Zoltia

Thump. Thump. Thump.

In a slow, mesmerizing cadence, the sticks pounced upon the drum like weapons. One after the other, each resounding blow sent shivers through her body like an echo. There, standing mingled with the face of the festival crowd, a small girl felt an even smaller hand holding her own. She felt safe.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The girl lifted her head skyward. The Sacred Flame was growing darker. Its radiance began to recede into itself, devoured by something invisible to the eye -- color washed away from the streets and the shadows cast around them crawled into the fading light as though it were alive.

She wanted to squeeze their hand for comfort as a sudden tightness gripped her lungs, but only empty air brushed aginst her frigid fingertips. And as if drawn to him, her eyes returned to that man on the drums. His hands were no longer moving, and his eyes seemed to pierce through her with a silent knowing.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then, she realized. There was no sound in this world. That was her heartbeat she was hearing.

***

One of the corpses opened its eyes.

In repositioning himself for another potshot with the bow, an unlucky bandit's leg ventured a little too near and was instantly seized by something that had, until just now, lain entirely prone on the sewer walkway. His eyes widened in horror as black smoke erupted from his ankle; the hand that grasped him tightened like a burning iron, sinking deeper into his flesh as it burned away through disintegrating meat. The man shrieked like a wounded animal and kicked wildly at the corpse, not even his rotted, drugged out brain was capable of dulling the pain.

With one hard tug, he yanked himself free and drunkenly staggered into a full pratfall that left him collapsed on his rear. Searing fire crept along his pants from the shin up, which he desperately tried to extinguish by swinging his leg around until in an uncharacteristically intelligent move he remembered where he was. Scampering toward the flow of sewage on all fours, his entire body was suddenly lifted up by the back of his collar before he could douse his leg and was unceremoniously thrown against the wall.

In the split second that he was dazed, the corpse -- now standing -- pinched the knife from his belt and drove his own blade through his side. A light love tap on his shoulder set his torso abruptly ablaze, and she kicked the burning man into his bow-wielding partner, spreading the gift of fire to the next startled bandit.

From the far side of the ongoing battle, disciple of the Sacred Flame Maria Solaster stood to her full height, back from the dead. She felt along her ribs with charred fingers and sensed wet, sticky blood soaking through the cloth. Well, maybe she hadn't escaped death just yet.

Lio dodged with minimal movement as the spear was thrust forth, avoiding it with more of a sway, each time the spear sliding right past his stomach. On the third jab, he brought down his elbow and shot up his knee - pinching the spear’s shaft between them. The rotted wood burst into splinters and the spearhead fell harmlessly by Lio’s feet. The bandit looked at the stick in his hands, then behind Lio to the skull fragments embedded in the wall, and ducked out of the way right as his companion rushed forward to pummel Lio with his shield. Lio punched it.

The bandit stumbled back, two pieces of broken driftwood in his hands brought up to protect his face. He peered hesitantly between the pieces to see Lio blowing splinters off his knuckles. Lio glanced his way, and his lips quirked into a little cocky smirk.

"GNAAA!" A spear-wielding bandit screeched, one hand raised to shield his dark-adjusted eyes from Wilthro's blinding gaze. He stumbled back, back down the stairs, until he missed a step, and fell…

...Right as an arrow pierced his neck. Blood spurted. His jaw quivered. With his last, gurgling breath, the bandit turned his eyes towards his killer - Ashera, her drawing arm held high, two fingers pointed skyward.

Thud.

A bandit archer's screech echoed as his lanky body plummeted into the abyss, Esther's tall figure shrinking from his sight. The second archer's body fell limp. He wheezed his last breath, the alchemist's knife lodged deep within his windpipe. The symphony of a dozen punches rang in the background. Flesh pummeled, bones crunched, and a battered body slammed into the wall with a heavy smack.

Then, within the depths, fire rose. It spread like a disease, from one flailing bandit to the next. They screamed and screamed, their greasy, grimy forms especially vulnerable to ignition. The flames lit up the dark dungeon just a little brighter, catching the group's eye and directing them to the figure of… a woman. Her white robes were almost drowned out by blood and grime. Almost like a fabled revenant, back from the dead to exact furious vengeance.

The bandits' crude formation broke, most having felled by fire and steel. Those that remained slipped between grates, crawled through drainpipes, and fled, back into the darkness from whence they came.

A burning, screeching bandit waddled towards a grate, but fell before he could flee, his flesh blackened to a crisp. Silence returned to the sewers, and with it, the taste of victory.

Lio bounced up, jittery with adrenaline, and shook his burning fists with an exuberant “Whoop!” He did a quick headcount, then turned his attention back to the resurrected woman in bloodied white robes. He went through a few obvious calculations behind his eyes before coming up with a name.

“Lady Solaster,” he called over with a bow, “Aren’t I happy to have one less corpse to loot.” At that, he pulled a roll of bandages that matched the ones on his hands from his pocket and hurled them over her way, then ducked down to shift through a bandit’s pockets. He came up with a set of knucklebones, real bones - uncertain specimen. He spared a grimace towards the Sacred Flame cleric that had fallen with her, but was yet to get up. “Who’s getting the bad news?”

"Loot me and I'll strangle you." Maria answered matter-of-factly, resting a gloved hand on her hip. Sopping hair clung to her neck and shoulders, and her usual veil was likely floating well on its way down the stream. This slimy, disheveled looking woman had seemingly risen from the grave once already, and there was little doubt she'd do it again if anyone so much as laid a finger on her body.

