“… I’m not— trying to frighten you and your pathetic group of mind-raped cultists—”​

No? Osytha’s face betrays nothing as she keeps staring at Rois. You only ‘need a knight to see it’, someone like me, so ‘maybe my report will be scary enough’ that ‘you are left well enough alone’.

If you don’t want me to think your aim is to frighten us into submission, Rois… then maybe don’t tell me that you want to frighten us into submission.

Not that you could pay her to say that aloud right now. Besides — consistency was probably an unfair expectation on her part, given his current state. Seems like he’s got both far too much and far too little on his plate to keep it all balanced.

Hopefully, she at least took the edge off his boredom…

“Leaaave.”​

Osytha spends another second watching Rois Sinclair’s skin crack and peel, like lacquer thrown into the fire; drifting off him, soft as ash flakes. His mangled command rolls from a distended, sizzling tongue, as meanwhile, an unkerd haze manifests. Its humidity, combined with the room’s sweltering heat, turns the air into a stew near too thick for lungs to draw up.

“Alright.”

She pushes herself forward off the table and walks toward the door — where she stops long enough to give a lingering glance toward the shifting, boiling shape rending apart the bed and filling this room with a scream of strained steel.

Honestly, I don’t ken what the Old Lad¹ looks like. And if thou truly art him, I still don’t ken what that changes. ‘Even the devil needs a place to lay his head’, isn’t that what they say?

Osytha doesn’t speak that aloud, either, because it would just be her trying to get the last word in. Besides, Rois doesn’t really seem in a receptive mood any more. So she quietly makes her exit, shutting the door very, very firmly behind her.

And should there be a lock, Osytha’s all too happy to use that as well.

When she emerges into the relatively fresh air of the foyer, it feels like she’s just let her hauberk roll off her after a full-kit endurance drill. She closes this other door by leaning her back against it, and once she hears the click, Osytha just allows her body to sag. Her eyes are closed as she tilts her head up, rubs a hand at her weary forehead, and breathes out a long, frazzled sigh.

Yeah. That could have gone better…


¹ ‘Old Nick’, ‘the Old Lad’ — a couple of euphemisms for the devil. It might have arisen because folks wanted some indirect reference they could use instead — for if you speak of him, guess who should appear…
 

Immediately, voices from above topple down from on high to clatter against the stone below. Two of them, one the soft twittering of an anxious bird ruffled, the other a male, highly strung, sneering,

“--ot expect me to just be ‘ok’ with this. We don’t let outsiders in, that is how it has always been, so why is this one different? Especially when we all know what she is?”

“We’re-- as we are getting more north, things are going to be different, my boy. You are knowing it will be better… colder, yes, but yani, we cannot keep wandering around warzones. It is not safe, did Taani’s death not prove that--”

“And what does that have to do with this bitch? All knights are the same, I thought we all understood that. It is their fault. It does not matter if they are free from the hearths of lords or unbound from the deeds of woodlanders, it will not be long before commanders are down upon us with bannermen at their sides-- aye, we will not be dodging armies, but what will we do when they send one against us? Us!!”

“We… it… we have to be believing it will be alright. The Sun above will shine mercy onto us, sayakun al'amr kadhalik*.”

“You keep on praying to imaginary entities, Safya. You and that fool downstairs are marching us to our deaths. You think they will pity us, but they will not even spare us the courtesy of the gaols, mark my words. When it happens, I hope I’m the last to die, just so I can tell all your bodies I told you so.”

“Please… Vitri--”

Kurenli’Vitri marches through the door and attempts not to slam it behind him in frustration, only halting in his angered march when Osytha’s form is revealed to him in the low-light in front of the door-- it is the horned one from before, dressed smartly in all black, silver rings hanging from pricked ears and curled like serpents about front facing horns. Everything about the man is monochrome, from the lifeless greys of eyes ensnaring pin-prick pupils to the deep ash of his skin, black of hair and horn, a thin, lizard-like tail ending in the same murky shades. Said tails's lower half is battered briefly against stone back and forth in an expression of nasty emotion before the route is continued with the white flashing of lithe, well-used shotels hanging noiselessly from a black-stained belt,

“Move, you damned--”

hood.webpAnd the only reason those weapons aren’t in his hands isn’t just because of orders, but because they are wholly occupied by something that looked like it belonged in that room. The glinting of steel studs and the capped nose of what appeared to be a sensory deprivational gimp mask is tucked beneath his arm, and one could easily assume it is all a part of some upcoming play of the sexual kind, but… the smell that rolls along with him is born within the plague hood-like nose of the hood. Even a beginner botanist would detect the soft notes of chamomile, the sharpness of valerian, the unmistakable lavender, it is a heavenly reprieve from ash and sweat and it lingers even when the door is rudely busted open (without caring if Osytha’s back was still against it) and slammed shut again in the span of a blink.

The moment the sound of the door shaking against its frame sounds an alerted Safya flutters with haste to the stairs-- excepting some calamity below-- just to breathe a laboured sigh of relief when she realizes that Osy’s head is still upon her weary shoulders. She begins to (try to) speak over the muted voice of the two men, who seem to have instantly engaged in some sort of argument--

“You really piss me off, boss.”
“I fucking swear, this is the worst time to try to argue with me. Save whatever bullshit you want to say till after, or are you just being brave because of the chains?”
“... Fuck. Just-- just put on the damned hood. I just hate this.”
“You’d rather fight and kill and run; you said you had left that life behind, so leave it.”

“Ahh… syr Osytha!” Squawked loudly with the waving of splayed feathers dancing in the ebbing light from above, “Please… be coming away from the door, to up-here. It is about to become dangerous, my love.”

Kshhhhhhnk-nk-nk-nk-nk-nk-nk.

That is the very distinct sound of chains clambering slowly to coil upon the floor in haggard lengths… entirely unlatched from the wall.

“Come, come-- I would be asking for your attention, so that I may explain some rules. For safety.” The poor peahen looks as if she has been caught in a gale, all wayward plumage sticking in every direction, entirely unnerved by the rage of her comrade and lacking in the kind of personality that wished to engage in fights of any kind. The noticeable absence of mentioning any of the before-words are her wishfully thinking that Osy did not hear all of that.“I would like no-one else to be getting hurt on this night… and I would also be asking for your forgiveness. On his behalf… probably on masters behalf, too.”

