burst of joint effort sent the nearest puppet crashing backwards. And that’s when she saw it. Or, rather, the rapier saw it. One second the blade was batting away a bolt, and the next it was pointing at the empty space where the fiend had just stood, silvery metal vibrating angrily in her hand.

Fray squinted in that half second and swore she could see something glowing in the darkness. A faint pulsation of translucent redness, behind the army of shambling corruption funneling their way.

“Garrod!” Fray shouted over the din of fighting. “Something is back there. The sword wants to kill it. Don’t ask how I know, we just have to move!”

Gods only knew how they were going to pull that off in this mess, but there was only a locked door behind them, and it was either move or die trying. And so, with a colossal heave of will, Fray pivoted her whole body and smashed her shield forward, shoulder first, knocking down two fiends in a heap. She stepped, and hoped with every fiber of her being that Garrod followed.
 
Slammed gauntleted fist into skull of bone again and again. The viscera sprayed. Spattered. Hissed off his skin as it bubbled and boiled and steamed off him. Shriveled up and cooked into crumpled little wreckage.

Barrel lid bashed some fucked up thing back. Rapier blade whirred to snap something out of the air. The crack of wood broke another fucking thing's legs. Garrod grabbed up his knife, sank it, sank it, sank it until the blighted things he caught stopped moving.

Slow. Gruesome. Excruciating fucking slog of murder. They plowed through every fucked up little weirdo the hellsmouth den threw at them. Did not matter that he could hardly breath through the haze of steamed breath and boiled gore. Limbs felt like they would fall off. Joints ached. Ligaments strained. Likely starting to tare. White hair streaked and matted with the abysmal mess left in their butchering wake.

Then he saw it. Shroudlanterns hanging from polehooks. The play of light against rippling water. Docks. Boats. Swaying gentle against the lap of saltborne water. All there behind the shift and churn of the blighted fucking horde.

Hand shaking against the hilt of his knife. He let his breath spill out.

Garrod!

Voice almost sounded like an old dream after all the sounds of violence that crunch, thumped, rattled, stabbed through his ears.

"Something is back there... the sword wants to kill it. Don't ask how I know, we just have to move!"

Garrod laughed. An ugly. Wicked. Laugh.

Muscles bulled forward. Slammed and smashed over two fucking blighters. Garrod's eye went huge at the sight of one of them.

Looked mostly human. Mostly fresh. He pounced on the blighter. Ripped through chest with sink. Sink. Hack of knife. Dip of claws. Rip. Crunch. Squelch. Shoved his whole white hand in and dug up a heart. Panting. Heaving. Felt the thing pulse in his hand.

Wrong.

Like a gear stuck on a tooth worn down. Snapped off. A rattle and shake through all the rest of it. He laughed. Crushed the thing in his hand with a pop and wash of blood that soaked his arm and sprayed him. Blood and oily ruin mixed. The gauntlet's eye gleamed bright. His own insides burned. Felt something rip and drag and try to spread.

But the fire ate it away. Like a furnace, too hot to keep from turning to fuel in a flash.

His arm thrashed happy. Wild. Like a snake struck by lightning, and giddy for the charge. Green forks of voltage traced up his arm. Down his spine. Hairs raising to stand as he got to his feet with not but knife in hand. Grinned wide and horrible as his insides felt like they tore themselves apart and stitched back together all the same.

A miserable offering, Oh Bearer Mine. Belephus cooed, too happy. But it will do.

Like a storm, the One Eye crashed forward. Nailed one blighter trying to climb up Fray's side in the skull with the knife. Kicked the thing off. Turned. Enthundered fist smashed through the chest of another. Smoldering hole where its mass had cratered. Garrod's hand helped itself to the messer at Fray's hip. Its blade lit up with the auroric blitz. He slashed. A single cut, low across to high.

A green lightning scythed out of the blade's edge. Ripped through a score of the blighters.

Breath burning out of Garrod's lungs. White smoke. He tried to draw a breath into his lungs. Felt the whole of him was heavy as stone. Body boiling. Gore burning off him in tails of smoke. Longboy blistering the skin off his hands as it glowed white hot in his sizzling grip.