She shared Lio's gaze down at her fallen comrade, rolling the body over with her boot to get a better look at his face in a display of blatant disrespect for the dead. Well, the probably dead. She squinted as if to better ascertain his identity, but after a few seconds something on her face said that she didn't really know or care.

"Think his name was Jeremy or something," she said, getting her partner's name completely wrong. "Wasn't paying attention, I hardly the know the guy. Oh well, he's in a better place now." With that said, she grasped her pendant and knelt down to offer a surprisingly solemn prayer for his spirit, deeply lowering her head. The whiplash on this woman was incredible.

"Looking for some lost company, I take it?" Maria cracked an eye open, still kneeling. "I don't recognize your friends there."

“-and then Hugo comes flying over the fence, arms full of greens, screaming at us to run, run, run! Only Jeremy and I are still trying to get this carrot out of the ground, both of us just tugging and tugging as hard as we can, except it’s not budging! And Hugo sprints over to us, dropping some chard, and starts pushing us, pushing us, ‘we need to go, we need to go!’ But Jeremy and I are stubborn, we’ve spent a good five, six minutes on this one damn carrot, so we tell Hugo, we aren’t leaving without this damn carrot! And he looks behind him, and there’s six dogs coming right for us, biiiig Stormhold hounds, so he drops the greens and gets in next to us, wrapping his hands around the base of the stem to help, you know? So we heave and we heave and the dogs are right on top of us and right when it looks like they’re about to lunge the damn thing finally comes free and it’s a fucking mandrake!!” The old woman was nearly howling with laughter as she recounted her tale.

Anaïs covered her chuckle with one hand, the side of her pencil pressing against the tip of her nose.

“We couldn’t hear for three weeks after that,” she continued, regaining her composure. “Knocked the hounds right out, though. Got out with the greens and the mandrake. Made a killing off that little bastard.”

Anaïs’s pencil lead scratched across the thin paper of the journal as she wrote down the rest of the story. Her right hand speared a slice of honeyed apricot with a fork as she finished. “And they never caught you?” she asked around a bite of sticky sweetness, setting down the pencil in her left hand.

The woman laughed over the rim of her teacup. “Oh, they almost did, but Hu- Hu… Hugh?” She lowered her hands slowly, her eyes flicking back and forth in confusion.

Anaïs swallowed her piece of apricot. “Ma’am? ...Miss Wendy? You alright?” She stood and moved to the old woman’s side, setting a concerned hand gently on her shoulder.

Miss Wendy rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, shaking her head as if to clear some fog from her mind. She looked up at Anaïs after a moment, blinking several times as she steadily came back to herself. “I’m so sorry dear, what were we talking about?”

“You were telling me about your brothers.”

Miss Wendy’s eyes searched Anaïs’s face, lips slightly parted as she attempted to recall. “My brothers… I’m sorry dear, I don’t…” She brushed a few silver threads away from her forehead. “Where was I...?”

Anaïs’s mouth hung open for a second, then pulled shut into a small smile. “It’s alright, I needed to be going anyway.” She stepped away from Wendy and picked up her journal and pencil, then grabbed a couple more quick bites of honeyed apricot. “Are you alright? Do you need help getting home?” she asked, stuffing her things into her satchel.

Miss Wendy gave a small, tired laugh, picking her teacup back off the table and swishing around the liquid inside. “I’ll be fine, dear,” she replied quietly. “I don’t live far.” She perked up, clearing her throat. “I do appreciate you so often taking the time to come listen to an old woman ramble. I know you must be busy with the library, An- Ani…” She shook her head again. “Well, this is just humiliating. I’m drawing a blank.”

“Anna,” Anaïs replied.

Miss Wendy squinted for a moment, then nodded her head. “Right, right. Ugh, don’t ever get old, dear. It’s not fun.”

Anaïs gave Wendy a thin smile. “Yes ma’am. I’ll just stay young and beautiful forever.”

Miss Wendy laughed at that. “Good girl!”



Anaïs shielded her eye from the late spring sun as she stepped off the busy streets of Arc de Lume, leaning against a wooden railing by the canal to pull her journal back out of her satchel. It was quiet here, well away from the clatter of carts or shouting of merchants. Nearly as quiet as the University grounds which housed the Archive. She flipped open the cover of the journal, then ran one finger under the words written on the first page. ‘Peasant Tales’. Miss Wendy wasn’t the only voice who’s memories she’d recorded herein. She’d spoken to a small number of other folk of advanced age, and she felt glad that she’d managed to get as many of their stories down as she could before their memories were gone.

It still hurt, though.

She sighed, then pushed off the railing and stuffed the book back into her satchel. Its pages were almost full, now. Maybe one or two more, and she’d be ready to commit it to the Archives as a proper record. That being said, she did have other matters to attend in the interim. What had that dwarf’s name been, again?

And that’s when it ended. Not with a bang, but a grand display of fire and a whole lot of screaming weirdos sporting some hot new outfits. The rest? Well, they smartly slinked back into the depths of the sewers where no stink could escape. For all their freaky splendour and animalistic instinct that spoke more to eating their prey as soon as they could sink their teeth in, the crowd of bandits was more easily dispersed than Serena would give them credit for. Guess that instinct wasn’t failing completely when it came to retreating with imaginary tails between their legs.

“And good riddance, too.” The pirate nodded with a little too much relief; the disgusted grimace making way for her usual smile. They were alive. That counted for several positives, didn’t it?

