Closed In The Company of Chaos

[Elias Caldera]

The First Day of Spring, 515 AV

The sound of the blade as it struck the floor, that scraping, pounding clatter of steel on stone on steel again. It was all he realized he could hear anymore, like thunder in his ears. He’s saying something… the boy realized as wild and static eyes fell upon the still shuddering lips of his father. All the sound in the world had died in that moment save for the echoing ring of the dagger he hadn't even realized had fallen from his grasp. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. He didn't need to hear the man’s final words, not when he knew them by heart already.

“Elias, what have you done?”

The nightmare fell away as the waking world rushed forward to greet him. With a start, Elias reeled from his pained slumber, the chains that bound his hands and feet set to their peculiar metallic laughter as he struggled against them in vain desperation. A reflex in its entirety, one that faded from the forefront of his thoughts as his mad, startled eyes flew across his surroundings and the truth of his reality once again took hold of his senses. He was trapped. Imprisoned within four stark walls he could barely see. Walls he wasn't sure if he was ever going to escape anymore. Rhysol help him, He wasn't even sure he even wanted to. The Black Hole was a dark and decrepit place, unbearable in the just insinuations alone behind every skittering shadow and distant, drowned scream purveyed to those unlucky enough to ever know its dank halls. He couldn't recall how long he had been down here, trapped in the blackness of this forlorn myth that few even knew the truth of. He knew he certainly hadn't known the truth, not until they dragged his broken body down into its clawing depths and shackled him to the blood soaked walls did he truly understand this place was no fairy tale used to scare disobedient slaves and slacking apprentices. No, this place was his fate now. This place was his tomb.

It wasn't meant to be like this at all, not in the way he had painstakingly planned it for nearly a two seasons. But plans have a way of falling apart, especially when you try and plunge a dagger into the heart of a man you've hated and dreamt of killing for so long, and you realize all in one instant what a horrible, horrible mistake you've made. Not once, but twice now. He mused dryly through the throbbing in his head. The realization of the pain in between his ears was enough to signal everything else to begin hurting in agonizing tandem.

He couldn't remember what he had done specifically to make them suspicious, but clearly the Stryfe had known, likely from the very beginning now that he considered it, which he had...extensively. It wasn't as if Elias hadn't constantly been enshrouded in an cloud of quiet panic and hushed terror since the day of the fire. Walking out, carrying his father as he had, the mage had fully expected to die then and there, and perhaps it was the guilt, or the regret or the light-headedness from all the smoke, but part of him had been ready. After Torian, what was left for him anymore? Killing the man had been the only reason he had returned to Ravok, some days it felt as if it was the only reason he had survived the storm. Death would have been welcome then and there, like a period at the end of this tragic story's final chapter, but instead they flung him into a chair and interrogated him for days. Questions upon questions as they interrogated him, prying open his history and weeding through the lies he spewed to save himself out of instinct, not will.

He had told them what he felt he needed to, that it was the mercenaries that had been behind it all, and that he was just a victim in all this, just like his dear father had been. 'Those bastards' had kidnapped him like the cruel and monstrous men that they were, but he had escaped by the virtue of Rhysol, alive but near death. Part of that was true at least. He had been taken and thrown in a dark room much like his current accommodations, but not by the Rum Hound mercenary company, but instead by butchers who he had originally believed were hired by Torian to deal with his good for nothing son. It had been that belief that had sparked the entire debacle that had landed him where he was now and his father's body interred at the bottom of lake Ravok. Now, the mage doubted their affiliation entirely, which frustratingly meant he still had no name to blame for the nightmares that terrible experience still gave him. He wish it had been Torian, that way at least it would mean there was one less mistake to add to his already lengthy and growing list.

More lies followed, like webs being spun, they fell from his treacherous lips as easily as the truth did. After a night of... tedious celebrating in a tavern to commemorate getting better from all his woes and wounds, he had met a man who, as it turned out, worked for those very same mercenaries who had been the reason behind said woes and wounds. Befriended, tricked, and then kidnapped once more, the sell swords obviously had a vendetta they were desperately trying to enact, and for some reason that involved Elias. What he hadn't learned the first became evident the second, as the mercenary captain himself explained that they sought revenge for their fallen comrade, a man who Torian had slain. None of that bullshyke had happened of course, but Elias spoke it like it was gospel, and once he had found his flow during the interrogation, there had been no stopping him.

Using him to get to Torian, they had tried to lure the paladin to his death in an ambush, but instead the plan had gone tits up and it had all devolved into a mad melee somewhere in the merchant district. A fire broke out, his father had been slain by the mercenaries, and Elias had barely escaped, only to wind up safe and sound in the arms of his ebonstryfe saviors...

They didn't buy that tale then, nor did they buy it now.

Upon realizing as much, Elias had made the mistake of resisting, and for the briefest of moments, he actually believed he could have escaped... Just one more for the list.

They had beat him, and they had beat him badly. Kicking and punching and clawing until the young mage, lost in the stupor of the assault, once again that summer was brought to the edge of Dira's door. He was sure they were going to kill him right then and there, like they should have done countless times before. Elias knew he would have, if it had been him in their place instead of his own damnable one. They didn't however, and now that he felt it across every inch of skin, he understood why. This was much worse than death. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't hurt. No doubt bruises and welts covered his face and body, and he was certain something had to be broken inside. He was having an excruciating time trying to just open his eyes, in particular his right, which had apparently swollen completely shut. The other one wasn't too far behind from doing the same, and the darkness his wounds imposed upon him only served to make the veil of dread and dreariness that blanketed the chamber even more unbearable.

How long? The broken young man began to wonder, cracked and bloody lips slowly working in concert with his thoughts as they came to him. That was a mistake, moving his mouth to talk only reminded him of the teeth he had lost and the last vestiges of pain he was meant to be suffering. Talking wouldn't serve him any purpose now regardless. The dead didn't have much use for words. He slumped against his shackles helplessly, the cold, rusted metal biting deeper into the gnawing wounds they had left against his wrists. It must have been days, Elias realized after he finally managed to bite back the yowl that one small movement alone had elicited from him. Days of dipping in and out of consciousness, of threading the line between this world and whatever was next. He was thirsty beyond belief, and his stomach, when not just an undefinable source of some lancing jolt of fresh misery, felt terribly hollow.

The Ravokian had known better days, that was for sure, and it was hard to think clearly for longer than a tick when his head felt like it had been replaced with the rock used to bash it in. One thing had become immediately clear however, clouded thoughts or no; he was going to die down here...

And they were going to kill him for as long as they could.

[Nemesis]

The hot rays of Syna above Ravok beat down upon the city of Chaos; only the most cantankerous of individuals were finding fault in the beautiful weather that Rhysol had blessed his people with. Even the light breeze that flew through the canals meant that none in the city were perspiring. These days… they were not even seen for most of the summer season, and Ravok could boast some of the most pleasurable weather out of all cities. It was the perfect day, infallible, as they barely entered the Spring season. As expected, the canals and plazas were bustling with life. Even some of the taverns had tried to move their service outside, for none wanted to be stuck inside on a day as rare as this one.

In stark contrast to the bright, beautiful façade that Ravok offered to visitors and citizens like was the dark, filthy depths of The Black Hole. Any warmth that heated the surface of the lake was lost in such a decrepit hole as the Ravokian prison. The small shafts which allowed air from above to enter and circulate through the prison cells themselves were far too narrow for any real light to enter - their simple purpose was keeping the prisoners alive with fresh air, but it would give them no pleasure. Their positioning was awkward too, for they would allow for slivers of light to reach the prisoners, but said prisoners would never have the opportunity to gaze up through one of the hollowed columns and glimpse the cerulean skies that teased them.

Though some fresh air entered through the narrow shafts, it would be rare for any prisoner down there to feel the cool winds; the air was stagnant, for the most part. And rank. Musky and warm, it clung to the body… the smell of decay was ever present, for that was the curse that all prisoners, no matter their sentence, would suffer. They were literally rotting in their cells. It was one of the reasons that most prisoners were executed or released quickly, for the lack of sunlight caused the decomposition of the flesh, which left behind a putrid stench. Leprosy was the Warden and guards in the Black Hole were keen to avoid. Where grime coated the walls, the stone floor was caked in blood and flakes of flesh and other bodily excrement of all forms. Rarely cleaned, all prisoners knew that they lay in the filth of many before them. And even the most selfish of prisoners had to wonder what happened to them.

The darkness, eventually, would become the friend of all longer residents, for the only source that was bright enough to be considered substantial in giving off light were the torches of the guards walking along the row of cells. Torch light very rarely heralded something good, for people were not often released. Re-education was the next best option, but still some prayed to avoid that. Most suffered unmasked torture… quite easily given by the worst that the Ebonstryfe could boast. For the luckiest, perhaps, the light would signal a swift execution. Either way, torchlight was met with fear.

Fear strived among the prisoners, of which there was a small population, but a high turnover. For most, the guards relished in the knowledge that the fear had morphed into full on hallucinations. The smallest touch of Chaon in their minds and they would be lost for days. There was something truly delightful about watching the complete atrophy of the mind. For those directed to care for Elias Caldera, it was no different. It was the unknown… the knowledge that there was no control over what the mind saw… the knowledge that not everything was real, but being incapable of distinguishing reality from the rest. That was what drove some from sanity, far better than any torture could.

“Get him out.” A cold, but otherwise unemotional, voice would be heard by the chained prisoner, followed by the harsh sound of metal on metal as a rusty key entered a just-as-weathered lock and it sprung open. Bars were wrenched from each other, creaking in protest as if they had not been used in years. Most prisoners would flinch at the sensation of another’s flesh on his own after so long, for two guards were reaching down to remove the shackles and manacles from his limbs, before dragging him up unceremoniously onto his feet.
*
*

[Elias Caldera]

An eternity in darkness.

Alone.

That had been his punishment.

It was the waiting in between ‘sessions’ that was the real torture. The sitting in his own filth for days and days with nothing but a mind adrift with muddled thoughts and gripping night terrors to doggedly remind him he was actually still alive. Eventually, mercifully, rough hands would arrive from the ghastly blackness to drag him from his dank and rancid coffin. They never failed to hurt him badly every time, and never once was he shown an ounce of clemency or lenience from his cruel wardens. The beatings, the drownings, and even the other deplorable things he couldn’t bring himself to think about lest the weeping overtake him… all of it was but a welcome reprieve from the damned waiting.

At first the rats had kept him company. Disgusting, not so little clumps of fur and disease skittering about in the darkest corners, constantly taunting him with their incessant squeaking and clawing whenever they were certain the guards weren’t nearby. Funny, how even the rodents had feared the guards down in a place like this. That hilarious comradery had been enough for the young man to have welcomed them all into his humble abode with open arms. Finally someone to talk to in the long night that had become his life. For a time, Elias was almost content in his prison simply knowing that he wasn’t completely forsaken and abandoned anymore. He had friends now, even if learning to understand and speak their whining chatter would obviously take some time. He thought he could make it work, regardless.

That was, of course, until he awoke one day to find his beloved friends eating him.

He had screamed and flailed, begging and cursing at them to stop. They merely laughed at his feebleness, their little, wretched teeth gnawing deep into his festering wounds as they did so. They were particularly delighted by taste of his fingers for some reason, and every time Elias awoke from his nightmares in the dream world to his nightmare in the waking one, he would always make sure to keep a running tally of how many he had left.

It hadn’t been until the mage had managed to finally catch one of the little bastards in his grip and smash its head into paste upon the cell wall that the others finally began to show wariness of their prey. From then on Elias caught and killed one every now and again to make sure the others realized they would be better off dining elsewhere that night. It total, the ravokian had collected quite the accumulation of rat sized trophies for himself. Much to his chagrin, his collection was not to be.

Yet they cleaned absolutely nothing else, the guards, whenever they came to claim him for their sick games, always returned him to his cage afterwards, devoid of his proud assortment of kills. That always bothered him immensely, and most of the curses and screams he hurled at them when the madness took over were accusations of thievery, among other things. Elias had only himself to blame however. Like the daft, stupid fool that he was, he had allowed them to stumble upon his finely crafted stash of sharpened rat bones one day, and now they no longer trusted him anymore to simply sit happy and complacent in their dungeon while they ripped away everything that he was, one endless, agonizing tick at a time.

Well they were right to be nervous. He had learned his lesson then. Next time, they wouldn’t discover his secret until it was too late.

A moan cut through his disgusting beard as he dispassionately bit down on his finger once more to draw forth the blood anew and resumed his work. He hated this. He hated that he was alive. The audacity of his keepers to have not killed him by now was infuriating beyond comprehension. He deserved better than to be left to rot, both his mind and his flesh withering away in the putrid shadows like some sweltering corpse. It was horrible, and undignified and not at all what Elias Caldera had earned! He had killed Torian! Paladin Torian! His crimes were monumental before, but for that alone he should have been cut down months ago! Or was it years now? Whatever the case, he was a man, not a slave nor an animal. His fate shouldn’t be shackled to a wall, or hang from the jangling key ring of his torturers.

He would fine his release, one way or another.

It had been a curious road to get to this point, he mused dryly as his fingers diligently went to work upon his abdomen after finishing with his chest. He hadn’t always been so wracked with rage like he was now. At first, in the beginning, Elias had shrouded himself in quiet, miserable sorrow. Almost as blinding as the decrepit darkness he was destined to after the ebonstryfe had captured him, the fallen apprentice had allowed the cloud to overwhelm him in despair and depression. That wasn't to say the young man was no stranger to guilt and regret. In fact, he and they were quite old friends in actuality. They were such good friends in fact, that after wallowing in the same despairing gloom that had conquered his thoughts for nearly a year after his mother had died, the Caldera had once arrogantly believed he had overcome them both. Learning the art of voiding had helped immensely with that installing that self absorbed charade. The understanding of nothingness was the perfect dumping ground for all his seemingly inescapable remorse, and after the djed storm had decimated his body, he had had little else to do from his hospital bed.

Killing Torian had torn open wounds that weren’t as old and buried as the naive boy once believed.

While without a doubt tragic and all that, such pity and the sadness quickly grew dull and exhausting after so much time with literally nothing else to keep him company. Now the wretched woe he once felt had long since putrefied into hate and rage and purpose, just as it had done after Raina’s bloody passing. It had been that hardening of conviction that had drawn him back to Ravok in the end, his mind set solely on murdering his 'father.' The ember inside him was ignited again, its rekindled flame burning him alive as he worked, yet keeping his tortured mind focused and prepared. The release of death would be the reward for his diligence, he knew it. All Elias had to do was just complete his bloody work and then reap what he had sown.

He put the last touches of his masterpiece in place just as the light of the torches came into view down the winding hallway. Panicked the unnatural sight, his hastily rushed to put his grime encrusted shirt back on before they noticed what he had done. He was still rubbing his bloody fingers clean when the harsh firelight rounded the corner and came into full view. He shut his eyes and scurried into the corner of his cage out of a well-honed instinct that he had picked from the rats. The bastards would find none to steal from him today though. Go away. Just go away. I’m busy! he fumed angrily within the shattered recesses of his mind, yet despite his defiance, Elias still groaned in pitiful dismay when he finally managed to open his eyes against the assaulting glow of the flame and realized it had stopped just outside of his cell.

“No!” he croaked pathetically, his dry and deteriorated throat pained in a terrible manner by its unexpected use after so long without muttering so much as a whisper. It had been so very long since last they came, hadn't it... Bitterly, he had actually begun to believe they had just simply forgotten him down here, but now that the creaking, rusted howls of his cell door being opened filled his ears, he wished they had.

“No!” he uttered once more, but this time in less a pleading tone and more sudden realization as he noticed the folly in his own thoughts. “I mean yes. Yes. Yes. I want to go. I’m ready to go.” They grabbed him with annoyed grunts and he forced himself to smile despite the sting of uncaring hands upon his pale and decaying flesh. He was thinking about this all wrong, and that was their fault for making him so afraid, the bastards! Well not today. Not anymore. He’d show them! He’d make them do what they were supposed to have done so many days, months, seasons, and years ago. Elias would give them no more choice after this. All he needed to do was simply wait for the opportune moment.

They ripped him from his cell –his home- but the mage did not resist as he usually did. He merely clenched his fists as tightly as he could, hiding the markings strewn upon his dirty palms as they hauled his boney body away and into the unforgiving depths that awaited.

[Nemesis]

Of the five men stood outside the rusted bars of the cell in which Elias Caldera was held, three were soldiers, and one was a Commander. All four were permanently stationed within the Black Hole, and all were curious about this particular detainee - it was rare that one was kept for so long in the depths below the city. The fifth official present was a Marshall, who had been ordered down by his seniors for the sake of seeing this though. Tall and overbearing, the apparent blindness of one of his eyes gave the man an even more frightening appearance.

As two of the soldiers entered the cell and worked to release the prisoner of his current shackles, the Marshall examined the man whom he had been sent down to evaluate, and he was both impressed and disappointed by what he saw. He knew of the background, of course. A protege son, scion of one of the Ebonstryfe’s finest, trained by a mercenary and apprenticed to Rhysol’s army when ready. There, Caldera’s stubborn overconfidence and pride had gotten the better of him many times, but he had slowly improved and showed potential, and a rare willingness to learn what others might not. Then, he had fled the city. The ‘why’ was not common knowledge; if his father had known the reason for his wife and son’s disappearance, it was not something he let on to.

When the boy returned, he appeared to be unremarkable in his existence within the city, save the curious registration at the Institute of Higher Learning and a few minor incidents. The betrayal and murder of a Paladin in the Ebonstryfe was not something which could be ignored, however. To an extent, the Marshall had to show an immense amount of respect for the young Caldera; he embodied everything the Defiler stood for. But murder of a citizen, especially one of Rhysol’s most loyal, was a capital offence.

Why, then, was this boy being kept alive?

As the two guards hauled the prisoner up, they reached to re-shackle him with mobile bonds, but the Marshall spoke, stopping them. Hesitating at the break from normal protocol, the soldiers glanced over to their Commander, who also nodded. The man was to walk freely and willingly. Days… nay, seasons of slowly leeching the prisoner had left him weak. The influence of Chaon would also be ravaging the man’s mind. The Marshall, who had not removed his gaze from Caldera, knew that his prisoner was not going anywhere.

The boy’s ramblings were by far the most obvious insight into his mental state, for he was interested in the work of the Black Hole, from an academic perspective. He wondered at what techniques they employed, and to what end. With Elias Caldera, his scrutiny showed a shell of a man, one broken enough that he craved the company of those who caused him the worst kinds of torment and suffering. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. But their work was not finished, and the Marshall found himself immensely glad when his Chaon ability detected a sliver of resilience flickering with in the boy.

Once directed out of his cell, the group of six left the corridors, with the three soldiers and the Commander flanking the prisoner back and front and the ranking officer following behind, still watching his prisoner. The four permanent guards were clearly on edge, concerned that the convict was not restrained in shackles as he walked, but the Marshall was not remotely concerned, and his calmness was justified when the prisoner was marched into one of the filthy interrogation cells in the lowest depths of Ravok’s infamous prison.

Here, the soldiers glanced nervously over to the Marshall, who inclined his head, indicating his permission for protocol to continue as usual in this room. Metal clinked in the otherwise silent room as they wasted no time in grabbing the fetters, which were embedded in the ground, and attaching them to his ankles. The manacles, which were also attached to the ground and wound up the chair, were then locked into place, securing the prisoner on the chair upon which he had been sat.

“Elias Caldera, you are being held in the Black Hole under a number of counts,” the Marshall spoke quietly, calmly, as a doctor might, when telling his patient that she was suffering from a terminal illness. “Arson and murder, to name just two, are capital crimes in Ravok. And you are guilty of both. Do you deny these accusations?”
*
*

[Elias Caldera]

Ripped from the blackness of his wretched void, the prisoner was cast back into the light for the first time in a very, very long time. With it came an unmasking of sorts, and when Elias managed finally managed to open his eyes, the prisoner didn’t like what he saw.

His body, if it could be called ‘his’ anymore, was… not what he remembered. He barely recognized the sight of his own legs under him, spindly and weak as they were, and even his arms were like twigs wrapped in the blanket his disgusting shirt had become. He could have wailed for what he had so somberly lost down in these dungeons had he not already spent every last tear on that exact grief long ago already. The pain didn’t help matters. Being forced upright as he had only served to remind the Caldera what horrible aches and wounds wracked his back and shoulders, remnants of his past excursions into the torture pits accompanied by the same rough, angry men who were manhandling him at present.

The mage awaited the chains and shackles that always followed whenever he was brought out of his cage, his jailors and their ways well known to him at this point. Despite the seemingly indistinguishable levels of contempt and hate they all had for their guest, he knew all five men like they were his best of friends. With so many choices, the ravokian wasn’t sure which one was his favorite though; there was the bald one who enjoyed kicking Elias when the young man didn’t move fast enough for his liking, Or the young one who liked to tease the mage with his meals, flinging food and gruel into the muck of his cell and laughing as Elias scrambled to get it before the rats did. Some of the others just ignored him all together, barely even looking at the mangled soul in their custody as they marched him about or beat him bloody. No doubt the kind who had been doing this for so long they couldn’t even be bothered to take their pleasures from dark delights this wicked place had to offer anymore. The scariest kind of man was he who saw the things being done down here as boring and mundane.

Perhaps scarier still however, was the one who led such villainous men; Commander Lokin, the man in charge. A tall, wiry man who had been gracious enough to give his name and rank to Elias right before also graciously giving the order to toss his newest charge into his sullen cell.

With so many distinctly unmistakable faces surrounding him, it was easy to understand the shock then at the sight of a new one amidst the dark company. Elias’s eyes widened to behold the milky white orb staring dimly back at him. In response, something broken and wrong in the foolish apprentice actually thought the first thing he had to do was bow to his superior. Your torturer! Your executioner! He had to scream the words in his head to remind himself where he was and who he had almost bent the knee to. It didn’t matter how much the conduct and manners had been drilled into him, curtsying with all the flourish of a proper little grunt wasn’t going to see him liberated from this hell, no matter how hard he prayed.

He had a plan for that already anyway, now was not the time to deviate or falter.

The blessed one -likely a paladin or a marshal, Elias couldn’t make out the insignia in the dull dancing of the firelight- gave a curt and commanding gesture to the others, belaying their hands from locking the chains around the Caldera’s. Naturally confusion and fear flooded into him at the realization that something, yet again, was thrown off its normal course. First there had been the stranger’s arrival, now this! What was going on?

Much to his surprise, his torturers eventually obeyed, throwing aside the binds that would have left him helpless and at their mercy… The fools. Little could they understand what he had in store for them. They would suffer for their arrogance, the blessed one in particular, he would make a fine first target. Hurting him, or at least trying to would certainly be his ticket to dying today. How could it not be? No officer of the sacred order could suffer such an insult as being attacked by a lesser like Caldera. It was perfect!

The ravokian stopped abruptly, his limping coming to an unexpected end halfway through their forced march. The guards, already tense in the midst of a collarless prisoner, practically jumped out of their boots when they realized he hadn't just given up because of the fatigue. Hands fell to hilts next as Elias rose his outstretched hands towards the flame of one of their torches. It burned brightly in his faded brown eyes, the poignant crackling of the embers letting the mage know it would serve him well if only given the chance.

Deep down inside himself, Elias reached for his beloved magic.

They had been leeching him since before he had even arrived in the Black Hole. He could feel the effects renewed again every new day he managed to wake up. It was, terrible, unexplainable agony, having one's very soul sundered and taken from him by another like that. The first time had been the worst, and was so disastrously destructive Elias could barely remember what had happened anymore. Perhaps that was for the best. He had never met the thief who had rent him so badly, but he knew the bastard had enjoyed his meal, lest he never would have returned for all the others. Such constant feeding had left Elias devoid of his ability to draw upon the arcane in any form, but neither that faceless parasite nor any other goon could stop him from drawing. More specifically; they couldn’t stop him from glyphing.

Using his own blood, the vile prisoner had been toiling away in the shadows of his cell for weeks now -desperately, carefully- detailing every last inch of his own emaciated body with a plethora of foul smelling texts and symbols made up of the ancient language. Now was his chance to put them to use. Now was his time to show them all that this nightmare had to be brought to an end.

Elias activated his glyphs with a hushed murmur, the tapestry of seals and magical pathways upon his skin stirred to life in a flurry of arcane glory as they were brought to life. The mage reached for the flames with renewed vigor, his palms tightening around the fluttering firelight, wholly intent on bending it to his will. He was determined to burn away his enemies, to gain his freedom, to embrace Dira with open arms. This is it! Finally…

Nothing happened.

The guards around him shared looks of annoyed apprehension among themselves, but Elias ignored their ignorance and tried once more. Res. I just need a little… res

Nothing.

Terror took hold of his heart, and in his panic Elias scrambled to remove his shirt, tearing and clawing at the thing when it refused to adhere to his carelessly fumbling fingers. The fabric was old and weak, its already torn and tattered threads giving way almost instantly.

No!

"No..."

He felt a gloved hand shove him from behind, angry mutterings from the guards filling his ears as they herded him into the abyss. Meekly, dumbly, he did not resist. He could not. Before he knew what was happening, Elias found himself strapped to a chair, the cold, familiar sting of steel wrapped around his wrists and ankles again. His eyes were blank and his mouth was struck dumb by what he had seen, even as the marshal began to speak. It took a monumental amount of effort just to crane his neck and look down at the markings on his tortured carcass. Where there should have been a masterpiece of interlocking foci and pathways and barriers to help serve him, all the Caldera had found were words… Gibberish, inked in his own blood. Insults and accusations, pleading cries and pointless declarations. On his stomach the motely assemblage of letters read ‘No escape.’ Another right next to that echoed the despair. ‘Nothing but the dark.’

There were countless others all over his chest, ribs and elsewhere, each and every one of them mocking him with their revolting truths and filthy lies. The scribbled madness scrawled across his bony form unraveled him and his thoughts, like a canvas of his psyche laid bare for the world to see. Seeing it all had shattered Elias’s resolve, but it was one line in particular that had broken him. The letters on the underside of his forearm were a particularly darker shade of blood, and the boldness of the words were hard not to look at. They just said one thing, and one thing only.

‘What have you done?’

“No.” Elias muttered to his accuser after a while, muddy eyes still barren and utterly devoid of hope. “I can not.”

[Prophet]

The sound of water being poured into a glass would rouse a nearly unconscious man- Elias Caldera. Eyes would open to find a well-lit room decorated in simple yet elegant décor; well-made furniture with tooled upholstery, flowing curtains and sashes, a huge shelf of books that ranged through what must have been every language under the gods and a hand-carved chest that seemed to be the room’s focal point. As the shock of daylight faded and more details could be absorbed, the source of the sound made herself known. A woman dressed in the black plate of a paladin moved around a desk and brought forth a silver tray with two expensive looking goblets and a large blown glass pitcher of water. These things were placed on a small stool next to Elias then she took one of the goblets and turned away before much could be gleaned of her appearance.

With measured steps, she strode around the chest and gestured to it several times with lazy fingers before taking a long drink and turned on her boot heel to face the apprentice. “Can’t? Or wont?” Her face was clearly visible now. The woman was in her mid to late thirties but bore the weathered look of someone who has witnessed much in her years. Eyes like a hawk, grey and vivid, scoured the quivering form of the would-be soldier. Thin lips split for another drink of the cool refreshment which gave her a chance to look into the mage’s eyes more deeply. Her small nose was slightly upturned giving it a button quality. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun of deep auburn tendrils which were starting to escape in licks and curls that seemed to suggest a rough nature to contrast the seemingly stoic expression. “You’re not the first recruit sent my way who was out of sorts but if you don’t cooperate, I might just kill you for wasting my time.” She walked to the other side of the chest. Her fingers lingered near it as if tempted to open it but she recoiled several times as if afraid of the thing.

The chest, itself, was a reddish wood that had a strong aroma of spice. The carvings were in great detail and depicted several battles but none so perfectly captured as the portrayal of Rhysol slaying Sylir. The drop of blood fell into a field and became a lake where the last depiction showed a city of light. There was something off about the whole thing, though, as the actually size of the wooden work of art shifted in its appearance ever so slightly; the size kept changing. One tick, it looked no larger than a fist wile the next it appeared to swallow the room- this never stopped while the woman was moving and talking. Whatever the case may be, this female was affected by the same spell for it looked as if she was always in proportion to the wooden box. With a huff, she crossed between Elias and the chest. She shoved her mailed finger into his face but did not touch him in similar fashion to how she treated the wooden trove behind her. “So which is it? Hmm? Can’t? Or won’t?”

Template Courtesy of Wymez

[Elias Caldera]

His body shattered and his will all but broken, the Caldera remembers lying upon the wet, red sands of some nameless Zeltivan beach, far from home and any hope of rescue. Amidst the cold, the pain, and the confusion, he remembers the tumultuous, roaring waves of a tempest-tost sea lapping hungrily at his crushed legs. He remembers the Acheron, their doomed ship, ripped to pieces and sinking to the depths admits the madness of the maelstrom that had claimed her. He also remembers his mother's body at his side, her final moments of desperate, futile struggle etched deep unto her face as she had fought with all she had left to see her son to shore before the storm -or their pursuers- could claim him.

He remembers...

He remembers... it’s just a memory.

When his eyes opened again, it’s wasn’t to the sound of the storm, but instead to that of a cup being filled with waters far less harrowing. Instincts and desperation immediately bid him to reach out and claim it, a hollow stomach and bone-dry tongue tossing aside his better judgement without much of a struggle. As the broken fool began the momentous task of merely lifting his arm towards the glistening goblet however, the reminder of why that might have been such a terrible idea in the first place hit him fast and hard and without mercy. Perhaps he had managed a mere twitch of a finger towards his goal before abruptly surrendering with a groan and falling limply back into his chair.

‘Still here…’ he mused as with bitter realization as the agony faded and reality around him began to take shape in its place.

Focus came slowly at first, but the familiar pacing click of bootheels and the harsh, jaded words that followed served to accelerate his need for clarity. Who? What? Why! They were all concepts that seemed so impossibly distant and incomprehensible to his addled mind at first, yet with time and dogged determination, his senses eventually returned, and the young man’s world was made clear once more… for all the good it did him.

Who was this woman?
What was this room?
Why was that chest here!

“W-water…” He pleaded, voice course and distant as he tried to make sense of it all. “Water, so that… I may speak… please.” He added after a thought, reminding himself that he was still a prisoner here, wherever that may now be, and not one to make demands. He had a feeling that kind of appeasement was the best way to deal with this newest contender that had stepped unto the stage. She clearly wore the armor of a soldier, but even scowling at him as she was, her features reminded the mage more of a mouse and less so the monster her heated threats should have made her out to be. A mouse in every was save her eyes however. In those harsh, gray orbs staring down at him, Elias saw the cat hiding behind the mask and knew better than to give it cause to pounce… or at least he would have, had he still had his wits about him.

“I killed him.”

But they’d taken even that from him at this point.

“I killed my father.”

Parched or not, the words tumbled clumsily from his pale lips like a curse. Bitter and callous, the truth stung worse than any whip or flail or vindictive hand had since he’d been cast into the dungeons for his crime. It had been something he’d managed to keep unspoken for so long now despite the constant strain placed upon him to reveal as much by both his torturers and his own tortured mind. He’d fought against it for seasons, but now here it was, finally revealed, and to a stranger for the cost of nothing no less.

At this point, it was hardly worth even wasting breath on anymore.

“You know I trained for years to become part of the order. Dedicated my body and my soul to the purity of the Ebonstryfe, because I believed more than anything that our cause was righteous, and our purpose true.”

Sullen eyes drifted to the chest, to the familiar depiction of Rhysol and his greatest victory over the cur Sylir. He’d seen it’s like a thousand times before upon temple walls and cheap dockside souvenirs alike. It was as recognizable as Lake Ravok itself, and yet there was something different about it. Something… off. He couldn’t look away, nor could he stop himself from finishing what he’d started. Better this nonsense to finally be let out then bottled up inside him any longer. He was tired of being the only one to carry the burden of its weight.

“Of my peers, I was easily the finest. With sword and bow, mind or body, by the end there were few who could match me. The day of my Crucible was inevitable. I thought my test a mere formality at that point. A triumph of glory it would be none the less though, it would mark my ascension into the ranks of Rhysol’s chosen and begin the destiny I had spent my entire life striving towards.”

The images carved upon the box had begun to shift, expanding as if to envelope him completely before abruptly shrinking again in an attempt to hide. The woman was practically forgotten by then, Elias’s tale whispered to the ever-changing shapes as if they were the ones asking the questions.

"Torian Caldera stole that, and everything else from me, with just a single lie."

He'd brooded and raged on this singular thought for years and years, but now that it was finally given a voice outside his head, the fervor within him threatened to ignite anew once again, burning him from the inside out as it had for so long. Yet that fire faded the very moment he recalled the look on Torian's face when the end was near and he knew there was no more spark left to the inferno. The fury had died with its architect when that old man had finally passed.

“He bid me slay his brother, Caiden. A man who had raised me more like a son than Torian had ever bothered to try. He promised that this was the final task, the last challenge that my God held for me before I was to receive the reward of his blood. I thought I understood why. Caiden had thought me everything a man needed to know, from how to hold my blade to how to my liquor. He was far from good in any sense, but I loved him like a father, and part of me had always known that was because Caiden Caldera was my father."

The Crucible was to be one's greatest test of faith. What more grueling a trial to prove one's conviction than a son killing his own father? Rhysol's visage upon the oak shivered, as if in some muted response. Whether it approved or not, Elias couldn't tell.

"Torian was always a clever petch, but he was hopeless on the home front. Just from the way Caiden and my mother looked at each other, it should have been obvious of their infidelity to anyone who cared to notice, but all that bastard ever cared for was his own pride and power. I don't how or when he found out, but I do know that when I struck Caiden down that night, it wasn't for Rhysol or any petching decree by the divine, it was all for Torian and his gods damned revenge."

His gaze tore itself free from the deepening madness of the chest, finally turning to the paladin for the first time in what felt like ages. Cold blue eyes studied her with the look of a man unafraid of death and numb to fear. If she hoped to find any left in Elias, she had come far too late to the reaping. The harvest had come and gone, and all that was left now was the husk.

"So yes, I admit I killed my father. And seven years later, I admit I returned to kill the son of a whore who was at my side when I did it."

[Prophet]

The woman provided the water on demand. She then set the platter down on a side table and continued her slow revolutions around the man in the chair. His confession was long, drawn out and full of very useful information. The woman made mental notes and stifled verbal responses from time to time but never did anything to interrupt the Caldera. When he was finished, he walked around in front of him and squatted down until she was at his eye level. Her robes flowed around her with billowing waves of soft black that eventually settled into a stillness that likened her to the rest of the room. The milky white eye pierced the man with an emotionless dagger of skepticism born of his own thoughts while her other eye’s vivid green iris pulled at his humanity like a fresh meadow begging to be made into a playground.

“So…a killer, a vigilante and an arrogant child all mashed into one body that’s adorned with scars to verify its mettle.” She sucked air in between her teeth with a grin. “Well!” The breathy rush blasted him in the face with something that smelled of mint and alcohol. “I suppose I will have to find a use for you while the rest of these matters are sorted out by one more suited to the task.” She slapped a hand on his knee and leaned forward as she rose; her lips tracing the scar on his cheek in the space of tick. The woman blew by Elias and went to the chest where she fiddled with something on it that he could not see. When a series of clicks had come and gone, the lid was opened and on the top, Elias would plainly see a puzzle box fashioned as a lock. The woman dug into the box and drew forth a vial with what looked to be blood inside…black blood. She was very good at looking off of objects and using her peripheral vision to gauge what sort of emotions and thoughts played through the subject’s mind. Arrogance was plastered all over his face in its cold, unyielding mask.

The woman walked around the chest, delicate fingers pushed the lid down and the lockbox clicked into its other half re-engaging the mechanism. Palm up, she offered the vial to her guest with a very serious but unthreatening face. “This is your task, Elias Caldera.” Her eyes trailed to the vial. “Take this to your target - the one known as Mikayas– and drain these contents into his system. The faster it gets into his blood, the better but I’ll leave the delivery up to you.” When he would reach for it, her hand would close like a carnivorous plant. He would have to meet her gaze for a final instruction.

“Do not slay him, puppet.” She emphasized the word with her stare. Elias was a puppet but he was not alone in that role. “This is very important to our research. It must be delivered to a live test subject.” Her hand opened once more so that he may take his charge. “Abuse is fine but unspoiled is preferred. Under no circumstances are you to kill him. The excuse of ‘it was him or me’ just proves that you are too weak for what we’re after.” When he would take the vial, he was promptly excused.

CalderaGo find your Torian. Confront him, beat him, what-have-you but don’t dose him. Break before you get to that point and I’ll jump back in. XD

Template Courtesy of Wymez

[Elias Caldera]

The lake had always held a special place in Elias’s heart.

He had been born upon these waters, raised here, trained here, fought and bled and loved here, and one day, when the time finally came, he prayed his ashes would join that of his ancestors upon these very same tides, cast out into the embrace of the lake, just as he had promised his mother he would do for her. Ravok was his home after all, and the lake that sheltered the city and its chosen people was simply his ‘back yard.’

It was understandably difficult then, as one might imagine, for the Caldera to see the thing he had become reflected back at him within the waters he revered so greatly.

To have gazed upon the murky mirror and beheld the wretched creature looking back at him, its face a twisted, solemn mockery of his own, had shocked the soldier into numbness. Sweat laden and matted hair trickled down his pale, cadaverous visage on all sides. Vile and oily upon his brow and even his shoulders where its repugnant length had managed to reach, he would have almost mistaken himself for a woman were it not for the rest of his grisly image scornfully reminding him otherwise. Untended to after so long a time in the dank and dismal depths of the dungeons, even his beard had festered into a wild and lawless creature, gnarled and tangled beyond any hope of saving by a mere mortal barber’s hand. His eyes too had sunken into shadowy craters upon his gaunt and boney face, staring in unspoken revulsion and awe at the unfamiliar thing that more than a year of captivity had so unceremoniously birthed from the dark.

Looking at himself now, as he was -as they had made him- the whole thing made the ravokian wonder…

What the petch was he still doing here?!

It hadn't been an easy journey to reach this point. To say he had stumbled his way to the docksides would have been a grand embellishment of his motor functions. Essentially, he had crawled and tumbled and crawled some more until finally the water’s edge had revealed itself amidst all the brick, mortar and unsavory looks he’d been getting from passersby along the way. Once he’d reached the outskirts of his beloved city, he’d fallen to his knees at her precipice, staring out upon that magical line where sky met sea, and for a long, long time, he just sat there. Motionless, wordless and even thoughtless for what felt like bells, it was a mind numbing experience just to see the world once more, to be reminded it still existed despite his hellish absence. To see the sky again… to see the sun, my god, it had felt like so long without the light it was almost as if he’d been released unto an alien planet. Everything was an explosion of color and clarity he was no longer accustomed to outside his dreary tomb, it practically blinded him at every turn. Never the less, bloodshot eyes wept to take it all in again, and Elias was such that he cared not who saw the tears trailing down his cheeks.

That was when he’d made the mistake of looking down, and the harshness of reality had promptly slapped him out of his stupor.

With an effort, he managed to tear his attention away from the lake and focused it instead on retrieving the small vial nestled in his pocket. Pinched shakily between his ghostly fingers, the black blood swirled wickedly within its confines, taunting and teasing him with the answers he sought so desperately. He had tried to study it with his auristics during his decrepit journey, but the effort alone in merely trying to his summon his magic had left him a crumpled, heaving heap in an alley somewhere in the Noble District. He had almost not risen again after that, though why he had ultimately forced himself to in the end however, Elias still wasn’t quite sure. Something lingered at the back of his mind, something that was driving him towards a purpose he could not even begin to fathom. It all revolved around this tiny vial of dark and wicked intent he’d been granted though, that much was clear.

Unsurprisingly, when he’d first been given the thing, a resounding “what?” had been his first response to the woman's supposed test. As it had turned out, it had been the only response his feeble mind could conjure, and he could only manage to repeat himself dumbly even as he was promptly excused from the room and thrown headfirst back into a society where he no longer belonged. Who was this paladin who thought to command him so? What was her bloody game? As expected, no answers had been provided during his hasty departure. They had simply left him with a strange task and a looming air of expectation hanging over his head. Naturally, the mage’s instinct had him booking it to the nearest port as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him. He was going to get the petch out of here as fast as he could, though where his escape would take him from there was still a mystery even to the one embarking on it. Nyka was closest, and it wasn’t so bad once you looked pass the whole… well, maybe Zeltiva wasn’t that far away if you really thought about it, perhaps he could actually make it there before they caught him… or the wilds devoured him whole… or his broken body finally just gave out.

Rhysol preserve me, what the hell am I supposed to do now?

Again, that niggling voice burrowed into the hard to scratch places of his mind had stopped him from running any further despite his better judgement. Why? What was this task supposed to accomplish! To toy with him, to mock him in his final moments? Had they truly not had enough of their fill when it came to his misery and suffering, or was this actually a means in which Elias could regain some kind of-

“Excuse me.”

With a start, Elias turned from his seat upon the pier and looked up to see the woman bending down next to him. “Are you alright? You look starved, would you like something to eat? Here.” Taken aback, the pale prisoner realized for the first time that she’d been holding out a hunk of bread under his nose. In his daze he'd not even noticed her approach, let alone her offer. None the less, he grabbed at it without a second thought, attacking the food like a wild animal as she smiled down at him. Her voice felt like an angel’s caress upon his cheek, a kindness to it he had not been privy to in what felt like a lifetime now. It seemed to fit perfectly with her near heavenly beauty. Young and lithe, her hair was a mess of thick brown dreadlocks that tumbled lazily over her shoulders and back, pushed out of the way of her dark eyes every once in a while as she studied him. She was like a painting in her perfection, and the stark contrast between the two of them was not lost on the nervous sack of bones and regret she was being so generous to. Patiently, she waited for the mage to finish his assault on the loaf, a warm smile radiating off an already impossibly gentle and caring expression. When he was done, his filthy fingers licked clean, she spoke again.

“You look like you could use some help.”

A brief, guttural chuckle rumbled out of him.

“I know a place that could help you. We’ve got warm beds and more food if you’re hungry.”

He knew this woman.

“Its not far. I can take you there if you’d like…”

He’d never seen her before, but he knew her all the same, as if they’d been lifelong friends. The kindly beauty offered him a hand, and precariously, he managed to find his footing again to take it.

He knew this woman. They may not have ever met, but he knew her kind, knew the game she played, and as the two of them slowly made their way from the wharfs and into a nearby alley, the ex-apprentice had to feign his surprise when he saw her broad friend waiting for them around the corner, a grin on his face and shackles in his hand.

Slavers.

Just his luck.

[Elias Caldera]

Amidst the alley’s trash and refuse, the Caldera sat in silent contemplation, blood streaming from his lips with a steady, ceaseless drip, drip, drip…

Still hot upon his tongue, it had stained his beard into a crimson nightmare, marring almost the entirety of his face and neck with its red swath. The bitter flavor it had left behind stung with a familiar iron tang that he knew he’d be tasting for the rest of the day. Honestly he didn’t mind though, and the dripping had even served to fill the silence, giving his thoughts a ghoulish rhythm to keep pace with as he waited for inspiration to take hold and guide him. The peace however, was interrupted by the occasional whimper. Mewling, pathetic things that were growing louder and louder as time went on, much to his chagrin.

With a sigh, Elias reluctantly opened his eyes and fixed them on their source with an annoyed glare.

Her warm and practiced smile was gone by then, replaced instead by a look of panic and tear sodden dread she must have seen a million time or more upon the faces of her victims before today. In her terror, the slaver's focus shifted wildly from the pale man lording over her, to her friend who slumped motionless at her side. Davik had been his name, and if he had been better at his job, he’d still be alive now instead of a naked, bloody mess in some god forsaken alleyway.

The two had argued upon their arrival. Davik apparently quite displeased with his compatriot’s chose of prime cut that evening, and Kreia -as he had angrily referred to her- not cowed by his temper or larger size, had argued back with a surprising ferocity. During their back and forth, Elias had been called a number of things he didn’t much care for, including; ‘scrawny,’ ‘weak,’ and ‘not worth the time or mizas it would take to get him back in fit enough shape for the auction this week.’ As the two had bickered over cost and concerns of his future enslavement, the apprentice had listened thoughtfully in the wings, waiting politely for his chance to speak up so as to not interrupt their conversation. He didn't want to be rude. However, When Davik, growing ever redder and angrier by the moment, had made the decision to turn his head and face his partner during their heated debate, Elias realized his chance to say his part would likely never come. So instead he lunged for the man’s throat and buried his teeth into the fool’s flesh over and over again until his ravenous bite was gnawing on more bone than it was blood and meat.

He hadn’t been strong enough to match the slaver in a proper fight, but by god had he been hungry. So very, very hungry. That desperation had given him a strength all on its own. Poor Davik never stood a chance.

Neither did his friend.

“You know, I don’t begrudge you your trade. Slaving is as honorable as it is ancient as far as I’m concerned.” He rasped, sucking free a piece of gristle stuck between his teeth and spitting it out at her feet. She flinched. If only the woman could muster more out of herself, she’d be free and half a city away from this ordeal by now. Instead fear had sunk its grip into Kreia like an iron vice and she had simply stared in petrified disbelief while Elias ripped through her friend’s neck. Even as he pushed her to the ground and pulled up an old crate to sit upon so the two could have a little chat, still she could not bring herself to move.

If only she’d known how truly frail and helpless her captor was, how easy it would have been to simply overpower the ‘weak’ and ‘scrawny’ little man and flee. Of course, it was too late now. Elias had Davik’s dagger in his hand by then, and was waving it wildly in her face every time he spoke. He’d also helped himself to the dead man’s clothing as well, his own rags a being a bit too… well, rag-like for his liking. The stains were a nuisance to say the least, but thankfully the slaver’s leather jerkin proved useful in hiding most of the blood beneath.

“That said,” the prisoner continued, his blade nearly nicking Kriea’s eye as he leaned in closer. “You did say you were going to help me, and I’m going to hold you to that, ok?”

She didn’t respond… so he jammed his blade into her shoulder. Her muffled scream filled the palm of his other hand as it moved to cover her mouth.

“Ok?”

She nodded fervently through the tears, her hands clamped tightly around his wrist as he twisted the cheap steel.

“Now, first off I'm going to hang on to these clothes. They’re just my style, and don’t imagine your pal there is going to mind. What do you say?” He inquired calmly between sputtering coughs. He was getting noticeably better with his words ever since the interview. Part of the discomfort he now felt however was due to how long he'd gone without actually speaking a word. The mage, to his astonishment, realized he had spoken more in the past few bells than he'd managed to mutter in the past few months combined. It was a discomforting sensation, like listening to a stranger's voice flow from his lips every time he opened his mouth. It hadn't been perfect of course, but it was improving. That said, being out of practice was only part of the problem. Mostly his distress came from how much of poor old Davik had gotten up his nose and down his throat during their intimate introduction. In fact, with some dismay, Elias realized he was actually choking a little.

Kreia, ever the thoughtful soul, pretended not to notice though. Instead she simply shook her head, dreads flailing weakly in the effort as she was forced to focus more on her own labored breathing hold than anything else.

“I’m also going to have to borrow that boat of yours too.” The mage went on, motioning to the dingy ravosala bobbing languidly at the other end of the alley. No doubt they're means of a escape as they whisked away their new prize. There was even a large tarp in the back to cover him up during the trip back to whatever hovel they called home.

Again, she nodded graciously.

Good, she was getting the hang of this.

“You know, now that I think about it, I’m a bit short on change. Hand over your coin while were at it.” He’d already helped himself to Davik’s little satchel of money, but he was a penniless man now, and every little donation helped. Kreia hesitated though, or perhaps Elias simply hadn’t given her enough time to respond. Either way, a fresh new wave of hell tore through her shoulder as the apprentice impatiently rammed the blade deeper in. He wasn’t sure if the scraping sensation he was feeling was bone, or the brick wall behind her. He was about to give the knife another push to find out when he noticed her frantic nodding.

What a charitable soul.

“One last thing. I’ve been… out of the loop for a long time now and I’m searching for someone. I’m not sure where to start looking, but something tells me you’re going to help with that too.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“I’m looking for a man.”

Bohir Adams grinned warily from behind the bar, trying to hide his dire apprehension. He'd watched this man stumble his way in through the front door and unto a seat at the counter. Now that he was up close and personal, what he saw he clearly didn't like, and what he was smelling was even worse. “I’m afraid we don’t offer those kinds of services here, pal.”

Elias paused, caught off guard. A joke! It was a joke! He smirked. Then he laughed. Then he cackled, his whole body rocking in violent convulsions while his cold eyes never left those of the increasingly unnerved barkeep’s. It took an uncomfortably long moment before the blood curdling mirth faded and the pale killer was quiet again. The whole room had gone deathly silent in its raucous wake.

He absolutely loved jokes.

Bohir didn’t seem so amused though. In fact, the finely dressed gentleman was glancing anxiously at the front door Elias’s ragged form had come limping through just moments before.

“Oh!” The Caldera chirped up, realization dawning on his disheveled face. “You must be wondering why the big man out front would have let a wretch like me just walk in here.” He leaned in against the wooden divide that separated them, awkwardly pushing aside the mugs and glasses in his way until he was comfortable and close. “Don’t blame your bouncer.” He whispered clandestinely. “I hear rumor that someone smacked him silly over the head with the pommel of their dagger. A dagger that kind of looks just like this!” He snapped, slamming the blade into the counter between them. Bohir jumped, but Elias, wild eyed and eager, lashed out and grabbed the barkeep by his collar.

“And if you reach for that crossbow under the bar one more bloody time, it’s gonna be a real familiar looking blade I run through your eye, Mr. Adams. Now, my friend says you're the man to talk to if I need to find someone in this city." Another hand reached for something behind his back and the businessman froze in the middle of his struggle, watching as the one who accosted him slammed two small pouches of jingling incentive upon the bar next to the dagger. Bohir was going to have to decide which one of those he would have preferred Elias use to help pry the secrets from his lips. "You can either tell me what I want to know, or you can tell me what I want to know while you bleed out on this floor."

Elias was glad his time in captivity hadn't damaged his social skills like he'd suspected it might have. This would have been a lot harder if he had forgotten how to actually just talk to people after so long with just the rats to keep him company.

"Now lets start again… I’m looking for a man.”