• Closed • Birds, Stones, Bastards, Broken Things

[Kasoria]

20t trial, Vhalar, 722
The Underground

He moved through the tunnels as if they'd been his home for decades. Unknown to him, others were doing the same. Well... it wasn't unknown to him that others used them. Right at that moment. The Underground and the Underworld of Etzos was indistinguishable; the former was simply older than the latter. Ever there had been people, creatures, groups, families, factions that delved deep and carved out little domains there. For profit or for survival. Sometimes both. Layer after layer of construction and destruction had fashioned a warren of passages, hallways, ruins, and catacombs that honeycombed The Big Rock. All who knew the darkness, could walk the shadows with surety, knew there was a mosaic of territories down there. Places to be walked safely and avoided. Even as the bald man made his way to his destination, he could hear echoes of footsteps, voices, stumbles, and curses.

He was not alone down there. One never was. But where he was going, he suspected he would see familiar faces.

At least one, anyway.

More noise. Closer. He cocked his head towards it, favoring the side still sporting an ear. He liked to joke that losing one had doubled the acuteness of the other. It wasn't quite that much, but it made him appreciate what service it could do him. He paused, dark features frowning as he sifted through echoes and distant rumblings... no... gone again. Nothing moving. Still, he kept one hand on his sword as he went. The other held a torch, lighting his way.

Not too big, though. Enough to see his feet and the few yards ahead. He knew as well as any that blazing light this far down blinded more than it illuminated. Just a little, to give the shadows... texture. Teach you to rely on your other senses. He'd told Miranda that, when she went off to play. He knew he couldn't keep the fucking girl locked up and away from exploring forever, so the best he could do was teach her a few tricks. Some with torches, some with blades.

The memory made him wince. Every memory of her did. Two years and the wound had not healed. Out of compulsion he reached up and brushed the rings hanging from his ear. Some who knew him not joked he wore two there, since he had but the one ear. Others who did never joked. Because they saw they were different. Not the same set. One was hard bronze, polished by age and use. The other was gold, inlaid with old words of wisdom in his wife's tongue.

He'd taken it from his daughter, before he sheet was pulled over her head. After she'd finished coughing up blood and asked him to make it stop hurting. Now when he thought of her, he touched that cold metal and remembered. Her smile and her mischief. Her scolding tone and her warmth when she hugged him.

Raand remembered hate. Such that would never die, and never sleep.

He turned a corner and saw where they were to meet. The tall archway to a hall that had once been some grand room of reception and nobility, now buried under Etzos forever. Torches glimmered inside. A glow of orange and yellow. Not unusual in the Underground. It was a curiously charitable yet unspoken Etzos quirk, that those who wandered underground lit the way for those who followed. Always there were candles and faggots and sticks and even hearths, in the older halls. Raand stepped closer, craning his neck, trying to peer into-

"Fancy seein' youse here."

His sword was out and up before the words had been fully spoken. Down an ear or not, Raand whirled uneeringly to where the voice was coming from and-

"Shite. Uv' alla' bastards he could a' called on..."

[Kasoria]

He should have eaten before he went out. Now his stomach was growling, loud enough to herald his coming, he was sure of it. More importantly, he'd be thinking of food instead of listening. He wasn't want to do that with the Highmark. The man needed his full attention, and what he hinted at, well... food wouldn't be an issue for a long time.

He grunted as he walked through the shadows. Highmark. Not anymore. Just Mark, if the back alley scuttlebutt was to be believed. Busted down to the lowest of the low and set to terrorizing green boys in their training yard. For a solid arc, the scuttle said. No scratching, no scrapping, no run ins with cloaks, Black or otherwise. A solid citizen, and didn't that just make him chuckle even more?

Any of us had the means, it'd be him. Any of us too broken to try... be him, too.

The man scratched under the red, angry sigil burned onto his cheek. Six-pointed star. One for every founding member of the gang, way back when. Before his time. By then, the Dark Stars were tough little band of bastards on the North Side. Working whores, protection, herbs, sniff, street tax, anything. Nasty enough to keep their turf, tight enough not to bring the Blackguard on them. His folks hated it, of course. His mother cried when she saw the mark on his face; his father barely spoke to him again. But he wouldn't be like them, scratching and scraping and missing every comfort, every luxury while their bodies were worn to nothing. He deserved more than that, and in the Oh'Pee, you had to get out there and take it.

With your mates. Solo acts didn't last long.

Long strides ate up the shadows, pierced and spoiled by patches of light. There was a rumble over him and he looked up. Must have been a big one, or the levels above were unstable. They were deep under Etzos now. Down where the ruins and graves of the first folk had been. Things flitted away from his eyes as he walked. Human, he was almost certain of it. Plenty of other folk down there in the dark. He paid them no mind: didn't want to be late. The opposite, in fact. Always show up early, by a good bit, so you can be waiting for an ambush.

Kasoria taught him that.

Another level and he felt his skin start to burn. Not ruinously so, enough to make him wince and growl. It always got this when he exerted himself for more than a solid break. The skin from knee to nipple on his left side made the brand on his face look pretty. It was gnarled and mottled and ugly. Where army surgeons (Fates, wasn't that word a fucking laugh?) had burned and scourged him to annihilate the disease given to him. He'd been awake the whole time. Didn't trust them not to lop off his foot or his leg or his fucking arm if he went under. Lay there with a stick between his teeth, hands gripping the edge of the table, screaming wordlessly up at the roof of the tent.

It wasn't just the pain. He remembered how they'd looked when he'd come home. Just after the invasion, where the cells under the Halls of Justice had been emptied of any man willing to fight for the besieged city. He'd agreed, and of course fucked right off. Ran home to gather his parents and make a break north or west, away from Etzos. He'd come to a door marked with red paint. A whole street of them. He knew what it meant and knew what he saw but he didn't, wouldn't believe it. The militia tried to hold him back and he nearly killed two going through the barricade.

He went through their door and saw them in their bed. Holding each other. The things that had been his parents.

His eyes went glassy. He felt the pain, he remembered the tent, he remembered them... and what came after was a blur. Just a dream, foggy and fuggy. More feelings than memory. The impression of cold, slimy, rotting skin in his hands. Shaking it. The echo of his own screams in his head. Trying to rouse bodies already decaying. Yelling through tears and breathing in fetid, poisoned, living air until they'd brained him and dragged him out.