The little addition at the end is because the knight below looks the same as she does, all worn through, and the event hadn’t even started yet. It is moonlight that causes licks of pale light to draw pretty patterns upon Safya’s wings and dance like faerie-light upon a fluffy crown… the dying sun of Osytha’s arrival has finally fled, and Munas Kuvak has no doubt tumbled into heavy shadow. Danger is the prevailing emotion, both from outside the inn and within.



*'It will be so', an affirmational prayer.
 
“Move, you damned—”​

Osytha quickly steps aside. But she can barely even get out a “Sorry…” before the swarthy devahni is through and ramming the door shut behind him.

When Safya leans her bedraggled face down to check, she finds Osytha staring dully after the man as though she can see through solid wood.

“Come, come— I would be asking for your attention, so that I may explain some rules. For safety. I would like no-one else to be getting hurt on this night… and I would also be asking for your forgiveness. On his behalf… probably on masters behalf, too.”​

Something Osytha notices when she looks up is how the moonlights do interesting things to Safya’s plumage. Fresh patterns seem to emerge under its cool spectrum, or perhaps, the shadowplay across her feathers is different by their softer glow. Meanwhile, fine coronas of fluff — so delicate as to be invisible to the naked eye — suffuse parts of her silhouette in silver fire, creating an ethereal, dream-like spectacle.

Something else she notices is Safya’s frazzled state, plus her obvious concern. Osytha tries to put the other woman at ease with a comforting smile… but, well, she has her doubts over how well she’s managing to pull it off.

“It’s fine — honest,” she says, making her way for the stairs. “Ta, though.”

Judging by the cloud over her troubled noggin, however, Osytha clearly is not fine, and that smile of hers is quick to falter once her shoes touch to steps.

Not over the display of Rois’ appetites, though, nor does it have anything to do with Vitri’s gruffness. Those are easy enough to let roll off her; Rois can hardly be blamed for being, well, for being Rois, and as for Vitri, it sounds like the man has understandable reasons for being on edge. Both their attitudes, as such, are just water off a rubber duck’s back.

No… it’s her own conduct Osytha’s brooding over. Can’t deny she got a little self-righteous toward the end there; felt a bit of vitriol rising at being spoken down to by someone who so obviously couldn’t be more mistaken. And that worries her because, as she’s learned by this stage in her life, Osytha’s never more wrong than when she’s clearly in the right.

She’s missing something, she’s certain of it. Failed to properly comprehend something Rois said, or tried to say…

Give it time. Osytha usually realises the obvious once she’s had a chance to cool down and her ego isn’t twisting things out of perspective. Maybe a chat with Safya will only help. Vitri’s row aside, Osytha feels like it would be impossible to stay angry at anything after five minutes in that gregarious woman’s company. Might be able to help her see things from Rois’ point of view, too.

“I think,” she says, speaking a little sheepishly up the stairs, “some rules would be helpful. Thank you.”
 

The knight attempts to smother the waxing stress of her moon-blue eyes, but fails to completely rid herself of emotion. Not beneath the sharpness of a beastfolk’s eyes. When Safya walks down the short flight she does not step but hops gently with the scuffing of toe claws producing soft clicks, all the way down to Osy’s side with fingers first curled at her little bird-bib, white ruffles and cotton… and avian folk lack the means to really move their facial muscles, so emotion must instead come from their eyes. Greens swimming in understanding, like before the feather touch slides against the other woman’s arm,

“It will be alright.”

She sings softly, because the peahen knows how her master is and the things he says and does and maybe there is a touch of pity in Safya’s eyes for Osytha, she has seen that look before. ‘Rules’ were not what she needed, clarity would be better suited for the situation, but rules were nonetheless needed-- a small claw hand takes Osytha by the wrist delicately. It’s warm touch is like leather and blunted nails barely skirt the knights skin, with the tenderness of a mother leading a child she begins her ascent and leads the other up into the moonlight… when she had meant to get away from the door, she had meant to get away. Far away. All the way through the basement’s upper door and onwards by the large table so that there was no obstructed path to the front entrance. It was only then that she would relieve the other of her gentle grasp, taking with her the warmth of feathers turning the taller womans wrist pink.

“Apologies once again, for taking you. Safety is very serious.” Another courtesy attempt, Safya has apologized a multitude of times and seems genuinely saddened every time she does it, whole-heartedly troubled by mistakes. “We cannot afford any mistakes. You are about to understand why, you, master, and Vitri will be going to pit. I was asking Vitri to be on best behaviour, do not feel threatened at all, he will not act stupid in front of Rois.”

The threat of punishment outweighs the any possible reward that could come from messing with Osytha it seemed, and every part of the deva’s prior reaction reinforced the notion that without his boss maybe he really would try something. Safya continues with animated arms to stress the importance that these rules must be followed,

“The rules I am about to say may sound scary or strange, but please follow them one hundred percent. This… is not a threat, syr Osytha, but when I say dangerous before… I am meaning very, very dangerous. You could… die. But they are being easy to respect, and I think you are a strong person who will not do anything foolish at all, so you will be ok, really.”

An attempt at reassurance after saying that. Hopefulness shines in her eyes, support that really believes that the knight will be just peachy.

“Firstly, please do not stand near edge of pit. Monster, it hits walls and makes ground shake, so it could mean you are falling in. It… is also breathing much steam, and this steam is very, very hot, it shoot up the walls and if touching you it will burn your skin right off in an instant. So even if part of monster is obscured from sight, do not get closer to get a better look.”

This seemed logical, in worked up moments Rois did the same thing, to his shoulder, to his tongue, it was nothing new and thus said rule is merely common sense.

“Secondly… there is light, in the back of its mouth; do not be looking into it for long, syr. It is very bright and will hurt your eyes, but also… eh,” Safya struggles with her common-tongue a little, clearly searching for the words to describe what was about to be revealed as a very magicked phenomenon, “Um… you look at it too long… it is making you still? Yani, you will not be thinking right-- standing dreaming. I hope I am making sense.”

A touch of worry, the phrase she is looking for is it will put you in a trance, but the word eludes the peahen so badly it’s the best she can do.

“Thirdly, do not run away, you will be catching its attention. It will be very strange atmosphere, you may feel heavy or troubled, monster is very big and it will be very warm inside cave, but staying where you are will be safest option, it will not climb walls unless it is given a reason to.”

And then a pause. Because what was coming next was probably the ‘surprise’ that really mattered, it was a matter of ethics and morality and to them it was nothing but to any ‘normal’ person, maybe, this would be worse than the rules. Safya hopes it is not so, but the look swimming in her mossy eyes betrays the fact that she is worried about backlash. As if Osytha might start shouting at her.