"Shit," he croaked in ash laden ruin. Fell to a knee. Sword clattered on the ground beside him.

The way to the boats was clear. The red eyed thing. The thing the sword wanted to kill. Wore the shattered mirror face of Ameriel. Stitched back together wrong by wicked tendrils of blight. Its body a horrid mass. Pulsing and writhing. Limbs spilling and sprawling as it tried to remember its more elegant form.

"Myyyy sWoRd~" it moaned out it horrid want. Thrashed its centipedal neck about as something like a hand reached toward Fray. "Myyy SWORD!" it wailed. Large parts of its form sheared off by whatever horrid magic Garrod had wrought. But it was growing backtogether.

The tunnel air had been razored through. Molecules of wretch, split in half and left to ozonic sunder. As if each breath had forgotten how scent worked. Or taste carried. Warped with all the strange colors of shroud shatter.
 
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It took colossal effort, plowing through the viscous, squelchy army of Blight. Downright idiotic, really. But Fray saw the red light at the end of the tunnel and, with the rapier thrumming angrily in her hand, chose to become the battering ram they needed.

As she fought for space in front, things behind her died. At least, that was what she assumed was happening, since nothing she knocked down came back up to shank her. The sounds of carnage following in her wake bolstered her resolve, even as Garrod laughed savagely. Probably because he was bat shit out of his mind. But bat shit was what they needed, so bat shit was what they got.

They carved through the Blighted creatures like a hungry maw. Fray bit them down, screaming with every punch, kick, and battering of her makeshift shield, while Garrod chewed up whatever he was fed, leaving behind a trail of butchered odds and ends.

Something tried to climb up Fray’s side. Before she could even react, One-Eye was there, stabbing and punting the thing into oblivion. And when he did, she finally caught sight of him in the corner of her eye. Gods, he was terrible to behold. Covered in black gore, grin ripped across his face with maniac glee, and…steaming? It took a moment for Fray to realize that there were hot, acrid vapors rolling off of the bounty hunter, and that everywhere the black ichor touched, there came a sound disturbingly similar to grease sizzling on a pan.

Frankly, he was becoming less and less distinguishable from the horrors they were exterminating. But even with the awful stench of burning rolling off of him, she was glad for whatever the hell was going on; anything was better than him being infected.

Meanwhile, Fray found herself protected from that fate, albeit in a wholly different fashion. The quicksilver edge of the rapier swiped and thrust with unerring accuracy, and every blighted surface it touched shriveled into powdery ash. It was like the metal sucked away whatever kept the Blight alive, leaving nothing to sustain it. A chance to test this theory came when a glob of jet black goo splattered across one of her arms. Panicking, she acted out of pure instinct and pressed the ornate basket hilt of the rapier to the ichor. There was a hiss and sizzle, smoke rising not unlike the steam pouring out of One-Eye, and then the Blight fell away in a cascade of ash.

It was rather miraculous, really, but Fray had no time for awe. She was pushing and holding, pushing and holding, until she felt weight leave one side of her body. Garrod had pulled out one of her swords, and in a stunning display of unholy magic, seared an entire swath of blighted fiends with bright green lightning.

She shut her Devahni eyes at the blinding light, and when she opened them again, she saw smoking, ruined husks through dancing motes of electric green. And then Garrod fell to one knee, dropping her sword as he was all but swallowed in smoke.

It was clear that whatever he had done had been costly. But it was not in vain, as the path to the boats was now clear, obstructed only by the sickening amalgamation of parts that used to be Amariel.

Just like the first time they had fought, Garrod’s unnatural fire had scored chunks out of Amariel’s Blighted body. And just like before, that grotesque body began to heal, weaving over itself with webs of ichor as it moaned for its sword. Fray could feel the rapier answer with a violent hum of desire. But it did not yank itself to and fro, as it had done with the bolts of Blight. Instead, it grew warm in her hand, though not so warm that it seared her the way her sword had for Garrod. It was almost like it was…hungry. She couldn’t explain how she knew, only that she felt it was starving, enticed more and more the closer they got, and the only thing that would satiate it would be the glowing red mass of Blighted flesh re-weaving itself before them.