Flames. The warmth on his face as he'd sat, chained, slack-jawed, dead-brained, watching them burn his home with his parents inside.

Lisirra. She killed them. Her plagues. Then she tried to kill him, and he would not die. Not until he'd fought. Not until he'd paid a hundred deaths for each of the ones owed him. Until he'd marched to Rhakros with a running tally etched into the hilts of his hatchet and mace, for he so loved the crunch and crack they made when he cleaved and stoved. He was a good soldier, after that trial. He joined up with one of the scratch companies of brutal street bastards like him, gang loyalties forgotten in favor of vengeance and rage. The Irregulars, they'd been called.

It hadn't been enough. Not killing them, not killing Sintra's puppets. Not even close.

The branded man came to the great hall. Walked through the high arch. Craned his neck to peer around a room where faded tapestries had crumbled to dust and windows now looked out on bare stone. Polished floors now covered in dust and the wreckage of a chandelier, so corroded it looked orange. There was nothing there. Hadn't been, for so very long. Save the scant few candles still burning, lighting little glowing pools here and there.

After a while, he heard movement. Footsteps. Heavy. Boots. Approaching. He slid to a shadow and hefted his hatchet out of the ring-sheath at his belt in a flicker. He closed his eyes, until he knew when he'd see the man. Ears were better tools in the dark than eyes. Soon the noise seemed deafening, and he opened them... only to smile. Half his face reacted to the gesture; the other half had not smiled since he was a boy.

"Fancy seein' youse here," said Vaul.

[Kasoria]

People said that Mikiros was slow. Stupid, even. Because he didn't speak often and when he did, it was always after long, dead-eyed concentration. As if he had to summon the will to put two or more thoughts together by some unseen alchemy. Even then, his conclusions were simple, with short words, and little elaboration.

People said he was slow, and stupid, and simple. Probably because most people think those all meant the same thing.

Mikiros didn't care much, because it didn't interfere with his work. He was a ganger. A crusher. A breaker. Big and broad and built for fighting. He was the living battering ram a gang raid rallied behind when the storm broke and the door burst in and all was screaming and blades and mauls and blood. He'd been taken under the wing of smaller, smarter, quicker kids when he was young. Even as a youth he'd been big as a man and with plenty of growing yet to come. Never had any kin of his own, just the grey, lonely rooms of The Orphanage, he took well to gang life. Most of the time he just had to... loom, really. Be there. Growing bigger every year, accumulating more muscles and scars and, eventually, a reputation.

Sometimes he hurt people. Later on, he killed them. But that was just how things were, was was explained to him. Sometimes people didn't do what they were told, and even tried to hurt you. Mikiros was simple, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the law, and what it was meant for. He just didn't see much use for it in the Outer Perimeter. The only Blackguard he saw were taking bribes or shaking down people like him. There was the odd bright spark amidst the mire, but they didn't count for much. And really, they didn't care about people like him. But the gang did. They protected him and fed him and taught him things and when he needed help, Old Charlie and Hezpah and the others were there for him.

Charlie bought him the gladius and kukri on his belt. Hezpah found him the shield on his back, a heater for most other men, but he wielded it almost like a buckler. When he was younger, anyway. He was past his fortieth birthing day, as far as he could remember. Wasn't a young man anymore. Those faces were gone now. Lisirra's monsters or plagues took many, and scattered the rest. He paused as he walked down the tunnel. He hated thinking of the past. Sometimes you didn't have a choice. He closed his eyes and shut away the memories.

The Highmark wanted to talk to him. Offer him a job. And as far as he knew, the Raggedy Man could be trusted to his word.

He didn't try to be soft of subtle as he walked. Too big for that. His footsteps were heavy enough to echo down in the dark. Mikiros didn't pay them no mind, nor the shadows and flickering things in them. They were old friends to a street rat like him. Hidey holes and secret spaces, familiar since he was a boy. He knew the place they were to meet, and didn't need a map or directions to find it. When he stepped in through the archway, he could see two figures at the other end, entering through another way. He recognized them both, and smiled.

He even raised a hand in greeting.

"Miki? Fates, izzat you?"

"Course it fuckin' is, Raand. Fuck else could be that big an' ugly."

"Oh, yer one t'talk."

Miki laughed, that strange, halting, hollow chuckle that he'd been left with. They didn't mean it. He could tell by their smiles and their eyes. They were soldiers, all of them. They'd marched and ate and pissed and joked and bled and died together. There was nothing they could say to each other now that would shock or hurt. Only betrayal, the act of it, would break their bonds. They walked together and Mikiros clasped each one by the hand and pumped up and down and up and down and-

"Okay okay okay fuck's sake, Miki, breakin' my fuckin' wrist, 'ere!"

"Surree... surree..."

Hard men, were Raand and Vaul. But even now, after nigh on two arcs, they winced to hear the mangled words from their comrade. When he smiled wide, they could see the burned stump those Sintra bastards had left him with. What justice was it, that a man could fight for his city, risk death a hundred times for his people, then come home and be mutilated by those same ungrateful cunts? Mikiros was simple, but he was now stupid, and he was quick enough to see Sintra cultists and whisperers infecting his patch of the North Side. He would not have it. No Immortals. No influence, no power, no worship or concessions to them. Were people mad? Did they not see where that led?

They cornered him, like rats overrunning a bear. He killed four of them, but the rest held him down and carved out his tongue and then shoved as poker down into his mouth. He'd screamed and cried like he hadn't since he was a boy. They laughed at him. His own people. Branded with spider sigils and mocking him. They slashed his face and ruined his eye. Stabbed him over and over and then... walked away. Not even giving him a swift death. They left him there, to bleed into the gutter, alone.

He didn't. He was found. By a little man with black eyes who recognized his comrade from the Irregulars. Who'd come looking for him, knowing that a man calling out Sintraists might be one who'd have information on where to find them.

Kasoria had come too late. Mikiros thought he blamed himself for what happened. Mikiros didn't.

"Eee nuh ere?"

"Dun' look it, does it? Bloody odd, too, since he always liked t'be early-"

"Maybe he already is-"

The voice boomed out, echoing so much its origin was a mystery. The three men fell into formation instantly, not a word spoken, back to back in a rough triad, eyes scanning the walls and shadows.

"Maybe he's just picking his moment-"

"Wait a mo'... that ain't Kas."