“Lastly, is not really rule, but I do not want you to be surprised when you see… bodies in the pit.” A praying motion with clasped claws, “Mountain-folk can not bury dead in rock and are always warring with each other, leave them to freeze in snow. Thieves go up to steal things from dead, we pay them to bring some bodies back down when we are here… the cold keeps them fresh, yes. No-one was killed for this, we do not murder, only take already dead tribesfolk from cliffs and ice. Give them purpose. I hope that fact is not upsetting for you.”

It is a sentiment echoed by Rois at the campfire of times past, death giving life, the nomads who made their homes in caves amongst the peaks had no choice but to fight each other for game and other sparse resources; even the rare croppings of trees were subject for tribal warfare, they would not leave the hostile environment no matter how much suffering living amongst ice and snow and stone caused them. The peahen is awaiting Osytha’s thoughts with baited breath and the stillness of anxiety, which is not helped by the steady sound of two steps of footsteps and chain clatter getting louder from below…
 
Once Safya has towed her ward to safety, and the matter of ‘rules’ is broached, Osytha eases herself onto one of the seats by the table, and nods along. Perhaps ‘safety precautions’ would be a more apt label for the accountant’s list. From the sounds of it, no one will care more about Osytha breaking one of these rules than she herself. At least she also has the impression she wouldn’t be regretting it for long.

By the time they’re on the fourth and final point, Osytha is present enough to notice an air of apprehension around the petite peafowl. She continues to listen, in the same impassive manner as she has to all the rest, about the bodies they can expect to see. “I hope that fact is not upsetting for you,” concludes Safya, with no small amount of contrition. To which Osytha simply shrugs.

“Suppose it’s better’n leavin’ them out there,” accedes the knight.

… although Osytha holds some doubts about Safya’s take on the arrangement. If folks mostly die to violence in the wilds, odds are such corpses would already be picked clean by their killers. Not much business for looters, in that case — unless they’re cutting out the middle man, so to speak.

But she doesn’t voice this to Safya. Woman has enough troubling her already.

Instead, Osytha rifles through her pockets once more. “How do you feel about green tea?” Out comes a little tin, rich crimson lacquer gleaming in moonlight. “Aetochi houjicha. Roasted, so quite a mellow brew.” Meaning it doesn’t stew so bitterly as some other varieties, and it won’t keep one awake until late with the jitters. She sets the box down on the table with a soft clack. “Care for another cuppa? If there’s time, happen you can tell me what kind of place this ‘Pit’ is. Or, well — we can talk about anythin’, really. Whatever you prefer.”

Such as, maybe, what things are like in the north. And what happened to this ‘Taani’ that now you want to try your luck there.
 

Safya’s immediate reaction to Osytha’s mentioning of tea is that no, they aren’t going to have time, but the words do not immediately leap out of the birdfolks beak; she cutely regards the shininess of the tin with the look of an avian captivated, it’s shiny facade and bright colours drag joy into ones dour eyes,

“Aeh… toh… chi, the island! The island of spirits!” It does not matter to her for a moment that there are grunts and footsteps coming up the stairs in soft thuds, Safya is clapping her little hands together with excitement, “I have never been trying such a thing…! Please... I would love to, it is looking so fine, this pretty box--”

And then men have to go ruin it all! As usual! The girls will get nothing good and they will deal with it!

“Oh, sure. Let’s wait around for you girls to play tea party. We can do that, right, boss?”

The sound of Vitri’s scathing voice from the door immediately causes sadness and the remnants of happiness to crumble from the peahens delicate face, tipping it back into the heavy worry of before. Worry and tiredness and a touch of exhaustion, turning to stare at the agitated Devah and his lashing tail and his harsh grimace and his hands that are wrapped tightly about metal, he drags the helmeted Rois through the doorway like a man leading a reluctant pet on a walk. The boss in question has pants and shoes on (the slip on, Suldazan kind), that is a good start…! Though wrist chains make for a leash of sorts rings no longer adorn the man’s ankles: that peculiar head-piece the red-head is sporting is almost a grim perversion of a knights helm, all black and soft, completely obscuring every single feature he possessed. No sight. No holes for hearing. What little sound made it through the thick latex-leather mix was muffled, yet it did not seem like Rois was ignoring Vitri’s statement because he could not hear… it simply seemed like the half-beast was very, very zoned out.

This was probably due to all the medicinal herbs stuffed into the damn things snout.

Every heavy breath he took saw heavy white clouds vented through the lower holes, the butcher was standing there with the tenseness of a creature that was absolutely a hairs breadth away from lashing out subdued only by the darkness and smells that ensnared him, all hard edges and wound tight muscles. Without vision and smell and sound there could be no temptation. The dark marring of shoulder flesh has turned shiny amidst the beginning of blistering…

“... Eh?”

Rois answers extremely lately that as the pointed head twists and turns, it is clear he might not even know what was said besides the word ‘boss’. Vitri raises a hand and rubs fingers against his face, somehow annoyed even further.

“Your knight wants to have tea instead of doing what she is actually here to do. So come on, you and I will go take care of business, and you lot can gossip and talk dresses and do whatever the fuck women do.”

“......... Huh? What?”

The black-horned man whip-snaps his tail against the floor with a mighty crack and drags Rois to the door where a large, stuffed satchel is waiting, presumably delivered to its location when Osytha was downstairs; from the smallest crack in the top-flap it seems to be merely clothes and nothing else. It is donned with all the aggression of a man possessed by wickedness as he practically shoulder checks the door in a manner that causes it to rattle violently and leads his confused employer out into the moonlight-- and as angered as he seems this is a good outcome for him specifically, shown by a broad smirk the moment the males leave the company of the awaiting females... though it is goofily visible through the large front windows as the odd pair begin their awkward, half-blind ascent. Safya had remained quiet the entire time. Her passiveness and fear of backlash had muted her until the company was fairer…

“... There will be time, maybe tomorrow.” The bird pipes up in a trill that is as quiet as it is haunted by the depression of the atmosphere. “Go after them. I will make something delicious for you to eat when you get back… something not-people.”

And maybe the humor is a little morbid, but at least it is honest!
 
The knight, however, is already clasping her brown cloak closed with a simple steel brooch below her throat. A burgundy sleeve rises up and reaches out from its folds, so Osytha’s pale hand can tap gently atop the metal box; tink, tink.