It smelled absolutely awful in that tunnel. Smoke, Blight, flesh, blood, and that strange pungence of hot metal fumes. Her eyes watered through all the weird ash and glimmers of what had to be shredded shroud. A veritable nightmare through and through. But even in all that chaos, the warmth of the rapier seeped into her palm. Fray focused on that sensation, on insistent humming vibrating against her skin, and let the rest of the tunnel fall away.

The humming grew louder by the second, until it filled her ears and was all she could hear. She walked as she listened, toward the pulsating mass, rapier held out like a dowsing rod. If she focused hard enough, she swore it almost sounded like a voice. An angry voice. Aggrieved, but determined. It wanted to right a wrong. Justice. It wanted...retribution.

Fray wasn't so much under any kind of spell as she was afraid. Afraid that if she stopped listening, she would no longer know what to do. The sword carried within it a singular sort of will. It was fierce, alive in its own way, and would stop at nothing to get what it wanted. It knew exactly what to do. And who was Fray to deny it? So, she let loose a slow breath and listened with her whole body. Okay, she told it it in her mind, I'll help you kill it.

Yesss! the wriggling mass that once was Amariel cried. Mmyy sword! Bring it to meeee!

Only, the closer Fray and the rapier got, the more uncertain it seemed to become. The tendrils of black Blight wavered, then stilled, the strange, disjointed voice falling silent. By the time Fray was within stabbing distance, the mass was actively recoiling. Moisture bubbled out, leaving its surface covered in what looked like glossy boils.

Whhat....what have you done.... the voice hissed. This is not...how has she—

Fray knew, of course, that she had done nothing more than pick up the sword. But a voice echoed in her head. A woman's voice, calm and sure, telling her exactly where the weakness was. Ever so conveniently glowing like a bulls eye.

Before the last wound was stitched up with ichor, Fray lunged. With the rapier's guidance, her aim hit true as she speared the mass right in its red hot center. Steam exploded on impact. She held up an arm to shield her face from the blistering heat. The mass screamed long and horrible, and at some point Fray was forced to let go of the rapier as it sunk deeper and deeper into the Blighted flesh. It grew hotter as well, until the metal turned from red to orange to white. Chunks of Blight turned to ash and then fell away into clouds of dust.

It seemed to go on forever. But when it was finally done, all that remained on the damp stones was a silvery lump of metal.

Fray stared down, having finally dared to open her eyes again, and looked around for Garrod. When she found him, the relief in her expression was palpable. She whistled in the dark, low and disbelieving.

"Well, fuck."
 
Skin cracked across him like a bone dry riverbed. Steam hissing from the new wounds. Bones felt brittle as charcoal.

A wild grin splayed across his face.

"Well fuck, sounds about right," The one eyed Cazadore croaked from his smoke parched throat. What part of him had escaped being charred to a sizzling leather and crisp was hard to tell. Black ichor of the blighteds' fluids, caked on and flaking with every swell and contraction of breath. "Fuck, and fucked, and fucking fuckery should be added to the list,"

Something moaned in the far distance behind them. Well beyond the putrid swirl of lightning lanced ruin and silver sword sundering.

Still. Garrod felt as if he were to move, he would break apart. Too much already spent. Too much already used.

His fiend laughed. Cruel and sweet, and full of its loathsome green wanting. Feed me something good, and you'll be right as rain, Oh Bearer Mine.

The gauntleted hand flexed tight about the bones still inside of it. The only part of him that felt half human.

"I can't move, Muscles," he laughed. Snow white mane near tar black and hell red from all the death juice sticking it to his skull. Struck across his face. Green eye, the only part of him that looked clean. Alive, and still him. "Not for a while, anyhow," shook his head as the tell tale bolt crank clanked into locking place in the darkness behind them. "Get the fuck on out of here while you got the legs for it," he grinned. Keeled his head toward the ruined sword, half slagged and still smoking beside him. "Sorry about the blade,"

A distant homonculus of crossbow and man loosed from the cover of darkness. Plinked off the steaming kettle of Garrod's backplate.