"Maybe, just maybe, he's-"

"Fuck me bloody, Belial?! Get the fuck out here!"

"... honestly, you lot never let me have any fun."

[Kasoria]

Why couldn't the one-legged man answer a question?

He was stumped.

Belial had a lot of those. Some would call it a coping mechanism. He preferred to see it as his way of making an infirmity, a crippling wound, nothing more than a prop to his japes. He'd always had a sense of humor; paired to his looks and the ego his talent afforded him, it got him no shortage of attention from women. Some men, too, but that was always a side dish for him. Women, women, women... the three priorities of his life.

It was quite the feat that even after losing a food and having a wooden replacement strapped onto the nub above his ankle, his record for bedding had barely taken a dip.

And I don't even need to pay most of them.

The other men walked as quietly as their size could permit through the darkness. He whistled. Old tunes his parents had taught him on those long trips to the towns and settlements surrounding Etzos. Mumming wasn't quite a stable profession, but it was wonderful to a young man. Every season a different town, new material, new faces, skills to learn, fictions to immerse yourself in... and maybe adopt, too. By his fifteenth arc he could sing a song, play a banjo, memorize a scene when one of the older folk couldn't perform.

Most of all, he could shoot. Not much to do with a mummer's life, really. But since he picked up a bow, Belial knew in his guts he was born to nock, draw, loose-

Bullseye.

His best friend was slung over his shoulder as he wandering, whistling, without fear. His fingers caressed the bone worked into the limbs. Polished and expertly set into the bow, he'd paid well for the work and watched the armorer put it together the whole while. He knew, logically, a bow was a bow. It was wood and string and some other embellishments. It couldn't speak or laugh or cry or think. He knew that. He also didn't care. For most of his life, this hunk of bone and wood had kept him alive, safe, and employed. He trusted it more than any man alive.

Any living, more accurately.

The whistling didn't stop as his mind wandered... but it changed. From an upbeat tavern lark to a marching song. One of many he'd learned in the Army. The mummer's life had faded from his future as winnings and laurels for archery contests had piled up. Not just the winning, but the satisfaction from simply having a bow in his hands. It felt right. Like he could make a whole life from this... and where better to do that, than in a place where they'd pay him for it?

Wingmaster. That's what he'd been. Leader of his own squad of archers and well on his way to further promotion until...

The song changed again. Slow. Mournful. His limp became more pronounced for a few steps. He could almost her the clunk of the wood on the stone, even though the leather of his boot. But still he walked, and it didn't take long for his pace to quicken and the memories of that fucking whore and that fucking bastard and that fucking ax to be shoved from his mind and-

"Ah... looks about right."

The vast hall was empty, as he'd expected. He was a good break early, after all. He wanted to get a good lay of the land, and most of all, know the best spot to be for a man with a bow. It took him a single glancing look to spy the dais at one end of the room. Fantastic view of the whole place, no doorways nearby for anyone to sneak up on him... and delightfully shadowy, too. Pearly teeth split his face as he walked over, already drumming a merry tattoo on the wood of his bow.

"Looks like a winner to me, little brother..."

He found his spot and he waited. Not for long. Long enough to grow accustomed to the low light. To remember the dozen times he'd waited like this, patient, ready, arrow nocked and string just barely tight. Not good enough to fire, but loose enough to be held for breaks and still thrown up, aimed, and fired in a heartbeat. Ambushes. Out in the countryside between those same settlements he'd such fond memories of. Only now he shot sellswords from their mounts and wagons and took their gold. Not alone, either. He had a good band about him, most ex-soldiers like him, men trained to work as a team and then thrown from that team into a world that cared little for them. Belial had found a new squad, new family, somewhere he could belong again.

Until Lisirra. They'd tried to hide, then run, when her monsters came pouring over the land. They thought it would be like with the army, or the bounty hunters. Fates, how fucking wrong they were. Arrows, bolts, blades, clubs... nothing worked. For three trials they fought the same running battle the Etzos Army was fighting, retreating back to Etzos Prime, losing men all the while. And lo, the Fates loved their irony, for it was the cripple who an slowest who lived to be drummed right back into the Army that had abandoned him.

Belial's song died on his lips as he squatted in the darkness. He remembered them. All of them. His friends. Just like he remembered the new ones he found, in the Irregulars.

Speaking of which...

Hawk eyes that could pick out chinks in armor from a hundred paces easily clocked the visitors. Raand with his big bald dome of a skull. Vaul and his puckered, angry brand. And Miki who, well... you could never mistake Miki. As they reunited Belial couldn't help but smile. Just seeing them again... it was reassuring. Some men were just too damn stubborn to die. Then he cleared his throat and, of course, had his fun... for a while.

"... honestly, you lot never let me have any fun."

Out and swaggering he came from his shadows, shortbow nocked and half-drawn in his hands, grinning with that face oh-so-rakish. A solid decade younger than the others, Belial had made an odd addition to their little bunch on the road to Rhakros. Then again, those were odd times, and one made friends in strange circumstances. All of them bound by hate, loss, and a need for vengeance stronger than one for air or water. All of them led, in their little block, by a small man with a legend bigger than any the possessed. But Belial did not see their old Highmark there, and if he wasn't already present...

"Can't believe old Kas is late fer his own party. Not like 'im at all."

Raand grunted and took the younger man's proffered arm. "He'll come when 'ees ready. How yeh bin, lad?"

"Oh, y'know me, Raand-" Belial rapped at his wooden foot with the bottom of his bow "-marchin' onward."

A chorus of groans answered his weak jest and already Belial was defending it and then realized... someone was still laughing. Someone from the dark.

"Oh my oh my oh my, how very droll..." Clapping. Slow and mocking. Preceding a figure they recognized and wished they didn't. "Clearly you are the entertainer of this little band, hmm?"

The four men dropped their smiles, and reached for their weapons. The man walking to them from the central doorway did not even slow. He just smiled all the wider, reveling in their disgust.

"Such long and unimpressed faces, lads. Shame on you. You forget: I was invited, too..."

[Kasoria]

"My speckled cock did Kas wanna ever see youse again, Merry."

"Oh? Odd that I would be her then, isn't it? This place. This time. Or did you imagine this is where I like to wander, hmm?"

No answer to that, the damned, dense fools. Fates, how he hated dealing with their sort. Always so unimaginative and fractious. Quick to pull a weapon, never to stop and use their brains for a moment. But, alas, they merely worked with the tools they had. They didn't have his wit or mind or... passions. So they stuck to steel and coin. Half-lives, in his opinion. Without any delicious fruits to savor... and oh, how he savored.

"Miki! Pleasure to see you again. Learned to read yet?"

"Uck Ooo."

Merry cocked his head, comical look on his angelic face, one hand cupped to his ear. Belial hated him even more in that moment. The man had talent as a mummer, for sure. You could almost believe he was playing to a crowd, just jesting. Fucking hells, he almost made him smile. But then you talked to Merry... and you almost liked him. Until he mentioned women. And girls. And his eyes shone in a way that was... no, it was human... but the kind that should have been brained at birth and thrown into a mineshaft. Then you saw what he could do, what they all saw in Rhakros. And whenever they did, whenever they found the bodies or the weeping, broken women, they were told the same thing.

They are the enemy. He is not, for now. Ignore it, and move on.

All of them swore to kill him when they returned to Etzos. But the giggling little monster deserted one night and never came back. Clearly whatever instincts his subspecies possessed, served him well. They'd forgotten him, or tried to. Pushing those savage memories into a dark pit and hoping some other blade came from him on a dark night. And wasn't quick about it.

"What was that, dear boy? Couldn't quite make it out? Something chewing on your tongue?"

"Right, fuck him, fuck Kas, fuck this," Raand pulled his sword and Merry fucking giggled at him. "Gonna do what we shoulda' done arcs ago."

"Ah, the self-righteous anger of a murderer who thinks himself principled. No wonder Kas is fond of you. You labor under the same delusion as he does."

"Aye. Reckon yer right, Raand," Belial said, ignoring the ranting of the monstrous fucker entirely. He raised his bow and drew. "Whatever Kas has to say, he can say it without him spoiling the air."

"Ah-ah-ah!" Merry said, grinning so wide it was set to split his face... and then he held up his hands... and the air in front of him started to shimmer. "Not quite as easy as you might think, dear boy. Dear Kasoria wasn't the only one to learn a few things over the arcs..."

"Glad you could make it, Merry."

All five men turned to the voice. In the deepest shadows of the room, there was shuffling. Clothing rearranging. Metal scraping on wood. But when the figure in there moved... there was no sound. Not step nor hiss of fabric. First there was black... then he was just there. Letting down his hood and sweeping a look about the lot of them. The man blinked a black eye at Belial and the archer rolled his own. Little shit had been there all along. Waiting for breaks in the dark, waiting until they were all there, and-

"Who's she, Kas?"

Kasoria turned to the woman that strode from the shadows next to him, then back to his men... and Merry.

"We'll get t'that. First, less talk about why yer here..."

[Max]

What a bunch of cunts...

Her new band of "brothers" were already at each other's throats. Swords were drawn and arrows were taught on bowstrings, all aimed toward a single man who drew collective ire about as infamously as Maxine did. Whoever he was, he was drunk off it, grinning with that shimmering ether trick Kasoria used against her when they took down the caravan trials ago. He stood alone in the face of their hatred. A call for culling rested in the group's eyes.

The stranger wasn't the only one drinking in all the vitriol. There was enough spite in the air for all but the Rusalka to asphyxiate on it, and she latched on to its presence like the first meal after a fast. There was a festering wound amongst this group, and it had everything to do with that smug Merry. There wasn't a man in the room that didn't hold a grudge against him. The intensity of every man's hatred was curious. A quick glance into the Root of Dissent and his vilification was justified.

Merry was a murdering, raping piece of shit.

They should've remained in the comforting concealment of the shadows for just a bit longer. Kasoria was not here to allow for the blood the rest of these men called for. If he wanted Merry dead he would be. To-trial was not meant to be the trial of reckoning the bastard deserved. With rousing words of coin, and profit, and purpose, Kasoria planned to sweet talk this brutish band back into the shaken hands of brotherhood. She had some ideas of what he might tell them.

"Youse dun' 'ave t'like 'im. Youse got t'do the job s'all. An' dun' fuck it up fer the rest of us, eh?"

Max hadn't internally mocked the Old Man since she was a girl. Admittedly, she was out of practice, but she knew the sentiment was probably close enough to pass. She could give the guy one thing: Kasoria never lost sight of the goal. The job was always priority. He got it done, and every obstacle, even friendly ones, be damned if they don't fall in line. If there was any hope for turning this meeting around it was him. Only a focused, experienced leader from the same walk of life could command this chosen lot into order.

The men had been doing a lot of talking while they hid in the shadows. They knew each other well, from one job or assignment or another. She was the outlier here. They hated Merry but they didn't trust this new stranger in their midst either. Even if she did fall in behind the old Raggedy Man's skirt. The looks in their eyes as they regarded her didn't bother her much. Famula's Curse had forced her to live in such glowers for arcs now. Maybe she should thank the Morty bitch for that boon of indifference.

Max had quite a bit to say. Instead, for now, she chose pensive, strategic silence. Her brain was sparking with Ambrosia she smoked a half break before meeting Kasoria here. He called for her sobriety, and not indulging right in front of his face was the best compromise she could muster for now. She figured he couldn't be all that sour about it anyhow. She'd made it abundantly clear that her answer wasn't a yes even if she showed her face to-trial.

While Kasoria began to cut into the purpose of their rendezvous, Maxine's murky gaze moved curiously from one man to the next. Then they came to a long rest on Merry. She tilted her head.

And simpered.

[Kasoria]

Fuck me, that's a new look on her.

Girlish and shy were not words Kasoria would ever ascribe to Maxine. Even when she was those things, back when he met her. She was always too hardened for that. Knowing in a way a child had no right to be, yet had to learn to survive. It wasn't Kasoria who sought out a student, after all. Quite the opposite. Seeing her don this mask of apprehension before his old comrades... it was surprising. But not exactly unexpected.

Two ways to deal with new people: act tough or pretend weakness.

"The fuck were you thinking, bringing in this cunt, Kas?"

It took a heartbeat for him to realize Vaul was talking about Merry. No more than that, though, but long enough for him to chide himself. The tone he used... far more loathing than how he'd talk about a woman he'd never met before. He looked away from Maxine and started walking across the huge, empty room. Even Mikiros was swallowed up by the place, rendered tiny compared to this forgotten glory of stone, marble, brick, and centuries of dust. The ghost of a smile drifted across his hooded face. The way the fabric framed his vision, it cut Merry completely out of his view. Just the four he'd truly called.

It was good to see them again.

"He's got 'is purpose 'ere, Vaul. Like all of yeh do."

"You told us about a job?" Belial lowered his bow. Merry pouted, but the archer didn't rise to he bait. "Coin and adventure? Wasn't that it?"

"Aye," Raand said, base voice echoing off the stones. "S'what the wee street rat yeh sent t'find me said. Exact words. An' this place, at this time."

"Do tell, Kassy," Merry cut in, souring the air with his words alone. "I'm dying to know. What could have prompted you to invite me, of all people, to this little reunion?" He tapped a finger against one smooth, pale cheek. Miming mulling over the question. "Although I can hazard a guess..."

Kasoria kept walking. The room was large, and there was a lot of ground to cover. All the whole, his Spark whispered to him. Transmutation given a voice without words, telling him about the age of the stone, the condition of the marble, the dirt further beneath... it never ceased. Always a constant trill of information, wherever he went. Yet it never kept him awake at nights or disturbed his moods. It was... part of him. He could ignore it as easy as he could his own heartbeat, and now? He did not. He'd be using it soon, he'd wager.

"Job's in Rharne. Protectin' the Etzori delly-gay-shun goin' t'the royals there. Thass what the parchment'll say, what little there is. But, while we're there... we get little jobs on the side from the ambassador, we carry 'em out."

"Scratchin'?"

"Maybe. More likely listenin', watchin', findin' things out. There's what they sign an' hash out in public, an' there's what wankers like us get done in the dark, yeh ken?"

A chuckle rippled around the room... and a giggle at the end ruined it. Infected it. Soured it. Again. Kasoria turned to Merry, amused as ever but with a growing confusion just starting to bud behind his eyes. Everything this man touched went foul. He wasn't oblivious to his evil, he wasn't uncaring of it. Kasoria had known men of both like before, and could work with them. But Merry? He reveled in pain. He lived to ruin others. What Hughes had told him, he had believed. The man was destined to die for the evil he'd done, because he couldn't stop himself, and the number of willing patrons he had to hide behind in exchange for his savagery would eventually run out.

Lisirra had saved him last time, inadvertently. They'd been so desperate for men that even a proud rapist and child-slayer was recruited. Then came Sintra, and men who knew the seedier, shittier side of Etzos had been assets. Perfect hounds to sniff out the cults and recidivists. But now... there was no-one left to protect Merry. None who knew him would hire him on, and yet...

Kasoria kept the smile from his face. The one he was saving for later.

SNAP-SNAP

Mikiros' fingers snapped a few times to get Kasoria's attention, and he made the money-counting gesture once he had it. Kasoria smirked and help up a finger. He shrugged the bundle off his back, and tossed it onto the stone between them-

Metal clinked. Coins. Lots of them. Other things besides, too. Belial bent down and opened it up... seeing a fortune in jewels and coins piled inside.

"Signin' fee. Jus' so yeh know the Council wanker who's givin' us this is serious. We'll be on wages, too, but that'll come at the enda' each season."

Which wasn't quite accurate. It was a signing bonus, but it wasn't from Lerrick. It was the sum total of the loot Maxine and he had pillaged from the Dorrick's caravan a season ago. Kasria had counted it out and it was quite a princely sum... but he had no need of it. Not for himself. But split among several, it could be quite enticing. Vaul bent down and picked up a gem. Holding it up in the firelight and appraising it with the eye of a man who'd had more than one pilfered precious in his purse.

"How many seasons, d'yeh think?"

"Long as they're outta the city. Could be two, could be ten. Ain't a short contract, lads. S'an open one."

"What role will I play, Kassy? I mean, I'm hardly the blunt tool that these others are."

It was speaking again. This festering sore of a human. Eyes lit by all the shiny baubles but immediately going back to himself. Wanting the answer to his question. Slowly, inexorably realizing that Kasoria hadn't answered any of them so far. Kasoria turned away from the band, his comrades, his brothers in blood... and beheld Merry instead. The man's smile was faltering now. Plastered to his face, but the eyes... they were losing their amused spark. Something was wrong, and Merry's lizard brain was starting to understand that.

"Ego."

The word was small, but in the silence of the chamber, it echoed. Loud enough to make Merry's smile crumble.

"... what?"

"Ego. S'why I knew you'd come. Cuz even after all youse did, all you are... youse couldn't resist prancin' about like the cunt you are, believin' youse were so fuckin' valuable."

"You... You said you needed-"

"An' youse believed me?

Kasoria smiled. That smile. The one he'd waited sixteen long arcs for Merry to see. The one that told him he wasn't leaving this chamber alive. The one that told him he'd been not fooled, not tricked, but blinded by his own absolute inflated sense of superiority and utility. Refusing to listen to the voice that warned him Kasoria would never willfully hire him, never sully even his blood-soaked name with his presence.

Merry understood all of this. He opened his mouth and his hands started to rise-

"Max? Take 'im. Alive."

Time to show you off, girl.

[Max]

For the moment the arrival of an outsider was not the most pressing issue to the room. Merry was the most dominating presence hanging heavy on everyone's mind. Their loathing for him eclipsed nearly all else, and it was only when Kasoria reminded them that he served some purpose to a job designed to benefit all, did their decries against the hated man's presence dim. They'd likely heard admonishment over Merry serving a purpose before. It was better to clarify their interests in the world of wealth before they wrestled with being forced to weather his antics again.

While two of the men tried to engage with the Old Man over the details, Merry couldn't remain silent. Max repeatedly found her attention forced back to him. It was as if the pea brain of a brute couldn't suffer even a bit without commanding the center of this dark and dreary underground stage. Rather than fight to remain back on topic like the rest of the reunited group, Max stopped wrestling her mind away from focusing on the unwanted scourge. She allowed him to hold her gaze instead.

There's something...familiar...about you...

The Rusalka had never met Merry. She was sure of it. She would remember a man like him: a sort whose gaze would awaken self preservation measures in any woman, and rouse her to vacate a tavern before it could occur to him he could follow her out. Her own tongue was quick to lash and challenge, but the way in which he employed his interruptions and irksome comments designed for response was vastly different. He thought himself powerful and important. Moreover, everything about his performance here suggested he thought he had some sort of immunity here too. He once enjoyed some sort of protection he believed was still in place.

Something...It'll come me.

Maxine remained silent as Kasoria caught the men up to speed with details he'd shared with her in a drug den. She noted how eyes seemed to shine at this particular opportunity, scratching and nefarious arts piled on top of coin and a simple task they all seemed comfortably suited toward. Those stares glowed when the coins and jewels came out. She snorted at his lie. Max had given him the lion's share of that take, and blew the rest on smoke, vials, and powder to shove up her nose, poison her lungs, and punch into her veins. Generally when one suggested a sizeable donation to a worthy cause, they meant an orphanage, place of worship, or a soup kitchen. Kasoria was a smarter man. He invested it instead.

Sly Old Man.

He had this plan brewing long before she was privy to it. He knew who he wanted with him and he knew what it would take to put them at his side. That included her too, but he didn't buy her as his shadow returned with things that shine. She clasped her hands behind her back patiently. The men rightfully made further inquiries. Then that thing spoke again, a squeaky wheel demanding Kasoria's attention and seeking to torment the men forced to share air with him by merely reminding them of his involvement. The inflated sense of self worth demanded to know how he might serve a greater, more suitable role compared to the lesser men among him.

He got his answer.

Max watched as the criminal's carnivorous gaze cracked to Kasoria with a vacation from derision into curiosity. Merry stumbled, confident mind circling about and still coming to the same conclusion: he'd made a grave error. His shield had vanished and he was surrounded by men who hated him down to his core, and salivated for an answer to wrongs that brought him such sweet satisfaction he'd never claim sorrow for. Arcs too late he would feel the swell of great trepidation and terror felt by a boy holding closed a door against the overwhelming, serenading threat preparing a swing through the barrier. Except Merry stood alone and for no noble cause but the preservation of his own worthless hide.

"Max? Take 'im. Alive."

The men watched as Maxine rolled her shoulders and her mask slipped into a dark, stoic expression. Her unassuming, quiet presence at Kasoria's right hand had dropped as simply and quickly as though she'd rid a scratchy shawl from her shoulders. A woman would be no match for Merry. He'd beaten and conquered many before her, drinking their tears and riding the highs of their cries while he expelled himself in a culmination of horror that celebrated his own superiority. A spider monkey of a lithe female, even boasting a collection of swords and daggers for the naked eye to behold, would be no match for the man who sneered as he smashed children's skulls like eggs broken into a breakfast skillet.

But Maxine was not just a woman. She recognized Merry now. They had different appetites and impulses, but one monster knew another when it crossed their path. She wanted him the moment she set her sights on him. From the very moment she followed Kasoria into this room.

And Merry had already revealed to her his hand.

The shocked wretch's hand raised and the shimmering air soared to his rescue. The barrier was built, Abrogation Spark singing in his defense like a white knight even as she greeted him with the jarring change from standing to a lunging charge. The other man stepped away with brows raised and eyes skeptical. Their thoughts were already on their own weapons, thinking they ought to be prepared to step in shortly to accomplish what she couldn't. That's when Maxine's gloved fist smashed straight through the shield as though it was glass. Their faces fell.

Merry hadn't the time to comprehend the impossibility which had just befell his defenses before she was on him. Her hands circled his hips and tugged him toward her, while her forward momentum drove him backward. He landed with a huff on his back with the Rusalka atop him. Her knees slid high on his chest well past his bucking hips, saddling him in a way he never wished for a woman to ride him while she rained active punches to his face. The few times he managed to raise his hands from a face guard to try to activate his magic, her stun gloves were swallowing his ether the moment it manifested.

And the hits kept coming.

One of her elbows caved in his nose when she brought her full weight down behind it. Blood covered her knuckles, elbows, face, and Merry was sputtering in it now---fully panicked. She knew how mages hid behind their crutch of a power that feels so supreme, and her answer to it so inconceivable it's never planned on. She exploited that now. It was too late by the time Merry's lizard brain devolved back to his mundane, murderous roots. He lurched up to reach for the throwing dagger accessible on her waist, and she answered by retaining the weapon, snapping his extended elbow over her rising knee, and wrenching him onto his stomach as he howled.

We're not done yet.

She reseated herself on his hips where he laid face down, a hand snaking up to control the back of his head which she began to bounce like a child's ball ruthlessly into the stone ground. His flailing and rocking began to die. She kept smashing. The shouting, or attempts at words he never managed to get out to protest, curse, or plea with turned muddled and then silent. Max paused only when she heard the first bloody gurgle as he sputtered red spittle, teeth, and gore. She raised his head off the ground and placed a dagger under his throat. The edge of the blade bit into the skin just enough that through his pain, shock, and defeat he could feel its threat.

"One word," Max growled between rageful breaths. "One fucking word out of turn, one speck in the air I might mistake for magic, and I'll make you a smile..."

The Rusalka looked straight up toward Kasoria in wait for more intention. She didn't care to appraise the reaction of the other men. She took Merry without a single use of a Chrien-granted ability, and hiding that detail of herself for now was the best offering of good will she could muster. Her eyes and focus were steady on the Old Man despite the way the Ambrosia buffer faded and she could feel herself beginning to wither, demanding narcotic consolation for her efforts as is custom in the trade of dominance over ether.

[Kasoria]

Kasoria wondered how all that must have sounded, to a man blind or beyond the archways of the cavern. Voices. One disbelieving and uncertain, the other cold and wrathful. Silence... then a horrific, unnatural crack, like glass and wood being shattered by an ax head. Grunts, thick with exertion. Growls and yelps of pain. The heavy, wet sound of fists and elbows on flesh.

Breaking bones. Like snapping twigs wrapped in cooked meat. Screams.

Crunching. Cracking. The dull, hollow tchwacking of a skull being smashed on stones that was almost comical.

Just that sounds, for quite a while. Then gasping, pained breathing. The murmuring hiss of a threat... then silence again.

Kasoria could afford to ponder this, as he watched what unfolded. Because he never doubted what the end result would be. Merry knew what he was capable of (well, at least half). He knew even better the strengths and skills of the rest. But Maxine? She was a mystery to all. He could but assume and hope his magic could defend himself. Kasoria had mused beforehand that maybe it could. Maybe he'd learned. Then he'd scoffed at the notion, and remember whom he was thinking of.

Too arrogant to learn more. Shields and Barriers. Nothing else. Lazy cunt.

Once that was taken from him, Maxine just... overwhelmed the bastard. Furious and relentless, her fists and elbows and knees crashed into him over and over. When he tried to retreat or defend, she smashed though his defenses. When he tried to counter or draw or strike, she took his sloppy blows without a flinch or stopped them... or broke the offending limb.

The Raggedy Man smiled softly, proudly as Merry's arm broke in the middle, drawing a pained scream from his lips. If he was recalling right, he'd taught her that. Just not from that position.

"Fuckin' Fates," Raand muttered. "Where'd yeh find that monster, Kas?"

"She found me."

Kasoria started to walk slowly towards the two. Just as Maxine was getting the last word in with Merry. By the time he stopped, six feet in front of the man, she was looking up at him with the mien of a bidden dog. Curious as to whether it should drop it, or tear it's throat out. Kasoria gestured her off him with the tight wave of his fingers, and se obeyed. As she did, and Merry tried to shuffled up to his knees, Kasoria dropped to his own... and placed his palms to the ground.

Come.

His Spark listened, and pulsed, spread, delved into the ancient stones. Like roots exploring and winding through dirt, his ether infested and infused the stones under Merry. He was beyond begging now. Barely conscious. Boysish features forever ruined. Teeth scattered around in front of him like an arc of blood and broken bone. One arm useless, twitching at his shoulder. He tried to crane his head up. Stare up through one eye not closed by blood and bruises. Managed to do so, just in time to see Kasoria whisper-

"Spikes."

The ground erupted at Merry's sides. Not slowly, either. Stone worked into spikes, thick as pikes and just as sharp, shot up from the ground. Shapecrafted into weapons of torture that made Merry scream again as two on each side of him pierced his forearms and biceps. Not just impaling the muscle and flesh, but raising him up, and up... until his feet were off the ground, and he was vertical again... arms out as if crucified, spikes of stone holding him in place.

Kasoria's furrowed brow finally loosened. That took some precision, so it did. But ah, such things worth waiting arcs for, required sacrifice and patience in the getting. He got up to his feet and moved closer. He heard the sound of leather on stone, and knew Maxine was by his side... but not the others. They still stood where they were. Not afraid, exactly, just... struck. Staring as if in disbelief, not in the brutality displayed but the power now held by their old Highmark. The power he wielded, and the power of another he commanded.

The Raggedy Man smiled, and favored Maxine with a cat-fast wink.

Told you we'd make the right impression.

"Youse were never gunna leave 'ere, Merry. Not jus' cuz I wanted youse dead, an' 'ave done fer arcs. Cuz yer a hideous lump a' organs wi' no loyalty, no honor, no code an' were twisted in the womb t'crave blood an' pain a' innocents."

He didn't even care how pompous or self-righteous he sounded. It was the truth. Even to men like him, like Raand and Miki and the rest, even to one like Maxine who believed herself so damned... Merry was beyond the pale. He existed to cause pain. He reveled in it. Kasoria had hear it said that all men, no matter how evil, believed themselves the heroes of their own story. He'd long concluded Merry was the exception. He knew what he was, and was fully aware the damage left in his wake. And he chose it, because he liked it.

"But I'll tell yeh summin' else, too," he continued, voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. If Merry was still even capable. "I needed t'show these lads I ain't gone soft. So I needed an example. Coulda' been some cunt I dint know, I suppose. Woulda' been a shite thing t'do, but, well... s'a cunt's game, isn't it? But then I remembered youse, Merry. An' summin' about birds an' stones rattled into me 'ead."

He drew Shadow Slayer, pouring ether into it the moment the red-steeled gladius touched the air. Everyone save Kasoria either looked away for a moment or shielded their eyes. Lightning crackled up and down the weapon like a storm had been chained to it. Heat seemed to blaze from it, even though one couldn't actually feel it. Only Merry didn't blink. Terrified, disfigured, toothless, drooling blood and bile through puffy lips, his terrified eyes couldn't stray from the blade. Kasoria held it before him... and he smiled.

"Fer what youse did," he whispered. Now only the two of them could hear. "Miyam's waitin' for yeh."

Something bubbled and sobbed through Merry's ruined face, but Kasoria was no longer listening. No longer waiting. He drew back the crackling blade and with a yell that spoke to arcs of anger, seasons of rage, he swung the long gladius horizontally-

-magma-hot blade ripping through flesh and bone and muscle and leather and cloth-

There was a wet, heavy sound. Kasoria would guess most listening wouldn't have guessed it. How often, after all, does one hear the sound of half a man, from the pelvis down, cut clean from the rest of him, and smack into the ground?

Merry couldn't even scream. The horror, the disbelieving shock of what he was seeing, stilled his lips completely. Kasoria thought that a nice touch. He was, after all, still making a point, here. He stepped aside, so the four other men could see his work. Feast their eyes on Merry's innards come hissing and slopping out from his torso like writhing yellowed and pinked snakes. See his foot twitching, far away from where the rest of him was. To burn that look of terror in his eyes, the stench of acrid, cauterized flesh, the sound of stuttering, half-mad, incoherent terror into their brains.

Kasoria didn't flick Shadow Slayer to the side. The heat of the metal burned away any blood or foulness from it in moments. Instead he raised it in front of him, as if in salute... while looking at the men he'd drawn back together.

"Youse jus' wanted t'kill him, dincha?" Vaul finally said, after swallowing heavily first.

"Aye."

"An' show us yer not t'be fucked wiv'."

"Youse already knew dat, Raand."

"I'd say you felt the need to remake the point, Highmark," Belial said, dragging his eyes away from the swiftly dying (but not too swiftly, praise be) Merry. "Magic, deception, theatrics, your... quite delightful new friend," the young archer flashed a smile that had made many a girl swoon Maxine's way. Kasoria resisted the urge to warn him not to pet it if he didn't want to wake up with his balls down his gullet. "Our Highmark, aged but not weakened. Still worthy to leader. That the idea?"

"That an' the money. Mostly the money."

SNAP-SNAP

Mikiros mimed something and Kasoria decided right there he was going to work out some basic vocabulary from this point in. Shite was taking forever. They all watched his hands move and there was silence again. All of them looking around, seeing if anyone else had worked it out-

Merry's bowels let loose his shit and he was able to see it happen from four feet in the air. No-one else even noticed as he started to have a seizure.

"... somethin' 'bout makin' an example of Merry?"

Nod.

"None of youse're Merry. Not even close, on yer worst trials. I wanted yeh here cuz I could trust yeh, an' I know yer Vri on fuckin' legs, armed or unarmed. That cunt? Unfinished business, an' I saw a chance to draw 'im out an' end 'im before I leave again fer fuck knows how long. Wasn't an example, cuz anyone who might see already knows the lesson. He jus' earned a nasty crossin', an' I was glad t'give it."

No arguments there. Just nods of silent agreement. Kasoria heard a strangled, gargling sound, turned around... and found glassy, dead eyes staring at him. Merry was beyond torture anymore. At least not in this world. Ever thorough, Kasoria swung the blade again, blade still burning, fed by his ether-

THUNK

Merry's head smacked onto the stone, so misshapen by Max's beating and wet from blood it didn't even roll. Kasoria allowed a few trills for the lightning to burn off the blood, then shut off his ether from the blade. Hungry but obedient, the blade listened to him. The black runes ceased to glow, then the red steel. Soon it was... just a fancy looking sword again. Kasoria sheathed it and spared Merry another handful of trills.

Not just for what you did. For what I didn't do. What I didn't stop.

There was a thrill, a pang of something unwanted in his guts as he thought, as he remembered. He wasn't strong enough back then, in his heart and his soul, to prevent what Vorund had set in motion. He obeyed like a good hound, and never questioned. Even when the death of children was part of the job. It was just business, just work, and Miyam's fault for being so damned principled. So he'd hated Merry and cursed his vileness... but he never looked backwards a his own hands.

Not until long after. Now... this was the best he could do.

He looked away from the still suspended torso and arms, the legs and pelvis on the ground, and the head with its wide eyes in front of them, and vowed never to think of the cunt ever again.

"Anyway... dat's the job. Oo's in?"

[Max]

Maxine's starving eyes recognized his gesture and she dismounted her prey. She shoved his head roughly down after removing the knife, and took a few careful steps away so that Kasoria could take the space to work in her stead. She turned and stood off to the side as though triangulating Merry with the Old Man. In a blink she could be back upon the sorry soul, stun gloves swinging or knife glinting for purchase. For now she returned to silence and waited.

The dumb thing that was now Merry tried to peel himself from the bloody ground she'd laid him to. He had no choice. Like a deer sullied with an arrow, he knew he it was time to scramble or just wait to die. As he moved so did the Old Man. Down on his knees and palms to the ground, she felt the summoning just before they arrived. She felt it in the shifting earth, the moaning and rumbling of ancient rock warning her through the very soles of her boots.

Like remembering a hand on a hot stove, Maxine's eyes widened for a moment and she backed away from where her senses told her rock was rising on the mage's command. The noun was whispered and the earth obeyed. The spikes shot up from the floor to impale his flesh, trapping and raising him all at once. Max fought the urge to advert her gaze or so much as tighten her eyes to show the deep reaction within. Her feet shifted beneath her in place.

She vividly remembered Earth Mask sending an earthen spike up through her foot while she'd helped Vega escape many arcs ago, impairing and trapping her while the ceiling fell in a death trap. Faith saved her foot. She was a gimp with a crutch, a cane, or a limp for the season. She healed but her mind had not. The experience launched her into her deep hatred for mages and all things arcane, and the memory wasn't lost on her now.

He isn't them any more than Sephira, Kura, or anyone else there was.

Maxine pressed her lips together. She remained even with Kasoria despite her inner turmoil and discomfort. The dark stoicism remained fixed to her expression. Her knife tap, tap, tapped its rhythm on the side of her leg. A strange but known anxiety outside of what she was seeing began to creep and crawl to her awareness. She adjusted her jaw and noted the gradual thumping that had come to life with more vigor in her skull. Her ability to remain still was not going to hold for much longer than this drawn out, deserved execution.

A drink. Just a couple shots of rum will stave it.

Kasoria offered her a wink and Max offered him a delayed beam of a smirk. Then her face returned to its mask. She focused on taming her body and mind while Kasoria went about his soliloquy long overdue. She didn't even so much as flinch when the strange, impressive sword hacked the risen man in two.

She tilted her head, watching expectantly until the mess of innards dropped like swings from a branch merely missing a seat, twisting and spitting grotesque fluid onto this hollowed ground. The Rusalka moved her eyes next to Merry. She let her mind ask distracting questions while she observed the merciless killing.

How long before he comprehends his fate? Does he feel it? At what point does the body turn off the brain, with all that blood and shock to account for?

The Rusalka didn't turn as the men addressed Kasoria for his choice and what it meant for them. Her murky eyes were still staring at the stony-crucified and mutilated body, watching the process of a monster squirm in the grasp of a fate he had no hope to escape now. His end was written. Vri and Famula already were aware of his impending arrival. Her interest only became loss when the head was severed and life was long gone from the man.

If a tavern or an Inn is still cooking, I could probably fish enough for a roast. I'm fucking starving.

Max spun back around on her heels and slipped her knife back into its place on her belt. She folded her arms across her chest. Now that a belated punishment was doled out justly, and in the audience of men who craved its coming, they could return to business. This crew was quirky and she hadn't yet seen what each were capable of, let alone if they could be trusted. Only Kasoria had her loyalty. He vouched for them though and that would have to serve as evidence enough that they were at least competent.

When Kasoria asked for an answer from each man she let them answer in turn, monitoring them for apprehension and over what if they raised a concern. The silent brute seemed sturdy even if communication with him was impossible for the time being. The swordbearer was quick to turn on an evil man in his midst, even if he was a mage and a powerful adversary, which Max could appreciate. The archer was down a leg but he was quick on the bow and his confidence hadn't suffered a lick. None had shied away from the work after all the ugliness of Merry's end either.

When they were through she felt eyes upon her. Especially the Old Man's. She showed up at his side as bidden, and completed her portion of the violence as asked without rebellious license he likely had been also testing her for. This time she stuck to the plan. The crew would do, and this culling of righteous retribution as a first order of business fed a part of her soul that had been sorely neglected. This was a leadership she could fell in behind.

But Maxine was a fickle character. In response she merely looked from the group to the incarnadine mess that remained of Merry, and began to slowly nod her approval. That was it. No answer. No affirmative yes. Just the silence and the nod. Then, like a wraith, she wandered back through the darkness, away from the meeting in that killing chamber, and vanished.