“Don’t feel you mun wait up on me.” She strides to the door, pausing long enough to tie her mask back on and grab her blackthorn walking stick. “Take the kettle off just before it boils, and steep for about a minute. You can get two or three mashes out of the leaves, just, give ’em a bit longer each time.”

Osytha flashes the fretful accountant one last smile — a proper one, this time, back to her usual hearty self.

“Don’t you fret, Safya. I won’t be doin’ owt foolish afore I’ve had a chance to try your cookin’.”

And with that, she’s out the door.

Night takes Munas Kuvak’s every treacherous shortcoming and magnifies them tenfold. Its grime-crusted infrastructure harbours shadows enough even in daytime, but now, it outright devours the inadequate light from Khurun’s many moons. Those lit lampposts fare little better; not so much illuminating the street as they are bright, pinpoint milestones by which one can measure distance and direction. What makes it worse is the town’s haphazard, improvised layout. Everyone has brought their own ideas on how to build their little corner of paradise, resulting in odd misalignments, spaces, ad hoc ginnels, ramps, terraces, and so on. And what that means is that Munas Kuvak is a warren. Every ten paces holds some hidden nook or another, ideal for sheltering footpads and cutthroats until the moment they leap out at their prey, and ready to swallow them back up again into an inky black maze once their bloody work is done.

All this is made only eerier by the great, luminescent peaks rising high above the town’s silhouetted skyline. Mountains loom like watching ghosts, their snowcaps so bright in comparison as to almost hurt the eyes. Being able to see that only makes Munas Kuvak’s cloying gloom feel all the more unnatural. A kind of stubborn, malevolent darkness which ought only to exist as the stage setting of one’s nightmares.

As soon as Osytha steps out onto the street, she wishes she’d brought her vial of owlseye ointment. Actually, she wishes she’d brought a lot more of her toys and gadgets than she actually had, but carrying such an arsenal isn’t very discreet. Not if you’re trying to pass yourself off as a runaway serf hoping-to-turn-freewoman. Good thing Vitri and Rois are not discreet, then. Even though the devahni blends into Munas Kuvak’s darkness like he’s made of the stuff, those silver-bright shotels give him away. As does his noisome aura of grumpiness. And the heaving, steaming, manacled monster of a man lumbering along at his side. That one’s pretty hard to miss.

Osytha glances over to the remaining guard, the masked orckin fellow. Waggles her brows and puckers her cheeks in a visual exclamation of ‘well, here goes nothing!’, then hurries on after the pair retreating up the street.

Soft soles, on her shoes. And she but lets the shillelagh tap-tap against the cobbles once, faintly, to give Vitri notice of her approach, before hoisting it propped up over her shoulder. Otherwise, underneath her dull brown cloak, she might be even more a wraith than he — bar that badger’s stripe catching in the moonlight, and her pale face seeming to float in darkness.

“’Ow do,” murmurs Osytha as she draws abreast of the dour-faced guard. She raises her hood, and then the dusker really is in her element. “What’s the plan from here, Vitri?”
 

Her sudden actions towards the Orcish guard actually causes him to chuckle in amusement… and not in a terrible, cruel or cold way!

The streets are mostly empty. The night shifters have climbed the heights and are toiling in the mines, the blacksmiths have laid their aprons to rest and have turned in for the day… yet noise prevails by way of rugged and gleeful cheering somewhere in the smokey towns center, the beating heart of the only inn. Like moths to a flame in the darkness all manners of creatures have gone down-wind to cause a ruckus about the large building, its rectangular roof rises just slightly taller than the crooked menagerie of buildings that are packed around it. Life gleams in its many windows, curtains pulled and wide, the dots of figures against steel balconies and the thrown embers of a raging fire-pit climbing to heaven in its courtyard; but there are some insects not lured by its effervescent light and the wild pleasure of guzzling down alcohol.

She fits right in with figures trading down slanted, shadow-thick alleyways lit only by struck matches, the whites of their eyes gleam against the fast-fading fires of cupped hands. Gold and silver glints, diamond, sapphire and ruby bright, forged coins poured and pressed in deep-ground basements and pleasantries stolen straight from stone to pass by the critical look of overseers, if they stole and sold them themselves they would not need to pay their taxes to their dwarven leader. A tall, scarved rodent in tattered overalls with white fur and spun lavender eyes bares yellow teeth at them, the bag that hangs from black-smeared claws displays an odd collection of forks and knives and spoons, real silver! Real silver to be melted, he wheezes at the passing trio with enthusiasm and the softest clinking of precious metal against metal. A huddled mass of people upon a corner turned away from the main path beneath the remnants of a lamp pole knocked oblique. Their multitude of eyes are carefully watching who comes past, who would be easy, who could be dragged through the nearby doorway that displayed not even the smallest spark of light within; from the window of the crumbling, derelict ruins of what once was a house now barely clinging to stability comes harsh huffing accented by spittle, whining, but never calling for help.

And the devah and his leashed beast ignore all of them, carefully stepping up the widening streets in a half-march, even when someone above them on a horizontal platform bridging two buildings gives a pathetic wolf whistle. It was not that the various vagabonds scattered around about stone arches and leaning store-fronts do not care, they watch, but they never approach. The situation was too strange to approach, it was akin to seeing a bunch of people high off their tits from afar, there was nothing to gain from approaching; a clothes bag, and a stick? Maybe if the gaps between posts were not so long and the light not so low there would be some that would take interest in Osytha’s gender… but she has done well to hide herself. Even Vitri can’t complain about it, spying her from the corner of his eye as they wander over a thickened plank that served as a makeshift bridge, about a meter below runs black, coal-tainted water. Even with many of the forges dead for the night the air still retains its acidic nature.

“I want you to know that I am not talking to you because I want to, but because I have to.” Tongue-lashings lost their effect when everything you said was filled with heartfelt spite, yet, he seemed incredibly reluctant to let the emotion drop. “I sincerely hope you forget the rules and fuck up. It would actually make my day to see you kill yours--”

“... Vitri…”

The warning growl from the tethered male was like thunder rolling, turning that helmed head to metaphorically look down upon the devah’s crown--

“Oh, so now you can hear.”

“...”

The raven-haired mans flabbers are instantly ghasted, extremely slighted that somehow his boss was taking her side over his.

“Whatever. Just keep up.”