Regular steel tipped bolt clattered and rattled off the stoneway. Spun on the bricks.
 
It did sound about right, because he looked absolutely fucking terrible.

Fray wanted to laugh along. She wanted to hoot, to holler, to jump for joy at their second round of impossible victory. But so long as she was staring down at One-Eye, she couldn’t.

The man wasn’t exactly beauty contest material, even before Amariel. Only now, on top of having only one eye and a whole mess of scars, he was also looking an awful lot like he’d been wandering around a desert for weeks. His skin was cracked and peeled. His entire body, from head to toe, covered in unspeakable amounts of Blighted gore. It was an entire miracle that he hadn’t been infected somehow, though Fray was certain it had something to do with the creepy thing wrapped around his arm.

Smoke wisped as Garrod struggled to speak. She heard the moan off in the distance, and it sank her heart a smidge, but not as much as the sight of her beloved Fang in smoking ruins beside the Cazadore. Why did the price of survival always have to be so damn high?

Her frown deepened as he rambled on, speaking nonsense. All the while his one good, green eye stared up at her, and in it she saw the humanity that belied the levity of his words.

A bolt cut through the air. It slammed into Garrod’s back with enough force to stop his senseless yammering. And thank the gods for that. Fray glared into the darkness behind them, held up both of her middle fingers, and shouted,

“FUCK. OFF!”

Then she bent to retrieve her ruined lump of a friend. Smoking, blackened, and ever so forlorn upon the damp tunnel floors, with a glint of silver beneath as a reminder of its former glory.

Fray threw Garrod over her right shoulder with a grunt of effort. He was damned heavy with all that armor, but he needed it sorely, as she could hear another bolt being loaded, and there was no time to de-gear. Thankfully, while he had been uttering foolishness about being abandoned, she’d taken the time to scoop the demolished remains of both Amariel’s rapier and Fang and stowed them in her pack. Long Boy, blessedly, was still strapped to her back, safe in his sheath.

Undoubtedly, this entire process was excruciating to Garrod. But he could endure a little more pain if it meant living to see another wretched day.

“If you say one more word about leaving you behind,” she seethed through gritted teeth as she lumbered down the tunnel, panting for air within seconds, “I will fucking gut you myself.”

It was supremely fortunate that they didn’t have far to go. The boats were bobbing in dark waters only about twenty or so paces away. Fray heard the next bolt release and she was ready, swerving suddenly to the left. The bolt caught the very edge of his plate, probably somewhere near the shoulders and bounced harmlessly away. She almost dropped him in the process, moreso from her own maneuver than the attack itself, but caught him at the last possible second, and then with another colossal heave of effort, commenced their slow march towards freedom.

Running on fumes and with really nothing else to do, Fray swore. She swore up and down and back up again, using the entirety of her arsenal of impropriety. Every time a bolt loosed she had to pause to redirect her focus, but then she would pick back up again as she hauled them both to their last chance of escape. Once, she stumbled to her knees, almost landing in a heap under Garrod’s increasingly heavy body. Gods, he might as well have weighed an entire mountain. But this turned out to be a pure stroke of luck, as two bolts sailed directly above their heads and landed impotently in the water. After that, Fray took to full fledged rage, shouting obscenities that would shrivel even the ears of grizzled old sailors.

She almost didn’t register her legs bumping into something sturdy. Looking down, she realized it was the edge of one of the boats. Without hesitance, Fray dumped Garrod into it, the impact sending water sloshing everywhere. The boat, however, seemed to be well made, as it steadied within moments and bore his weight without much protest, sinking only half an inch lower into the water.

Fray had barely climbed on board herself when her luck finally began to run out. Another bolt flew, and this time it hit her right in the horn. Chitinous matter exploded as her whole world was thoroughly, violently rocked. The Deva’s ears rang horribly as one side of her head suddenly felt…wrong. There was no blood. That should have been a relief, but instead, Fray’s vision went red. Before she could properly assess the damage, she unsheathed Long Boy with a snarl and sliced through the rope that moored their boat. The last bolt to come near them, she hacked at mid air, eyes shining gold in the semi darkness. It fell in two pieces into the water to join the rest of its unsuccessful brethren.