Too bad they were still mucking about in a sewage system…

With Wilthro back in his usual glowing disposition (and seated more comfortably on her shoulder than before the fight, weirdly) Serena followed closely behind the rest of the group to stare and gawk at the newly reanimated corpse. A flame priestess, apparently. Not the most cheery lass she figured.

Either that or she really didn’t care much for people. Specifically poor dead Jeremy. Poor sod, given the literal cold shoulder by a pretty woman. Maybe he could’ve livened up the situation by timing his resurrection to this very moment. Serena offered the corpse an apologetic look before turning to face the priestess.

“Just seeing if nobles really shit diamonds, rescuing damsels. The usual fun stuff.” She answered, flashing the woman a grin.

“You’re not the sewer princess we’re looking for, right?” She probably didn’t expect a serious answer, only glanced at her companions for acknowledgements. Never hurt to check the credentials. Some nobles would always relate back to another in the end; which probably made family reunions a mess to organize.

“You got some seasoning on you.” A single finger pointed out the obvious smear on the woman’s clothes. “No wait, that’s blood.”

Caught up in the midst of battle, the sudden inferno was as much a surprise to Ashera as it was to their assailants. Fortunately for her, she wasn't the one given a surprise flame bath. The troglodytes that weren't already burnt to a crisp made a swift retreat to the holes they crawled out of. Hopefully that would make them think twice about attacking again, the elf thought to herself.

The lingering question on her mind of where all that fire had come from was interrupted by the sight of what could only be described as the dead – or rather, nearly dead – come back to life. Ashera jumped back out of shock before realising this was not another threat. The elf watched as this 'walking corpse' gave its less fortunate comrade a borderline disinterested poke with a boot before immediately delivering last rites.

To Ashera, the figure's appearance reminded her of the undead she'd heard of from childhood stories. Of course, they weren't real, and even if they were, undead didn't conduct themselves in such a manner, especially one so disjointed as this. But that didn't make this person look any less unsettling. Slowly, nervously, she approached the bedraggled priestess. But not too close. It was filthy enough just being down here.

At the priestess' question, Serena was quick to explain what brought them down here, in her own way. “Princess, not priestess,” Ashera reminded the pirate. “Or... heiress, I suppose? But these are mere semantics, and we can ill afford to waste time...”

The elf gave this scraggly stranger a more thorough once-over, her expression softening at the state she was in. Just how did she even survive all that? “Tell us, are you able to walk unaided? No serious injuries? There is an exit not far from here, if you can make it.”

The moment Esther saw fire, she wondered whether one of her potions slipped. She turned her eyes away from the engulfing flames, keeping back to a dry spot of stone near the walls. The mix of sewage and burnt flesh and garbage made the humidity only worse; and she could catch the scent of the burning waste through her mask. Her breath held and and her dagger tightly clutched by the hilt, she waited for the rest of the bandits to succumb to fire, promptly ending the immediate danger, before slowly walking up to the woman from the ashes of death.

"Lio, you should have warned us that you had an explosive friend," she said with a hesitant, shaky chuckle. Though Esther liked being humorous, one could not ignore how unsettling it was to watch. The alchemist held her dagger tighter than ever, as if expecting the Sacred Flame member to incinerate her at the merest of slights. She was relieved her helm was on tight, which hid her stressed facial features from everyone else.

"We're looking for an... associate of the High Paladin," she explained to Maria with a tight lip on what they actually knew. It was supposed to be a quiet matter, after all. "And we've been looking for the Red Hatchets that have kidnapped her." She briefly looked down at her boots, making sure the muck and grime hadn't already seeped through the soles. "Oh, and preferably without incinerating the whole place. Most of the gunk is flammable."

She held out a small healing potion to Maria. "This isn't the best time or place to check for injuries. This'll help soothe some of the bleeding and fatigue if you want to come along." A part of Esther hoped common sense would prevail and that Maria would tend to her wounds above. Another part got the feeling that she wouldn't listen.

Best to prepare for any circumstance. The group could use all they help they could get.

Maria finished bandaging up her most severe wounds, keeping an ear open as she pulled tight on the final knot.

"I don't take drinks from strangers," she said, seemingly trying to push the potion away with her gaze alone. And definitely not from a gaggle of mild-mannered sewer women; these were the witches three if she'd ever seen 'em. Carried by stuttering steps toward the wall, her shoulder heaved into it and braced against the stonework for support. Fingers gingerly wrapped around her oozing side, her chest rose and fell with long, quiet breaths. Her brow raised slightly while the redhead explained their presence down here in shit city.

"We're on the same page then. Cool. If it turns out I let unvetted help botch the rescue, my ass is smoked. So, try to make my life easy and we'll get along just fine. Otherwise I'll throw all of your rotten carcasses behind bars for obstructing the Order." Maria paused, then followed with, "I can walk. I'm just being dramatic, I'll take a look at my cuts later."

Pushing off the wall, she scanned the debris strewn about the sewer floor and spotted her weapon. She tucked the tip of her boot under the handle and kicked the mace into her hand, latching it to her belt. Her shield was nowhere to be found however, so she knelt beside one of the dead bandits and got to work. Folding his arm over, she gripped the edges of the wooden shield and yanked it from his stiff fingers.

"Oh, by the... way..." Maria grunted, rising to her feet. "I wasn't serious about the prison thing. Just a little joke."
She smiled warmly at them. Maybe genuinely, maybe... not.

Lio looked up from searching the bodies. He flopped the arms of the bandit he was propping up in the shape of a 'W' towards the others with a shrug at Maria's 'reassurance'. Then he let the body drop and hauled himself up, bouncing a small sack in his hand.

"WELL," he interrupted the tension lingering from the threat-or-not, "No ring here. Just a bottle of brown with something living in it, and a bag of -" He put a pause on sloshing around an ale bottle to pull the sack open, and a cloud of grey burst in front of his nose. He pulled the drawstrings closed as he doubled back, coughing. "... That's witchpowder. Raven, catch." He ditched the bag at her, then furiously rubbed at his twitching nose. "You'll think of something to do with it. Don't mind me if I start getting snappy." He pressed a thumb against his nostril and blew out his nose, hard. "Or pass out. We'll take your lead, Solaster."

The group moved on, walking past bodies and rubble. They found one of the grates the bandits escaped through. Lio stepped to the front, paler than usual, and yanked the grate from the doorway. The rust-red metal gave way with a shrill noise.

The party ventured forth. Further and further. The path grew narrow, into an old, brick-laid tunnel. Their steps echoed through the mouldy, dirt-encrusted walls. Faded remnants of graffiti etched upon the tunnels. Images and writings of red hatchets, growing older, darker, and blurrier the further they went.

And then, at the end of their path, they found… a door. Slightly ajar. Broad and thick, with a cool black colour peering between layers of rust. Darkness seeped between the cracks. A droning, rumbling sound came from within, like the growl of an old beast.

This was the only way forward. Lio pushed the door aside. The metal shrieked as it ground against the stone floor. Wilthro's lights shined into the darkness, and revealed…

A towering silhouette. More than eight foot tall, with arms like great oaken logs, held high and stretched far over the party. Strips of bone and carrion dangled from the ceiling like a macabre curtain. Inflamed by the owl's bright lights, the shadow's bellowing growl ascended into a roar, and the party's ears rang from such unearthly vibrations as it lunged for them!

---

Meanwhile, above ground, where the daylight was reflected in sparkles across the canal. The Royal Beaucourt University stood as a shining jewel in the Diamond Quarter. Behind its rustic arched windows, the finest scholars of Arc-en-Lume had conducted their studies and tended to its archives for more than five centuries.Three shapes exited its front doors. A tall, thin human scholar, a stout dwarf with an ink-black beard, and a drow woman in a hood, bound to the dwarf by a silver chain.

“...I’m tellin’ ya, Philibert. This will be the discovery of a lifetime!” The dwarf argued, with a loud and spirited voice wholly typical of his kind. “Think about it! Gala-Dor, home to the first and greatest dwarven kingdom!” The dwarf continued, his arms held high, his hands splayed open for emphasis. “Its significance to history can’t be disputed!”

“Significance to Dwarf history, Hilgur,” the scholar corrected as he pushed his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose. “No offense, but it’s not a subject many in Arc-en-Lume care about.”

Hilgur’s spirit deflated with his shoulders.

The scholar sighed, and looked down upon the dwarf with creased brows. “And that’s not even the biggest issue. This… this map, the one you claim to possess... Where is it?”

Hilgur’s stance turned rigid. His expression grew darker. “I told ya. It’s confidential. Ya’ll just have to have faith.”

The scholar turned away. “Hmph. Well, unfortunately, the University must again refuse your request. We can’t provide investment without evidence.” He glanced at Hilgur from the corner of his eye and turned his nose up. “We are academics. Faith is not empirical. Good day.”

Hilgur watched as the scholar strutted back inside. “Lousy smartass beanpole son of a...,” he uttered under his breath. With a shake of his head, the dwarf walked away, towards a bridge over the canal, with the drow in tow…

...Right into Anais’ view.

Anaïs considered her plan of action as she walked down the canal-side road toward the university. The dwarf had just been there yesterday, right? So if she started there, she could pick up his trail and-

Well, shit, there he was. Her eyes followed him for a brief moment as he walked across the bridge to the other side of the canal, accompanied by his drow friend with the silver… necklace. It certainly couldn’t be a chain. That was illegal. Anaïs jogged briskly after them, tied hair bouncing against the back of her neck and her boots thudding softly against the wooden planks of the bridge.

”Hey! Hey,” Anaïs called out, slowing to a walk a bit behind the pair. She glanced down her nose at the dwarf, then traced his path back the way he’d come. ”You just came from the University, right? Sainte Pucelle Memorial Archive?”

Anaïs cleared her throat softly when the two stopped and turned to face her. She straightened the front of her robe as she stepped up to them. ”Sorry. Sorry, I saw you there yesterday.” Anaïs didn’t tilt her head even slightly as she spoke to the dwarf, instead gazing down her thin nose at him, though her eyes repeatedly flickered toward the drow woman hidden in the cloak, as if trying to make it seem like she was consistently addressing both of them. ”I think you were talking to Philibert? I honestly didn’t expect you to go back, he’s not exactly the type to change his mind, and his refusal seemed a bit… firm. Oh, sorry, I’m Anaïs.” She moved to offer her hand, hesitated, and then let it fall.

Hilgur's steps came to a stop. He looked up, one brow raised, towards the woman who called for him. Her pale, narrow features and clean robes screamed 'noble', which stood in great contrast to her ...unpretentious… speech.

"Aye, lass. That I did!" The dwarf reached up to snatch her falling hand, and shook it quite vigorously. "Hilgur's the name. Hilgur Black-Mane."

The dwarf stepped back with a sigh, his right hand reaching to stroke his beard. "Ha! That egghead's more stubborn than a Jellico mule..." His cheeks raised over squinting eyes, failing to stifle his laughter. "...And twice as ugly! Hohohohoho!"

The dwarf cleared his throat, his grip unfaltering around the drow's chain. "So, what can I help you with?" He raised his other eyebrow, hoping against hope. "...Don't suppose you came to finance my grand quest?" Hilgur scoffed, his eyes drawn to her book holsters. "Maybe ya be the one human scholar interested in dwarf history?"

Esther held off a worrying look as she caught the bottle with her right hand. She merely looked at it, shaking lightly and hearing a heavy sloshing not unlike the sludge of the sewer. "Ugh. You'd think they'd know better than to take something so revolting," she commented lightheartedly amidst her revulsion. The Hatchets were, unfortunately, far too gone to consider saving. Their state of half-mindless savagery put them as less than beasts; the most she could do was try and find some levity in a murky atmosphere.

She carefully placed the ale bottle on her belt, thinking of what could be done with witchpowder. Almost any mixture had some intrinsic value if it was distilled or reconstructed with some specific chemicals removed. Perhaps this could become a painkiller. Or maybe she could turn it into a caustic explosive.

...Then she remembered the cloud burst when Lio opened the bottle and decided some things just shouldn't be.

---

The red-haired alchemist held her tongue down the rest of the sewer, aptly aware she'd either attract unwanted attention and/or draw the ire of her companions. The mask across her face grew uncomfortably damp and the sweat on her brow poured like raindrops. The narrower passageways had her walking single-file with the walls too close for her liking. For all the decadence that was Arc en Lume, at least it had clean air.

And she actually missed the surface the moment the giant THING came charging for them.

She pushed herself in front of Lio and slammed the metal door down under a rush of adrenaline. Just as quickly, she took out a vial of light blue liquid and threw it at the door. The glass shattered on the detritus below while a layer of permafrost covered the door. "Well, that's pleasant," she said with a painful groan; her ears still ringed in pain. "I doubt the door will hold long, so-"

*SLAM*

The metal door creaked and a part of the ice layer cracked off.

"Anyone have a plan?"

“You do know how to laugh, right?” Okay, Blondie was officially beginning to force a complete re-evaluation of Elves and their… odd behaviour. Not that certain knowledge was privy to her in the first place, but damned if there wasn't something creepy about the formality of it all. The way she carried herself, might as well have friends in high places here in Arc en Lume after all.

Serena flicked her attention from the Elf to the priestess, a single brow curling upward at the mention of jail time and the subsequent deflation of just having a laugh at the expense of threatening some strangers. “Flame worshipper with humour, huh? That's news to me.” The one anomaly, or did this one think you broke ice with a deadpan? The pirate managed a giggle. Good enough for her, she guessed. “You could be lying, though. Disarming us by pretending and then arresting us for the sake of it.”

Maybe she was simply accustomed to taking the worst case scenario and bracing for it. Serena didn't want to end up tossed in a dungeon for fun, though. Such a murky environment was only marginally better than her current one, although this had the upside of not being chained to the wall.

“Hey, better keep some of that.” Serena ogled the bag of witch powder with great interest. She wasn't a junky, obviously, but… “Worth a fortune if you know the right people.” She flashed Raven a knowing smirk.

The group soon resumed their navigation through the sewers with a new addition in tow, and Wilthro as the everlasting nightlight. “Lucky he never runs out of power, huh?” The little pirate said jokingly for want of clearing the awkward silence. Deeper they went, acquiring muck and grime along the way, and Serena was inclined to agree with Blondie's desire to take a nice long bath after all this was done.

“Bloody hell!” A deafening growl gave way to several sharp nails digging deep into Serena's flesh, and the pirate would've winced if she didn't already shriek at the looming monstrosity that lurked behind the door. Wilthro let out a frantic screech, clapping his wings and dragging Serena's shoulder with him. Something the pirate didn't appreciate at the worst of times. “GAH! Wilthro, you're hurting me!”

While Raven was quick to temporarily close the entrance between them and the next threat, Serena had managed to calm the poor owl somewhat. Alright, that wasn't a normal thing to see in the sewers. Magic waste or otherwise. “Think you could arm wrestle that thing?” She glanced over at the monk. “I'll bet in your favour if that helps.”

Otherwise, turning around and legging it, praying it couldn't keep up was the next best thing.

There was the flame priestess, of course. But somehow enduring another fiery blaze (and probably being in the middle of it this time around) wasn’t exactly top priority. Or… “Alright Blondie. How about an Elven touch for a change. Don't you breathe magic up there?”

Anaïs pulled her hand against her stomach when Hilgur released it, rubbing her fingers together in an attempt to will away to intense desire to wash her hands. "I don't know about the one human scholar," she said with a slight titter. "Gala-Dor's just… I mean, we get claims like that at least once every couple of- we just aren't really afforded the budget to go chasing after every groundless rumor, and the nobility isn't exactly the most academically minded, so..."

Anaïs's voice trailed off again, and she cleared her throat to try and get herself back on track. "An-anyway, rather than funding, I was actually hoping to, um." Her eyes lingered on the "necklace" for the briefest of moments, tracing its length from Hilgur's hand to the drow woman's throat. "Sign on."

Maria slowly lowered her mace with a frown.

"Well. I was going to beat the shit out of it. I guess now the plan is that we wait about ten seconds first."

Admittedly, the best plan of attack would probably be to put some distance between themselves and the door, and then bombard the thing as soon as it popped out; the combination of the owl's disorienting light, whatever chemical bombs the alchemist had on hand, the elf's bow and arrow, and her own motes of flame would likely be more than enough to give them opportunity for a clean finishing blow. Not that she felt like saying any of this out loud, of course.

After all, what's a battle without the thrill?

As much of a relief as it was to see the priestess comparatively well, Ashera felt just a little put off at the thought of being tossed in jail on a whim. “Then... we shall do our best not to impede you,” the elf replied before whispering to Serena, “Perhaps it's best we play it safe and not draw her ire.”

A cursory picking over the fallen bandits revealed very little. Ashera herself abstained from the looting, not even willing to consider touching such... filthy creatures. Lio, however, recovered a bag stuffed with a certain grey dust, tossing it to Esther. Ashera knew enough from her studies to recognise the substance from its name. “W-witchpowder? As if I weren't already glad enough of these masks...” She knew the stuff to be potent and dangerous in equal measure. No better person to keep hold of it than the trained alchemist.

With their rummaging concluded and another new face among their number, the group set off, deeper into the sewers. It seemed that the further they went, the more dank and decrepit everything was, and the more Ashera longed to be out of these wretched tunnels as soon as possible. Wilthro's eye-beams blazed a trail through the darkness all the while. Ashera fervently wished to ask the bird's owner just how long that light could last, and perhaps a hundred other things about him... but alas, this was neither the time nor the place.

As if to drive that point home, inevitably the next door they opened happened to have something unpleasant waiting for them on the other side. And big. Very, very big. Having sensed a vague, impending peril ahead in advance, Ashera had the foresight to have positioned herself near the rear of the group, bow in hand. But thankfully Esther had the initiative to seal the door with some frost-based concoction. That should buy them... maybe some time.

While the layer of ice splintered and groaned, Ashera's attention was quickly grabbed by Serena asking if she had anything useful to contribute to their predicament. At least, she was pretty sure that's what the pirate had said.

“You know... I may just have the thing.” Without further ado, the elf retrieved an arrow from her quiver – this one tipped with a crystal, faintly glowing from within. Yes... this one should do nicely. “If I could trouble you all to give me a clear shot?” she called out to the others. “When the door gives way, I shall provide you with an opening.”

Once Ashera had the line of sight she needed, she notched the arrow and drew back the bowstring. Her attention was focused on the frozen door, on the very instant that the monster would break through. As the appointed moment drew near, she began to whisper something in Elvish under her breath, causing the crystal arrowhead to glow brighter. Just before the door was opened, Ashera released the bowstring. Her arrow sailed through the door like a small comet, and detonated on impact with its target.

A cough leapt from the lips, parched and dry. Wrists and ankles hurt from their chafing constraints, of which clanked and jangled in the nearly silent air. The eyes were pressed shut, the face angled towards the ground as the lips parted.

A small song, empty and meaningless to any who weren't there during childhood, danced out from the mouth. It was a nonsense language, and it stayed relatively in tune with the rhythm the singer had kept to.
His voice was melancholy as he sang, the cuffs and shackles that held his wrists and ankles captive were shaken to follow the tempo.
Cl-clink clink, cl-clink clink, clink clink clink clank!
"'O lo saralfah! Ceis ta zufreird, 'o lo ad'hordah, clack tomst tsustat shu. Eest ta-" The song cutoff with a bang and a shout, a voice that sounded so equally tired and yet seemingly excited at the prospect of speech.
"Oh for the love of the Church would you please, SHUT. UP! Don't make me come over there Darkie! Yer in enough trouble as is, what with the thievery 'n all! Don't give me an'ther reason to wallop you thrice again!"
It echoed from the end of a hallway, a seemingly human voice perhaps, though considering they did not step into the hall, it was impossible to know for sure.

Iz'Hana raised his head, rolling his eyes and blowing his hair from over his left eye. He had taken to sitting on air, as it were, and though his arms were stretched upwards, he pulled himself into a standing position once again. His clothing and armor were gone, his mask as well, along with ... Practically everything he owned. The shackles at his ankles and wrists chafed horribly, and the constant inability to get comfortable was infurating.
"What a fuckin' pain."
The statement was whispered, mostly to himself. He gazed again around his cell. Four walls, three of which were stone work, and the other was simple iron bars. No privacy. No chance to hide anything. Rough.
Iz'Hana knew at most that he was in a hall that housed at least twelve other cells like his, with one of the other cells directly across from his. He only just glanced at it before returning to staring at the ground in front of him.

He shouted, abruptly, with a tone that seemed to border on indignation were it not for the wording. "Sir! I simply must ask again, when shall I be released?! I have done no crime, no theft was committed by my hands!"
There was a pause, some brief- faint- conversation, before the voice at the end of the hall shouted in return. "Whenever we say, quit askin'! The answer ain't gonna change in the three days you've been in there! Jus’ keep yerself content an’ maybe you’ll get someone to vouch for ya. Maybe! Hah!” A laugh, belly deep and cruel. Then the sound of footsteps fading away.

Iz’Hana wondered for a brief moment, how exactly it was that no one had escaped from this jail. The guard or guards, if one could call them that, were startlingly relaxed, and practically begging for a proficient enough criminal to break out.
Iz’Hana… was NOT that criminal. Most certainly not. His list of skills definitely did NOT cover how to pick locks, or how to slip past guards in an urban environment.
So instead, he was jailed in a cell, away from his gear, and most importantly: away from anyone else. Alone. Utterly.

Well, mostly alone, the guard was still there- but! All the same. Alone.

Iz’Hana hummed himself a small tune, trying to keep himself as quiet as he could possibly be.
And he waited. Waited for… Something. Anything.

Lio gave the group a flat look with burning red eyes. "You sorted?" He snapped, sniffed, then shook his head. "...Sorry. Here, let me get it."

He gripped the door handle and pulled, the ice cracking against his strength - then it flung open, and he ducked out the way with it, and Ashera's bowstring sprang back as the arrow flew through the doorway.

---

Though Dreador looked still, beneath her hood, her eyes were darting about in sync with her rush of thoughts. She followed the twitch of Anais's fingers, the hand on her chain, the woman's glances at it. Her chin lifted, just enough to raise her sky-blue eyes to meet hers with a wary expression. She lifted a dark, slender finger and wound the silver chain around it. And tugged.

"LAUGSHAT FRUM, ISG URDAN LAT, ZA SHARA MADURZ!" A booming baritone commanded from the other side of the door. "LAUGSHAT FRUM, ISG URDAN LAT, ZA SHARA MADURZ!" It repeated, this time to the rhythmic slapping of enormous hands on flesh.

The door was flung open, allowing the light to splash inside, silhouetting the enormous figure undulating over the groaning form of a Red Hatchet bandit. They were splayed out in the middle of what appeared to be a magic circle etched in chalk on the grimy sewer floor. "FRUM BARASH!!!" It screamed, as it lifted a chunk of some kind of crystal and crushed it forcefully into the bandit's back.

"IZUB DUSH MADURZ LAT ZA BOLVAG!!!" it bellowed, hoisting the man up in front of him at the crescendo. There was a notable pause as the arrow struck the man, exploding brilliantly and showering the entire room with viscera. The figure held it's oaken arms aloft for a long moment before his shoulders slumped, and his massive hands thudded slack to the ground.

"Frum kul nurz..." it muttered. "Ah! Frum kul nurz!" it spluttered, more urgently as it scrambled to its feet. It locked crazed eyes with the elf for a long moment before suddenly lunging towards the door. Charging into the light was the massive 8 foot tall figure of a bloodsoaked orc. "FRUM KUL NURZ!" he screamed at them, grabbing the door and slamming it, nearly ripping it clean off its hinges. The force reverberated through the sewer, splintering the stone frame.

After a few moments, hurried scribbling and muttering could be heard faintly from the other side.

While she had... something resembling a plan of action, Esther kept it down and merely pulled out a vial of sickly-clear liquid. Oil, and extremely flammable oil at that. While igniting sewers wasn't her preferred strategy, a large, bulky target was perfect for Maria's flames. A dash of oil would make it stick all the better. And no doubt it'd charge quickly to ram and/or tear the group apart.

So the alchemist braced for the worst, besides the sweat and humidity getting to her head, and unsheathed her dagger in her right hand, oil in the left. She waited, watched Lio open the door, then Ashera's arrow, that flew across the room and detonated with an explosive, crushing, damn near blinding flash that inevitably-

*SLAM*

-made the creature shut the door with a force great enough that it nearly shook Esther off her feet.

She was left quite stunned, slowly putting her oil vial and dagger away with naught but simple silence. Suddenly, she couldn't feel the sticky humidity of the sewer, nor the putrid smell her mask was blocking, and neither the waste that coursed around her boots. Her mind, fixated on one, strange question, was finally put to words. "Why is there an ORC in Arc en Lume?"

Was she expecting an answer? Of course not. Her mind almost considered the ol' Stormhold phrase of, "Fuck this," and seek funding for the exhibition from elsewhere. Fortunately, a cooler mind prevailed. "Well we aren't dead!" Her voice lightly shook, understandably more than concerned at the dilemma waiting on the other side. "So may I burn for eternity to suggest this, but maybe we should... converse with him?" No one in Stormhold would have approved of such an idea. They were the first line of defense against the orc warlords who tried to invade and conquering their land. The "proper" alchemist method to an orc threat was to drown it in fire, and more fire, and a lot of oil, maybe a little more fire, then encase it in ice, and maybe that will end it. But she didn't have the resources, nor the manpower, especially against something that treated Ashera's empowered arrow as a minor annoyance.

So the actual solution, Esther prayed, was to try and talk to it. "One of us surely speaks orcish, right?" No one had to point out that Esther... didn't.

"Orcish is pretty easy to understand. For example, if you beat them over the head that means 'start behaving'." Maria twirled her weapon in her hand, as if to soon demonstrate. "Might be a bit of a regional dialect though." She casually strolled up to the door and began rapping the head of her mace against its surface.

"Don't be shy, we just want to talk," she said, completely ignoring the fact that they just tried to kill them with an exploding arrow.

Serena braced herself for an epic struggle between man and beast, the sort of fight you’d hear in the bard songs of old. Three brave adventurers (and an annoying pirate) stood posed, ready to strike as Lio opened the door. Blondie’s arrow zoomed past and blinded the room in an explosion of light and viscera. The creature scowled and bellowed; arms as big as ship masts reaching towards the group.

… And then the door shut with a reverberating *clang!*

“Well, that was rude.” The pirate offered still struck with a mixture of fright and awe; eyes glancing from one group member to the other. Neither of them probably knew what the hell had just happened. First time she heard about it, anyway. Not that every Orc was prone to leaving doors open, certainly not the ones with some form of education. But an enraged Orc? Yeah, manners were lacking with those.

“Maybe he’s a tourist come to sniff some posh shit?” Serena flashed an uncertain grin and a light shrug of her shoulders. It had been a weird couple of days anyway, why not add a freakishly big Orc with a headache to the mix?

Now Raven, she had the right idea about it all. “Didn’t look the talking type, but I want to feel like I’ve done something today.” The pirate strutted over towards the alchemist, exchanging a quick glance with Wilthro who took the sign and fluttered over towards Esther’s shoulder. “He hates it when I do this, might want to hang onto him for a bit.” She said with a smirk.

What followed was a series of grumbles, growls and screeches, a sort of… vocal warm up for the damned if there ever was such a thing. And Serena had to suppress her own enjoyment out of the weirdness of it all. “Sorry, haven’t spoken to an Orc in a while. Just making sure I get the inflections right, otherwise...” She not-so-subtly slammed a fist into the palm of her other hand.

Not unlike what the flame priestess was planning to do in the first place. Had some strange ideas about making friends with the locals as well, that one, given her odd mannerisms when knocking on the door and kindly asking the Orc to come out of hiding. All the while keeping a tight grip on that mace.

Yeah, friendly pat on the head her ass.

“Right, step aside missy.” Serena eyed the flame priestess carefully. “Don’t want to get killed a second time.”

Serena put an ear at the door (which had received several dents and gashes because of poor handling) hoping to catch something. Anything that might give away the ludicrousness of this whole plan. There was a faint muttering, something she didn’t quite catch but what might’ve been in the similar vein that she’d heard the Orc mumble and scream about earlier.

Whatever it meant… Orcs were an odd bunch, and this one was even odder still.

The pirate pondered for a moment, pausing before giving a gentle knock on the door. “BADZURZ!” She growled, face contorting to a frown. “Badzurz dagronk! Izishu nargzab flas! Nar skazga!”

If there was anything she’d learned in her lessons, it’s that the orcish language wasn’t simply banging two sticks together and waiting until a head got crushed between someone’s thigh muscles. She hoped it still wasn’t. That would make this conversation an awkward affair moving forward, who would crush who and all that.

There was another pause… And then, “Sharog nurz frum!”

"Dushum ghashan," was the muttering behind the door... over and over. There was a notable pause in both the scribbling and the orc's muttering as Serena barked from the other side of the door.

"Hmm... impeccable grammar. 'Badzurz' is a command though, say it with your diaphragm... like... like oh!
Like you're gonna crush my skull between your thigh muscles," he corrected in a rumbling baritone. The scribbling resumed in silence for a long moment before the rustling sound of an enormous weight lifting itself to its feet thudded through the wall. He cleared his throat several times.

"BadZURZ!!" he bellowed, flinging the door open and taking a step towards them... at least as much of a step as the door frame would allow at least. "Hmm," he stroked his blood crusted beard for a moment before attempting to stuff his considerable girth through the door. He made several attempts to come through, including one where he backed towards them until he managed to slide himself through onto their side.

"Attention, puny mortals, it is I, Orcimedes, ruler of the Western Pass! Terror of Thum-Dor! Inconvenience of the slightly farther away Ruzmok-Dor! Mightiest of Shaman," he announced, sweeping his enormous staff grandiosely over their heads. "You tread upon the domain of I and my Warband, the Red Hatchets. But fear not, though one of my warboiz has succumbed to an evil spirit, I have contained it safely in the room thither," he explained, motioning behind him.

Indeed, behind him in the room, scrawled across the door and much of the floor was a fully realized magic circle with complete and accurate array tracing intersecting with the original seal in the center of the room... or at least it would be if the sigils inscribed resembled any known arcane language and not roughly sketched animals.

The orc slid himself gracelessly to the ground before them with a grunt and crossed his legs, laying his staff across his lap like an adolescent tree. Behind him, the battered door finally fell off its hinges.

"What is it you wish to speak of?"

Anaïs caught sight of a thin dark finger curl around the silver chain and tug it loosely in the drow woman’s direction. Her eyes shot to the bare glimpse of a sharp chin beneath the hood, then to Hilgur, then to the bridge they were standing on. Her eyes trailed something only she could see - the path of a guard patrol which had been across the bridge some twenty minutes earlier. If they kept to the usual schedule…

”I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Anaïs turned to face the drow more fully, her elbow angling ever so slightly between her and the dwarf she was bound to. Not enough to be suspicious, but enough to act, even a little, as a divider between them. She was speaking ever so slightly louder as well - just enough to make sure they were noticed, without being conspicuous. ”Are you a member of the expedition, or- he’s looking for funding, right? Are you a representative of a possible financier?”

Ashera winced at the crude, guttural speech that answered her magic arrow. Orcish. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard to her. The brute's nightmarish features stared straight at her from the open doorway, almost as if poised to charge. And then...

SLAM!

...and then it just shut the door on them, almost like a disgruntled elder wishing to get away from the younglings. Ashera stood there, agape, uncertainly grabbing another arrow in case this was some kind of feint. But when no attack came, her posture gradually relaxed. Ashera truly didn't know what surprised her more. That an orc was living in Arc En Lume's sewers (though such an environment was fitting for the creature) or Esther's suggestion to try speaking with it. Whether fortunately or otherwise, Serena happened to know the... language, for lack of a better word, and made efforts to reason with this orc. Curious indeed.

What completely threw Ashera for a loop was that not only did the plan actually work, but the response that came forth was so... articulated. More at home in the voice of a human noble than an orc of any stature. Nevertheless, the elf jumped back when this unusual orc suddenly burst out of the door and introduced himself as Orcimedes. More importantly, he mentioned that he was in league with the Red Hatchets. After finishing explaining why he was down here, Orcimedes went on to ask the same of the band of misfits that came a-knocking.

“You are with the Red Hatchets?” Ashera cautiously enquired. “Are they not all merely degenerate junkies? Or does witchpowder work differently on orcs and make them erudite instead?”