The paths are widening, the overhangs are dwindling, buildings fade, the approach to the mines is a sprawling space of many features; the afar wall of holes at the foot of the mountain are the bastardization of a beehives natural comb, all shapes and sizes, some with ramps, some with ladders, the highest ones appear to have rope-pulls to grapple up to and some have the drop variation instead from the looming shelf above. This variable wall of shafts seems to stretch from left to right to up, a staircase of tunnels rising till the snow begins to pepper the rocks a sullen grey. No doubt they all link together somewhere within like a massive network of veins branching outwards to mine-cart tracks, a tangle of iron just deep enough to step on sprawling beneath their feet. The overseers that have money see their entrances are guarded by men baring iron torches, existing just to make sure no-one attempts to rob whatever laid inside, whilst the poorer, more trodden routes do not even have doors-- just dark, empty holes leading deep into the bowls of the tooth-like mountains above. No-one is hauling. Hauling was for the day where the overseers could see what the contents of rusted carts clearly, the night was for striking whilst the summer heat was dead and gone. Over and over a thousand hammers and chisels are wounding the land from within… but everyone is so deep in that the sound never reaches the ears of the outsiders. Such was the nature of mining itself. Eventually, to find anything good… you had to walk to hell to find anything of use.

A mess of carts derailed, a huge, messily boarded round pen of at least fifty overworked horses huddled together in working harnesses, piles of shifted dirt and renegade lights in the form of braziers light the carved ramp upwards as they wander onwards to the fifth tier of the stairs and turn sharply left, Vitri is fiddling with the bag with a minor attempt to not seem breathless at the scaling and Rois, well… he is not fazed at all, the ascent might as well be a mourning stroll amongst the flatlands. The soft sound metal scraping metal alerts the devah to the keys within the sachels side-pocket, the entirely darkened stretch they have stopped at possesses a locked door opened swiftly with the aid of moonlight and natural devahni ability alike, the rickety thing swings open on rusty hinges to reveal to them… nothingness. No light. A yawning abyss about six foot tall and three foot wide, and Vitri had been entirely silent since his telling off, content to ignore Osytha’s entire existence, but suddenly he is regarding her with a sneer…

“Feel free to run away scared, girl.”

The darkness swallows Rois (who has to duck a little beneath the rotting wooden beams) and the horned bastard both the moment they step in, the grey sliver of the mans tail spiralling into nothingness. A lightless, cramped tunnel behind an old locked door in the night, footsteps slowly fading. A man who wants her dead, and a half demon barely in control of something unknown. If she entered and went too deep, the knight would not be able to easily leave again without guidance back… the risk was being lost for however long in the rocky labyrinth beyond.

And there wouldn’t be any answers to calls for help.
 
If Vitri doesn’t feel compelled to make conversation, Osytha is content to indulge his silence. They’re better off keeping alert to their surroundings, anyway. Watching for figures like those clustered under the listing lamppost. Might be most such folks aren’t sure if the trio have enough of value between them to make an attempt worth it. Doesn’t mean some aren’t curious enough to find out, should they spot an opening.

None prove bold enough to try, in the end, much to Osytha’s relief. They make it to the mountain base’s Swiss-cheese facade, proceeding to climb up that giant’s staircase via a medley of ramps, scaffolds, and suchlike. Five terraces to climb? Not bad as a warm-up, by Osytha’s consideration. For someone accustomed to Dal’s fitness regimens and full-kit exercises, it’s a pleasant constitutional.

She looks over to Vitri at the peak of their ascent, hearing how those laboured lungs are tattling on him… and decides there’s no harm in poking the bear. Just a little.

“You ought to work on your cardio,” Osytha informs him, cheerfully. “I’ll take you for a run tomorrow morning. Go through some endurance drills you might find useful.”

Perhaps her jab only lends more gleeful spite to the man’s challenge, once that hungry blackness is yawning wide before them. Vitri and Rois don’t wait up to give her any time to agonise over the decision, quickly slipping beyond sight into the tunnel. Osytha watches that slate-grey tail whip one last time in the moonlight, and then, they’re but fading noises in the dark.

Her face stares impassively into the void. “Feel free to run away scared, girl.” In truth, Osytha is scared. She’s always scared to step into the darkness, to hunt and be hunted by things like Rois.

Being scared just hasn’t ever been enough to stop her. Not yet, anyway.

She gives the others enough of a lead that she doesn’t end up stepping on Vitri’s tail, then walks in after them.

The air changes. Munas Kuvak’s lingering, choking smog and buried hints of pine forest, they yield to an earthy fug. The kind of fresh-turned ground which tickles the sinuses with dust particles. And these hard tunnels trap whatever is birthed within their confines; not just the dry scrape of mining spoil, but the sweat and sickness of men labouring in these earthen bowels, the smoke of candle- and oil-light, hard-working iron off of tools, tracks, carts…

… and the unmistakeable miasma from a harvest of corpses, thawing out.

Osytha follows the wake of her guides. Utterly blind, though it doesn’t seem to slow her much, as the sound of Vitri and Rois’ passage is easy to hear. She also pays attention to how it sounds; whether they seem to weave to one side or another, the timbre of whatever substrate is underfoot, if their echoes are devoured by unseen openings in the walls — and when those instances are but the staggered effect of a simple branching passage, or instead the lethal silence of a great abyss. And all the while, that stick of hers is put to good use, sweeping and probing ahead for obstructions or pitfalls.

It’s a lot like some of the drills they have them do in the Sanctum of Dusk. Only easier.

“So is this, like, the back entrance, then?” she asks, her chipper voice soft on the stone. “To avoid bein’ swamped by all the groupies out front, kind of thing?”
 

“You won’t be around t…”

… He knew better than to continue that sentence, and it is not because the very empty threat is of any real harm or that it is hinting towards something going afoul in the night, it is simply because there’s no point in getting scolded again. Luck can only be pushed so far until it reaches a point where he might be reprimanded, and though Osytha was unknowing of this fact, Rois could and did punish bad actions by the reduction of pay… so there is a motive to keep quiet. It does not stop the devah from hissing beneath his breath quietly, so quiet the masked man wouldn’t be able to hear,

“You’re lucky… for now.”

The boss wouldn’t protect her forever. Well, he would while she was his guest, but Vitri clearly hoped something would go wrong between them and the red-heads ire would dissipate the guarding actions into nothingness.