Fray, of course, continued swearing at the crossbow wielding cowards taking pot shots in the dark. Even as she used one foot to push their boat away from the docks, sheathed her remaining good sword, and took up the oars to begin rowing. Honestly, it felt good just to do something easy for a change. But she didn’t stop insulting their mothers, nor promising unspeakable acts of violence if she ever laid eyes on them again.

It wasn’t until she started feeling properly thirsty that Fray stopped. For a moment, there was only the sound of oars sluicing through water. She wasn’t even sure where they were going. But there was just the one tunnel and honestly no where else to go but back.

“Hey One-Eye,” she muttered after a brief spell of exhausted silence. “How about you and I never do that again.”
 
A laugh cracked from his lips at the obscenity and bravado. "Fucking brilliant," he croaked as he smoldered and creaked. Grunt, groaned on choked breath. Felt a whole ruined ship, unmoored by a wave of muscle and bone that cracked against his splintered hull. Carried him up, and out against the rush of steps and twift of bolts sailing overhead like murderous dart fish.

Cracked against his plate. Knocked them down. Pained tears of breath ripped through his lungs. Whatever insanity coursed through Muscles' muscles, muscled its way through his own bones. Helped his fibers find strength to help him stand. Hobble. Move.

He was not ready to die. Not for anyone. Damn well not for that cow eyed fuck. He had never planned on it.

Didn't mean he expected Muscles... Fray, to risk their own neck for him. String of curses that flared off her tongue as they did. Carried him like the sorry sack of bones he was, all the way to docks. Tossed him in the dhingy with a hard crack and crash and the air rushed out of him.

Dull and smothering as he gulped each lungful of blight smoked air. Ragged and worn. He peered out from his half lidded eye as the vessel rocked, and Fray kicked off the dock. Sat her ass down and worked the oars in steady stroke. The sound of trickling water. The dip, cut, and pull of the oars. The freshening air as they moved through the hideaway tunnel's waterway.

"Gods damned machine," he managed through chords that felt tattered with how parched they were.

The rhythm of the oars stilled. Sounds of effort, breath. Steadied as the armored ruin that was Garrod righted himself, however weakly against the gunwale. Felt every bit of him tremor and shake as nerves remembered what agony felt like.

"Hey One-Eye,"

"Yeah?"

“How about you and I never do that again.”

A bob of the head, a groan as he worked himself up and onto the plank beside one of the oars. "What?" he somehow managed a smile. Breath heavy. He took hold of one of the oars. "You don't like beating the odds?" he laughed. Only to wince again as everything inside him hurt. Felt like fire swirled through his lungs. Thorns grew through his veins. "Hundred to zero," he muttered.

White clawed gauntlet, pristine against all the filth that coated him in stink. Jewel fixed there in the plates of otherworldly metal gleamed with all of a cat's mischief.

He oared. Best he could to match the rhythm she set. Creak and shudder with each hinge and pull. Grit his teeth. Focused on his breath. Didn't matter if armor rustled, or how much he fucking stank. He kept rowing. Kept smiling. They kept living.

Until the little vessel popped out of the tunnel's maw, and into the silver lit world of mist painted by many moons' light. The Sovereign, fat and high. The beast, low and crescent, whilst the wayfarer traced its steady path across the darkness. If the others were out, he couldn't tell them from the diffused glow through the fog.

Till the craft came to shore. "Minor miracle that was," Garrod said as he ambled out of the boat. Armored boot splashed into the surf. Waves rolled over anklets soaked. "Getting passed that fucking soup," he grinned. Eye scanned about as he almost fell to a knee. "We get our bearings," he tried to put something forward, a plan. Like speaking normal, making sense, would get them one step further from that hell they had just escaped. "We find a den," he tacked on. Eye back to Fray. "We get fucking paid," he forced himself to step toward her. Tapped her with the bone of his wrist. Moved on.

To Den de Pulpo. A den of the Malcazadores.

Placed smelled of barnacles and brine. Looked to be made of old galleys dashed across the rocks. Old Arshakan, vessels smashed together, with an Altalusian galleon for a crown. Old sails strung along old spider lines. Tattered and torn. Made it look like some wicked kraken. The door to get in, its horrid beak.

The surf crashed in the near distance. Garrod jerked his head for Fray to follow. "Let me do the talking,"

Somehow, the mangled mess of a man, half cracked, blight blood soaked, and white clawed, managed to stand half straight. Walk almost right, straight to the door.

A copper latch clapped open. Its verdigris mouth gaped wide and expectant. Warm golden light poured out from it. Frayed to beams against the dark waterlogged wood of the door frame, so decorated by ancient motifs of saw nosed sea beasts, and many armed monsters from the deep.

Garrod bent down before the door and pulled a gold coin from his boot. Slipped the glimmering disc with the Malcazadore's words emblazoned about the wolf's bounty.

Caza. Gana. Maldizia.

Hunt. Bounty. Malice.

The latch clapped shut. Garrod stayed low, head bent, breath gathering.
 
Blistering hell. He really did look an absolute wreck.

Yet, somehow, Garrod found the strength in him to pick up an oar and help Fray row. She had snorted at being called a machine, bittersweet as that sentiment was, but it became apparent that One-Eye was made of similar ilk. Her first instinct was to make him stop. It cost him so much effort, his pain obvious and labored. Then she thought better of it. The work was probably distracting, and the faster they rowed, the sooner they got out of this festering hell hole.

Together, they sluiced their little vessel through dark waters and a haze of calm. It was eerily quiet as her Deva eyes picked out unimportant details in the dimness. They passed by mostly stones damp with brackish water, their oars the noisiest thing in that tunnel, second only to the singed rasp of One-Eye’s voice.

She shook her head at him answering her question with another question, too tired to laugh and too alive not to find humor in it all the same. Oh, Fray liked beating the odds well enough. It was the cost of doing so that often spoiled her mood. Case in point, the sad, ruined remains of Fang weighing down her shoulders. No, don’t think about that now. The grief will have to come later; her only priority now was survival.

Fray rowed in a slow, measured rhythm. It was as much a courtesy to Garrod as it was an admission of exhaustion. The buzz of battle was quickly fading from her veins. They had both strained themselves to nigh impossible limits, adrenaline keeping what was owed at bay while they fought for their lives. Soon, their debt would need to be paid in full. With interest. She could already feel her limbs starting to leaden, her mind fuzzing around the edges with weariness.

All the gods be Blighted, she was going to hurt like hell come morning.

When they finally emerged from the tunnel, the moonlit fog seemed so bright it temporarily blinded Fray’s eyes. She stopped rowing for a few seconds, blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go afterwards. A few minutes more and their boat was suddenly bumping up onto shore.

It took Fray several beats too many to realize she could stop rowing. Not that One-Eye seemed to notice, as he was busy stumbling out of the boat and onto watery shores. Tiny waves lapped around him impotently, almost like they were trying to cajole him back into the sea, but Garrod paid them no mind, pushing words through his burnt throat like they were the only things keeping him upright and moving. His singular will had a bolstering effect on Fray, who only just barely managed to stumble out of the boat herself.

Paid. Yes, now that was a proper plan. Getting paid meant she would have coin to eat and drink until she could eat and drink no more, then fall face first onto a soft bed and sleep for three days straight.

Ah, but there was the issue of the little boat. There was nothing to tie it to, and though they likely didn’t need it anymore, she felt an irrational need to protect it. With a sigh, Fray grabbed the rope and gave it a good, mammoth tug, using most if not all of her remaining strength. She managed to haul it fully onto shore before letting the rope go slack. Hopefully, the tides wouldn’t get much higher than this and their faithful vessel wouldn’t be sent adrift.