In the darkness they are turning, tight tunnels split then fork then wind into one, straight, turning again, all in the pitch black with an unmistakable slanting to the floor; a descent that produces thick rope-holds to stop the catastrophe of a mass tumble from occurring. The ground is stable, it is still the clattering of rock against the stick, but at some point a sandy coating of earth has muffled the canes sounds and the smell of rotting wood has grown deeper. Aging is the air, no longer roiling with the fumes of coal fires and now thick with mould clinging to worn beams, a dampness produced by condensation gathering within the crevices of the pathways many crude-cut walls-- walls that abruptly disappear into nothingness after a few minutes. The sound of their footsteps now carried with them a distinctive echo as the party stops the moment the tension of the confined space breaks. Chains-clink,

“Stand still. Or don’t, I don’t really care.”

The devah is the only one with the gift of sight, wandering off into the distance with confident strides to their left, and after a pause there comes an odd sound… something between the clicking of a switch and the clanging of metal, scraping, a turn, and all of a sudden there is light. Blinding, sterile light from up on high-- the magitek beacon affixed to the ceiling bathes them white and reveals why she was told to stand still.

A hole in the ground in a large, large room.

The cavern spans at least a hundred feet (with the hole being at least eighty of that), domed ceiling adorned with the machinations of an old, bronze sealed lamp bearing its bright-crystal by way of coiled wires, running all the way down to the old console Vitri was standing at. Burnt gold and buttons. It does a wonderful job of revealing the rectangular pit that makes up almost the entirely of the space, thin ramps lead from every corner, the thirty foot drop would have been very eager to meet any stumbling in the dark; and at one time it was a mining pit derived of every pleasure it could have held. But now it did not sing of pickaxe strikes and wore not the bootprints of workers, it was marred savagely by jagged lines of every width and size, claw marks, the soon to be seen presence of it and its mighty nails painting white lines in the way of savagery. They are accompanied by the black brown of scorch marks that rise from the whole to the ceiling, dangerously close to the slightly swaying artificial sun now burning above-- but the most striking feature of the pit in that moment are the bodies, naturally.

White, blue, black. Naked corpses piled there like haggard dolls, frostbite has rid the fifteen there of fingers and toes and some of arms and feet and faces, shiny-black is the death of flesh like paint smeared upon their pale visages. Wounds are visible in the jutting of bones, caved chests, half cleaved heads, the dangling of a once-frozen skull from a neck barely held together by greying matter, they bare the marks of brutal warfare by axe and dulled swords from the civilization above; the fact they are all men speak wordlessly of a tale of clans clashing. It stinks. Mayhaps the smell of the choking smoke of outside is better than the twang of fetid bodies collapsed in a pile in a cave.

Clink, the handcuffs clatter to the ground as Vitri unceremoniously releases Rois from bondage with another key upon the ring and then turns grey hands to undo the clasp at his throat from the helmet. The moment the boss takes the helmet off and drops it dully to the ground however he wishes he hadn’t; striking light turns pupils thin and the smell, the smell makes his large body quiver as he screws eyes shut and takes a hand to cover his mouth--

“Fuck.”

Rois turns around instantly with shallow breaths in, not brothering to smooth the crinkling of his nose.

It smelt… so good.

“That wasn’t a back entrance, idiot. This pit hasn’t been productive for years, which is why there are no torches to light the way. The owner lets us use it because some money is better than no money.” Vitri says airily with a hand upon his hip, it is clear by the mans tone he is only speaking because he likes sounding like he knows things and Osytha doesn’t ‘know things’ (despite it being illogical and impossible for the woman to have known prior). “Every shaft has an owner. The ones that own dead ends make a killing renting them out for things.”

The implications of that are left open; there are many things can do in a completely hidden spot away from the waking world in the middle of nowhere and then in the middle of a mountain.

“Enoug̴h̵ ̸t̴a̵l̴k̸i̶n̴g̷.̵.”

A voice composed halfly of words and halfly of a deep, guttural growl, the kind a human’s throat could never produce. Rois looks to Osytha for a second with a beat of reluctance and then turns to the pit itself. The price of being half fiend…

The whites of the mans quivering eyes are dissolving into the same shade of black as the frostbitten bodies, the unnatural reds are glowing like the concentrated embers of a hearth, the licking of sweat has become a furious beading that sparkles in the blinding white light. He can… barely close his mouth. Those teeth have grown upwards and downwards and through both top and bottom lips, pin-prickings of blood are turning to dripping lines where words have caused them to puncture through the space below his nose and above that now slick chin, and when a hand is raised to wipe the pink slobber hanging from the corner of the red-heads mouth those nails are now truly claws. It is not pretty. It is twisted, it is painful, drops of red soundlessly fleck his heaving chest from above and sizzle against burning skin like eggs to a pan burned black. Every movement is a wince, it hurts, I am burning, but all that his mind could think about are the bodies and their smell and their texture and he needs them, he needs them so badly Rois begins to tremble violently like a dog and takes an unconscious step forward. Vitri, as attentive as ever, grabs the tail of the bandages at the back of his head as that hand sporting black, knife-line fingers raises to go to take them off… and stops. Tries to stop through the shaking. Words come awkwardly, breathlessly, deeply, and with them comes bloodied spit rolling, the facial wounds widen as teeth gouge through skin,

“The̷ ̸r̸u̶l̵e̷s̴s̶s̴s̷. Don’t brea̵k̵ ̸t̶h̸e̴m̸m̸m̴.̴”

He wants affirmation that she won’t… as if there was any other choice.
 
“Every shaft has an owner. The ones that own dead ends make a killing renting them out for things.”​

Osytha shrugs. Guesses it’s not that kind of ‘the Pit’, then. Such a name usually conjures up images of clandestine fighting rings; gladiators matched in bloody combat, vicious beasties pitted against even vicious-er beasties, monstrous spectacles paraded about in chains — all the while surrounded by jeering, clamouring crowds.

The more that silence persisted the closer they got, though, the clearer it foretold the truth before Vitri even bothered to.

Now, here they are. That same awful white light, like a toothache of the eye, glaring off the cavern’s every ugly detail. An open pit excavation, fruitless and abandoned, and deep. Spacious enough that the huddle of mottled, broken cadavers is dwarfed by the room’s great scale. A grisly sight indeed, with their gaping wounds and death-blackened flesh, and what eyes they have left staring vacantly as only the dead can. All this made worse by the puddle. Not so much blood, for they’ve done most of their bleeding already. But as cold releases its frozen hold on the bodies, the pervasive assault on organic tissue becomes apparent — lysed cells spilling forth their liquefying contents, leaking, pooling, until it flows out every opening to mingle in a reeking, red puddle across the impermeable floor.

Osytha can see dried, wretched stains of past iterations down there, along with pale scratches into the rock as from great claws. That curious, wandering pattern of scorch-marks as well, though there’s no furnace in here. Not unless you count the living one currently firing up; nails shredding into claws, teeth sinking through the man-fiend’s own mouth, his unnatural red eyes blackening, burning brighter.

“The̷ ̸r̸u̶l̵e̷s̴s̶s̴s̷. Don’t brea̵k̵ ̸t̶h̸e̴m̸m̸m̴.̴”​

Every second, and every piece of Rois sheds a little more humanity. That’s no ordinary, mortal man’s voice uttered from his scalding gullet. Or at least, not only so. Still enough of him in there, holding it together against the beast, to seek one last assurance from Osytha.

“I won’t.” Don’t stand by the lip. Don’t look into the light. Don’t run. “You’ve my word.”

Osytha steps away from that break-neck drop. For a moment, the wall up here catches her attention, and she runs pale fingers over hair-thin striations in the stone facade. Observes the subtle variations in its green hues across those lines. Greenschist, she notes. Typically metamorphosed from basalt during orogeny. Interesting.

Then she turns around, crosses her arms, and leans back against the wall while she watches — well, whatever this is meant to be — unfold.

Only, when the Butcher has proceeded on toward the corpses, and the creature emerging from his flesh has occupied itself with its business down there rather than the discreet figures high up on the ledge… Osytha softly asks a question of the surly devahni handler at her side.

“Who’s Taani?”
 

And grey, ringed hands yank the bandages off of Rois’s head as the half-beast takes a deep breath and leaps.

It transpires in the blink of an eye.

Red. Black. Heat.

That is a crocodile. Or something of the like.

It unceremoniously crashes into the ground in a mass of haze and dust and the ledge trembles, the wide arc of its toothed tail rises and falls in slow motion, a garish thing decorated with the multi-peaked teeth of its mouth coming to crack against the pits walls like canon-fire; light flickers, darkness, light, again and again until it briefly stabilizes in the swinging lamp above. The pit is just wide enough. It fills it from side to side with the sagging of burnt-crimson skin, all rubbery wrinkles, strange swaying fins upon its back weaving back and forth with the contact-- and its humanity is gone. It gurgles and gasps as if newly born and takes with it the dead air that had long come to make the cavern home, freedom, freedom, the shroud is suddenly startled into shock as bizarre energy spikes that could be felt come forth, tiny little pulses, a crawling feeling, this is not natural. Forty feet long and boiling flesh and tapping claws that produce wild, dancing sparks, it should not be, but it undoubtedly is… once stuffed inside the body of what was once a man.

It drags itself upon its belly in a slow crawl towards the pile of people with a great mist beginning to take hold of the cavern, never white enough to obscure the scene but warm enough to suddenly make breathing in feel as if one was not inhaling at all, every claw-step it takes on those huge front feet causes the rock to shiver in unpleasantness. There is no crunching of bones. Those bodies look like toys within its mouth as every bite simply cleaves them apart, heads roll, arms fall, legs tumble, so sharp it is like it is biting into something as soft as cake instead of the half-thawed mess of corpses-- and its mouth is always upturned in a smile, but it is delighted. The eyes both on its side and atop its head are squinted in pleasure, the muted glow in the back of its throat is beginning to turn into a beam of harsh lemon-light that illuminates the far end of the pit with dark shadows of twisted bodies against the many, many fangs of hungry jaws.

The word ‘monster’ actually seems a little lost on it. Monsters could be people looking to exploit others, they could be beasts lurking in the dark preying upon wandering travellers, they could be strange creatures in far off lands that live to be provoked, anger me and see what happens. This thing… its size, the way it turns cooled, old air into static electricity, the way the shroud screams as it has been torn asunder and pressure has suddenly appeared as if gravity is pulling them all downwards against the ground; it is a calamity given form. The light continues to flicker in a nightmarish manner as magicks cause it to rattle, the bodies are gone, so fast they have been swallowed down that now in a slow frenzy the beast is licking the floor of the remnants of liquid they left with its skull bashing unceremoniously upon the mottled rock, thump, thump, thump, teeth clatter, the spines of its eyes cause a harsh screeching sound as it searches for anything left.

But Vitri is not looking at it.

'Who’s Taani?'
​
He’s looking at her.

Grey eyes are so round they mimic the moon, that name, emotion flickers there like the lights do above, him. Why did people keep saying his name? Why did they keep dragging the memories to the surface? From Safya it had been understandable, she too had wept with them all the day Taani was taken from them, but from a stranger…? The coil of bloodied bandages flutter silently to the floor. All muscles tense, hands swing to duel sickles, they unfurl from their black-silver holders like stars flashing in the sometimes-dark--

“Don’t you EVER say his fucking name again--!!”

Rois is not watching; the safety that his anger brought is gone as the devah lunges at the knight with both weapons drawn, uncarring of the reprocautions, a voice lingers in his head, sweet and soft and filled with love,

It’ll be ok, you’ll see! Don’t you worry about me--​

“I’ll kill you!! I’ll fucking KILL you!!”

Up high one moon-blade flashs as in one fluid motion Vitri comes skidding at her side with the intent to be brought down low against the womans shoulder in a single cleave--
 
Last edited:
It’s clear, from the moment Vitri looks at her, that she’s underestimated the man’s hatred.

Even clearer how deeply she’s put her foot in it once those hooked blades flash out.

She retreats a step, hands held up plaintively. “Hey, I just—”

“I’ll kill you!! I’ll fucking KILL you!!”​

And he’s fast. Vitri’s blow lashes out in a viper’s strike against her high quarter. But he’s also angry. More than just quick, it’s also strong — like he’s trying to cleave her in two.

Maybe he’s underestimated Osytha as well. Osytha, in her ugly dress. Osytha, who’s more interested in tea and gossip than real work. Osytha, who says something stupid every time she opens her stupid mouth and flaps her stupid tongue.

She moves low under the strike. Blackthorn stick held to run parallel along her forearm, rising up, slanted like a hanging parry; the shallow gable of a roof. Vitri’s blow lands, all mad strength. Or, in a schwertkämpfer’s terminology: overcommitted. Osytha lets his own force skitter down the dense wood. Even gives him a helping nudge, suppressing it away from her as she keeps slipping into his side.

Can’t really tell with her skirts hiding them, but those are some hefty gams on the girl. Her leg steals the ground out from under Vitri’s, and the man goes down.

Osytha's spare hand guides him firmly along by his elbow. Keep him tilted off balance in her direction, swinging him around like a tether-tennis ball — that second shotel-arm orbiting far away from her. Until he’s eating dirt, and she can pin him in place with her weight on his back.