Fray followed Garrod to whatever den he was headed toward. She was so damnably tired. Her eyes wanted very badly to shut themselves and her feet felt like miniature boulders. It took everything in her to keep her legs moving and her eyes partially open. The Devahni wasn’t quite sure if she’d ever felt this tired in her life. Not even when she’d been dumped at Death’s doorstep, battered and bloody, with a talking tree for company.

So it was that when they finally arrived and Garrod came to a stop, Fray nearly walked straight into him. With a colorful oath, she managed to swerve just in time, coming to a halt awkwardly beside him. Then she looked up, and the sight before her was enough to jolt her awake.

There were few entrances Fray had traveled to that looked as ominous as this one. It was like something that had emerged in the aftermath of a terrible storm. A veritable pile of misfortune, parts of ship wreckage violently slammed together with torn sails and banners draped across it. Fray stood and gaped, and therefore did not argue when Garrod insisted he do the talking. She had no objections to that, truly. She could scarce sum up the energy to close her mouth.

Fray watched, intrigued, as Garrod slipped some intricate looking coin from his boot into the door. There was a noise, presumably some kind of latch clasping shut, and then heavy silence. Fray took the opportunity to gape some more, staring at all the strange motifs decorating the wooden frame. She deduced that this could be nothing else except a den, but she’d never been privy to seeing one up close before.

For a moment, she was sure they would be left out here in the cold, damp and shivering and coinless. But then the eerie door swung all the way open, and out poured amber light and the heady smells of indulgence from within.

She looked toward Garrod, a little stunned, a little wolfish.

“Cazadores first,” she grinned.
 

“Cazadores first,” ​

Bathed in the golden glow of a proper Den's Promise, Garrod grinned. Didn't help him hide it none that he could hear the wolf rising in Fray's voice.

"My," he croaked. Stirred himself up with a rattle and clatter of ichor stained plate. "Polite on top of all the unholy talent," his own mouth split into hungry smile as the sound of pipes whaling and drums banging poured out from inside the Pulpo.

"Ho, do mine eyes deceive me? Garrod! That' you, cazz?" a voice rough as the rock round a tide pool rumbled out. Begged the One Eye's green eye find it. "Hard to believe, lookin like you do, you crisped up lump of sod," the man to whom it belonged was squat and square. Nose like a gull's beak, and whiskers as wild as down feathers splayed by the breeze. "Ho, is that a new prospect you got with you?" he asked. Fisher's cap atop his head flopped forward as he leaned his weight onto his elbow and squint with his dark blue eyes.

Garrod but raised his chin in greeting to the man. Felt his skin crackle and pull with the strain of it. Stepped through the door and into the glow of it all.

The smell of salt and sea rot, gave way to plundered perfumes, and incense from the faraway shores of Suldaza's Mirrorgleam Coast. Wherever the eye would look, the dulled luster of old wealth caught against the orange gold glow of candle light, and oil lamp. So many years of smoke clung to the corners of the Den, and kept its secrets painted in layers of smudged shadows, that almost begged to be touched clean.

"Meflin," Garrod's chords smoked.

Stepped to the old counter, across the old wooden floor that creaked and groaned upon their approach.

Meflin could hardly hide the smile on his face upon seeing more clearly just how cooked the white haired hunter was. "Take it you'll be staying for a while then,"

Garrod nod. Thumped a closed fist unto the counter. Left there on the hardwood the silver signent ring. "Amariel D'Latruz' has been slain,"

Meflin looked down at the ring with a cocked brow. Took it between the thick pads of his fingers. "Is that so?" he asked as he turned it around to examine. "One Grand Gana if true,"

A harsh chuff of laughter. Like flints striking. "When've I pulled one on you, Melfin?"

The old man smiled impish, eyes scrolled up to regard the cazadore. "You wouldn't be the first to turn trickster after a bad hunt, now, would you, One Eye?" He pushed back the ring toward Garrod. "I'll run our checks, you and your..."

"Prospect,"

A nod from Melfin. "Prospect have free run of the Den. Food, bed, and bath, on the Gold Dizia you put up for offer. Repairs discounted, and on credit, given your... reputation, Cazadore,"

Garrod grinned, ugly in all his pride. "Appreciated, as always, Melfin,

A nod from the old Handler. "And do keep out of trouble while you are here, Garrod,"

A chuff as he turned away. "I'll do what I can,"

To the east of the enterance hall, where Garrod stood at the Handler's Kiosk, was the Dining Hall, from which all manner of roasterie, steamedness, and grilleddone wafted out from. As did the music, and the shake shuffle and stomp of bodies set to dance. To the west was the steady sound of a grindstone, and out flowed a well armed and armored Tortugan. Their measured gait, emphasized by the shake of the warhammer and pick axe that were slung at their side.

Cazadores came and went. Some of their eyes measured. Some of their eyes looked on. Others still stumbled and laughed with arms clasped about shoulders and tall tales spun from memories cloth falling from their tongues.
 
Unholy? Certainly. Polite? Fray wasn't so sure about that, considering her thought process had been more along the lines of "I don't know what exactly is on the other side of that door and I don't want to be the first one through if things get hairy." But One Eye didn't need to know. She was too tired anyway to make even a half-assed quip.

Someone greeted Garrod fondly through the door. It was a wild looking fellow with an impressive nose, and he addressed Fray briefly as a new prospect, whatever that meant. She was all too aware of the optics whenever a man and a woman so much as stood within three feet of each other; people were always going to make the laziest assumption first. That being said, she had ways of dealing. Not to mention that even if the assumption was somehow true, they had to look like the world's sorriest version of it. Like something hell chewed up and spit back out in regret.

The Deva braced herself upon entering the den, only to find her back and shoulders straightening of their own accord. Incense, perfumes, and the telltale aroma of honey wine hit her first, jolting her senses wide awake. Then came the sights. Smoke and faded wealth covered most surfaces, with all manner of characters sprawled out within. Laughing, drinking, gambling, conspiring, there seemed to be no end to the sheer amount of life being crammed into this singular space. And, while not exactly in disrepair or squalor, the place definitely had a lived in, somewhat filthy quality to it. Just a bit dingy and seedy, but with enough opulence spread out to suggest the potential for experiences equally wonderful and horrible.

Fray openly ogled at everyone and everything, vaguely aware of Garrod's presence hovering somewhere in front of her. The food looked chaotically prepared. The imbibements, illegally strong. The women, likely to slit your throat if you looked at them the wrong way.

A maniacal sort of glee blossomed across her face. It was perfect.

In the midst of all her ogling, she did manage to pick up a few words of note. Meflin, Amariel, one grand ghana. This last bit elicited a long, low whistle from Fray's lips. That was a significantly higher amount than she had been initially led to believe. Her head was spinning with so much newfound greed that she almost missed the exposition on Prospects.

Ah, well that made more sense. So it was an official term of sorts, not some weird, offhand slang. And truly, it turned out to be music to Fray's ears, because nothing could have sounded as good in that moment as having free run of this magnificent place.

She was already plotting her way through how she should maximize her privileges by the time Garrod concluded his business with the big nosed man. Fray couldn't help looking at him with the kind of enthusiasm a child might have in a store exclusively selling sweets. It was hard to keep her train of thoughts in order.

"Ohh, where do we start, One Eye? Any recommendations?" she looked around again, excitement growing ever more unwieldy. "And was he serious about free run? I mean, how free does he mean really?"

Blinking, she added belatedly, "And ah...I suppose I should try to get Fang fixed at some point."

Her stomach took that as a cue to protest most loudly. "But obviously, we must feast first!"

Fray glanced about until she found an empty table. It was really more an overturned barrel with two stools, topped with what might have once been a shield, but it was more than sufficient given the kind of day they had. She raced over to claim it and eagerly beckoned Garrod over. Then she leered at every busty, wenchy person passing by, hoping if she made enough eye contact that one of them would prove to be the kind who could procure them food. Heaps and heaps of food.

Of course, it was entirely possible for the staff here to not be the busty, wenchy type. But Fray was wholly uninterested in their services if they were not.
 
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