“Easy now,” she urges. Locks his far arm down beneath her knee, while her other leg folds over the small of his back. There’s a stinging line across her left forearm where Vitri’s shotel had gotten behind her guard, but she’ll have to look at that later. For now, she keeps using it to suppress. “I’m sorry, just, please—”

Vitri’s not even speaking at this point. No words that Osytha can understand, only crazed, animal noises of grief as he thrashes futilely beneath her, his shotels clinking and clacking against the hard stone.

Damnit. Perhaps it’d be safe enough here if they kept a low profile, but with Vitri wailing and hollering like this… “Thirdly, do not run away, you will be catching its attention… it will not climb walls unless it is given a reason to.” Damn her and her stupid, curious tongue.

But, what else had Safya said?

“I’m very sorry about this,” Osytha goes on as that sickly yellow light flares over them. Then, her right hand grabs the bull by his horns, and twists Vitri’s head toward the source of that glow.
 
Last edited:

He is no fighter; he is an assassin. Built for sudden strikes after springing from the darkness just to vanish again, quick and light, always attempting to use the curve of a sickle to catch a limb-- better if it was a throat, but alas. This sort of build, these sorts of weapons are not meant for fighting face to face, they lose their advantage the moment their prey is aware of them… and violence makes him sloppy. There was nary a fighter alive that was not hindered by the red smog of anger clouding eyes that could do with being sharp.

And he thought that stick had been nothing but a prop for a disguise--

The moment that his legs are swept a half-snarl half-yelp escapes him, fine bones attempt to struggle against the hidden muscle that Osytha bore, Vitri is five foot eight but the woman is far denser, it leaves him quivering beneath her grasp with the rushed huffs of someone who is desperate to surge free and try again. Shes a knight. He had hoped his instinct to kill could surpass even training… but all it does is leave him trapped, tail in a frenzied aggressive wag as it sweeps the dusty floor. His grip upon the shotels tighten till grey knuckles turn white, fingers try to maneuver the blade somehow, someway, there must be a way to fight back-- a twist. Taken by the damn horns. A parting hiss that rolls into a gasp that rolls into… nothingness.

Light.

And there is a light because it is looking straight at them.

Bored with picking up rocks, chewing them to pieces and then finding more rocks that might have a single shred of human matter smeared disgustingly against their cold surfaces, the beast’s attention has turned to some sort of sound up high… some sort of movement. Noise and voices. Four eyes bare no emotion, they are cold black marbles containing slits of static flame, but those lengthy jaws betray a smouldering within that causes mirages, those teeth dance in the heat. Yellow and red and white swirls-- they are beautiful, flowers twirling in a field, a dance of butterflies-- and the shotels clang, both of them are dropped to the floor in unison; Vitri is almost instantaneously tranced by the whirling of brilliant colors. All fight against Osytha’s pin dies, all of that boiling rage simmers and turns like the sunset into an icy night, vacant ices are swollen pupils and mouth hangs partially open as mental control is lost to the shimmering bliss that is thrown over them.

The beast wobbles forward from below and begins with toothed-tail scraping, sch-sch-sch, its claws clip-clap tap against the floor eagerly, it is like a dog awaiting a master to throw its toy-- a dog of tremendous weight and size that sent steam spewing from its maw in a rushed flurry, the heat rises so rapidly it licks the ceiling with a mark that joins the hundred there, burns, Gluttony gets closer. Maybe it expects her to throw it ‘the body’. Maybe, an even better outcome can be brought forth… the titan hauls itself upon shaking ground to the pits bottom edge, the jutting crimson spikes on its back are like wobbling shark fins as they ominously loom closer… its head disappears below the ledges breadth. Vitri is blinking stars out of his eyes with a sudden sharp intake of breath as confusion causes him to squint and look around rapidly as he attempts to remember why hes there-- and then like a startled cat he jumps as the two are suddenly greeted by a up-torrent of billowing, sweltering white that crashes against the ledges lip, rolls violently forth and blusters them both with heat. A giant oven door opening. A sudden step into the desert. The sun and its splendor. It dries out the eyes, it licks skin like sandpaper, it threatens to burn as a ‘playful’ sight is bestowed upon the pair.

The tip of the crocodiles nose appears… rises a touch, breathes in deeply with quivering nostrils… then disappears quietly.

THUMSSHKKK, it smashes its head suddenly against the wall with fervor and a low groan of anticipation, the stone trembles furiously in a quake, the magitech lamp once more begins to threaten to plunge them all into darkness with the beast below as it takes skull to stone and begins to rapidly scramble, claws and claws and lashing tail rolling, it rises once again but only the tip of a snout crooked with fangs appears with the threat of once again bathing them in sinister, dazzling light. Smoke rolls, it cannot get its nose straight, can’t get up high enough, it cannot scald them with steam and so it bellows forth to burn bronze wires above, this is why they are blackened, tarnished, robbed of their gleam as a fever pitch begins to settle against them both. Breathing… begins to hurt. Their skin is prickling, hairs rising, tongues drying in their mouths and throats filled with sand no matter how much they swallow as Vitri struggles to stand up--

“Fuck, fuck--” The devahs voice is dry from the torridity, scratchy and weakened to a whisper from prior emotion-- and no part of him wants to work with Osytha. But he’d rather not be burned alive. “I gotta-- gotta- stop it--”
 
Welcome back, Vitri. A genuine sentiment, but one Osytha keeps to herself lest it come across as condescending. Last thing they need is for him to think she’s trying to rile him up again.

“Alright,” she whispers instead, rolling off the man and freeing him. “What do you need from me?”

The sauna air around them is steaming her alive, inside and out, plus the weight of this Shroud-presence crushes down like they’re walking along the bottom of a lakebed. But the worst way that stuff will cripple her is if she focuses on it.

And meanwhile, that awful, skull-rumbling thrashing from the pit; of a huge, monstrous form gouging and slamming at the pit’s confines. Earth quakes treacherously, and light oscillates with it from the pirouetting fixture above, plus a helter-skelter wash of lemon-light doing its best to angle over the hard stone ledge. Osytha can only catch a peripheral glimpse of the fiend’s great maw as it snaps up and billows, foiled time and again by its prison — no way is she disregarding Safya’s advice now after having seen the effect of that hypnotic light for herself.

How long can they hold like this, though? Before the air finally manages to roast them alive… or those claws carve out enough purchase to haul their bearer up into freedom?
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom