2:16 A dark midday.

"I am well, for the Sun of Healing shines on me- oh, goddess, oh please, oh please..."

Aleksei turned his head, which throbbed with an ache so normal for him that mornings felt strangely empty without it.  He had gotten into bed the wrong way the night before, and had stayed that way, glad to leave the ladies the pillows.  He turned his head, and caught sight of Amilie, some of her chestnut brown ringlets pasted with sweat to her forehead and back, with her eyes pressed shut.  She had turned out of the bed to put her feet on the floor, and was resting her head in her hands with her elbows on her knees.

"You are not feeling well?" he asked immediately, pulling his legs out from behind her as slowly as he could.

"Oh-" Amilie exclaimed with a start, whipping her head out of her hands at once.  She winced at her own sudden movement, then sighed.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"This is not needing apology," Aleksei grunted as he moved his legs around her and stood up.  He casually realized that he was still unclothed, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the serving tray with a shot of frenzywater, one flagon of ale and another of beer was still where it had been the last time he saw it.  "Someone is being busy this morning."

"Morning?" Udala laughed from the doorway behind him.  "You forget the sun doesn't rise here.  It's well into afternoon.  You've been to water the wall vines twice, but this is the first I've seen this dumpling move."

"I am spending much time without sun,"  Aleksei shrugged after slamming the shot easily.  "I am going outside three times.  You are not moving before I am returning second time.  Late morning you are bringing this back, but I am thinking that it is for you."  He looked into the ale briefly, deciding to take the beer first this time.  Amilie, who had put her head back in her hands, laughed weakly, the edge of sickness in her throat.  Aleksei looked over the edge of his flagon at her, noting the weakness in her hands and the weary way she breathed.  "Please to bring me maybe some water, yes?"

Udala raised an eyebrow.  "Water?  You?"

Paying less attention to this comment than to Amilie's slow, deliberate breathing, Aleksei put his flagon down and wrapped his shendyt around his hips as he'd done for so many years.  "I am maybe not feeling well- maybe needing some dry bread.  Soon."

And Udala, who vaguely remembered realizing there really was enough of the Dragonborn for two women the night before, watched without a spark of jealousy for just a few moments while he picked Amilie up as though he were her dedicated partner.   Without another word, she walked back into the bar to do as he had asked.

Aleksei stood cradling Amilie until she rested in his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, then walked slowly toward the rude door that separated their room from the rest of the darkened quarter of town.

"I am well, for the Sun of Healing-" Amilie's threadbare prayer was interrupted by a threatening gurgle in her throat that ended in a warning belch.

"The sun hides his face from this place," Aleksei counseled.  "He is not coming to your call.  But you will be feeling much better in, say, half hour.  You will have terrible half hour, but after that, much better.  Like with first drink."

"Oh goddess, I don't want to think of drinking," Amilie groaned.  She had closed her eyes and utterly surrendered her weight to the Dragonborn, who sat her down on the small stone wall that protected the wall vines outside- between his legs, instead of just sitting on his lap.  She leaned on him, then shifted to his upper legs for balance for a few moments, but once gently encouraged to sit up, she instantly took the position that she had been holding on the edge of the bed since she'd awakened.  "I have no idea what happened after we got here.  That isn't even my room."

Aleksei laughed gently.  "I do not know if you are wanting to know.  So many do not wish to remember their nights when the day comes."

Udala appeared with a glass of water, a bucket, a small plate of dry bread and Aleksei's half consumed beer.  Without turning his attention from Amilie, he simply reached his left arm straight out toward her. "Yes, I thought you might want this too," she explained as she put the beer into his hand.  She wondered how he knew where she was without turning to see her with his working eye, then wondered if it were rude of her to think that way.

"I am much needing all these, yes," Aleksei said calmly, listening intently to Amilie's shortening breath.  "Please to put the bucket right in front of me."

Udala, somehow not sure which reveler was really about to be sick, walked in front of Aleksei and put the bucket some distance away from him, sliding it toward him with her bare foot.

For his part, he cuddled close to Amilie, setting his beer down at arm's length on the low wall.  "We are having very good time, just as you are saying before you are taking us to this place.  We are singing many songs from old countries- You are from Daerlun, and I am much reminding you of dragon cult that still I do not understand," he soothed, running a careful hand up from Amilie's mid back to the shallow valley between her shoulder blades.  "I am asking you little questions.  You are trying to explain, but- this Common- it is maybe little more difficult for me when I am drinking.  One night soon, you will explain more to me.  Please to drink this water, yes?"

"Oh, yes- yes to all of those things, yes."  Pulling some of her sweaty hair off her face, Amilie finally noticed that she was not wearing her own clothing, but instead a much-too-long tunic.  "Goddess- how did this happen?  Whose shirt is this?"

"After I am coming back from beating big Human fool who is throwing his drink at barmaid, she is having to wear someone else's clothing to continue working.  So we are thinking it is funny game to also wear each other's clothing," Aleksei mused, sipping at his beer cautiously while watching her.  "You are wearing shirt given me by guard here, which I am never wearing, but always carrying.  Udalka is trying to wear your dress, but your corset is too long, and her clothing is too small for me everywhere, so I am wearing nothing.  I am staying that way all night, so we are not coming out of room again."  After this happy pronouncement, Aleksei turned his head for a few moments to take a short swig of beer.

"I'm so sorry, I just- feel so poorly- how- how do you keep going?" Amilie sighed shallowly.  "I'm only smelling it and I feel so sick."

Aleksei, suspecting that this was the case, handed the rest of his beer back to Udala, who finished it with a mild concern flickering in her cloudy eyes.  "Good night is always paid for with bad morning," he suggested.  "But I am maybe becoming better drunk with much practice, yes?"

"Oh gods, practice," Udala chuckled to herself, ducking back inside the room to dispose of the empty flagon.

Amilie first began laughing along, but it rapidly morphed into choking.  Glad to have both hands free, Aleksei quickly grabbed hold of all her hair and held it back as she violently pitched forward to vomit into the waiting bucket.  Her body, apparently unused to such heaving, trembled like a taut bowstring, the vibrations so strong that Aleksei had to consciously ignore the mixed messages that they were sending up his thighs.  She tried to sit back up after those few agonized moments, but Aleksei knowingly rubbed her back, waiting for the second round.  He didn't have to wait very long, and the second bout of illness took much longer than the first wave had.

"Know the game backwards and forwards," Udala hollered, mildly disgusted, as she returned from inside.  "Had a lot of practice, did you?"

Aleksei sighed and nodded his head just slightly, never taking his attentions from Amilie.  He kept his mouth closed on the smell of two solid belches that rumbled within him, but Amilie still responded by heaving the third time, which was mostly thin and clear.  The Dragonborn looked up, shifting his head to indicate that it was time for the water, then allowed Amilie to sit straight.

"Better, yes?" he smiled grimly as he kissed her left temple gently and let her hair fall from his hands.  "Still you are very beautiful."

Amilie swished the first bit of water around in her mouth and spat it into the bucket, wincing at the smell.  "Beautiful?  That all came out of me," she marveled with a touch of dizzy amazement.  "I'm really so sorry.  It was- well, it sounds like- it was such a good night, and then I have to go and do this."

"Eh," Aleksei shrugged, leaning on the tavern wall himself.  "I am difficult to offend.  You are maybe drinking more mead than rum before this."

"Mmn, that's true," the Human female laughed weakly after sipping at the water.  "Don't know if I'll be drinking at all for a while."

"But we are having good time, all of us, as you are saying before," Aleksei encouraged.  "Much drinking, much singing, much talking, the teaching and the learning- and, much good love making.  It is excellent night- one we are maybe trying again... maybe, little differently.  This time, we are drinking what you drink, instead of other way."

"Speak for yourself," Udala crabbed, crossing her arms.  "I've not daintily sipped at mead since leaving my mother's knees.  Want your ale, huh?"

"Ah- this is maybe little inconsiderate of me.  But I cannot refuse," the Dragonborn laughed as his Udala disappeared into the room.

"It's alright- I feel better now," Amilie managed as she gingerly walked over to the place where Udala had been to nab a few pieces of dry bread to nibble on.  When she left his embrace, Aleksei recovered the bucket and looked around the side of the tavern for a good place to dump its contents.  As Amilie was turning around to point out an old dry well, she was surprised by a wood Elf with disapproval printed rather plainly on his age-worn face.  He reminded her so much of her grandfather that she couldn't speak to him.  He stepped past her, crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke for himself.

"Voyonov?"

"Da," came the reply from the other side of the building.  In a few moments, Aleksei appeared with the empty bucket, which still reeked enough to make the elder wrinkle his nose in disgust.  Seeing this, Aleksei instantly put his hand to the wall as though he needed to steady himself and breathed just slightly heavier than was necessary for his effort.  Amilie blushed, embarrassed that he was covering for her illness.

"Paying for it now, eh, lad?"

The Dragonborn shrugged, chuckling weakly.  "Ah, pride.  Always one is paying for thinking he is more man than truly he is."

Udala, who'd heard this statement with a raised eyebrow, simply stood in the doorway with the ale, wondering if the Sylvan was fooled by this well-tuned act.

"True enough, true enough.  Now, trouble thyself to check in, eh?  Here I finds thee, back here with thy pair of shiny toys, who was doing nothing but nuzzling up to thee and to each other all night- thou'lt have thyself in for the aberration, lad.  It's not a body in that tavern not talking thy name for it.  What's done between just one man and one woman may be winked at, but this- Alek, it's not done here, eh?  It's illegal, and they'll stone thy scaly hide but good."

"Did you get out of your lonely stone bed only to come and kick dust at a male that slept with two companions on a softer one?" Udala crabbed, marching by the Elf to stand protectively in front of Aleksei.  The Halfling was about two thirds of the wood Elf's size, so the surprise on his face when he saw the source of this rebuke was amusing both for Aleksei and Amilie.  Sometimes it was hard to believe that an attitude so big could radiate from someone so- not big.  "While your sharp ears rested with the other Merchant's Council Mercenaries, he quieted a brawl without breaking anyone's bones, stopped a drunk from abusing his waitress, and prevented a kidnapping."

Aleksei shook his head to quiet the Halfling, saying nothing in his own defense.  Contemplating the ale she'd brought him, he put the bucket down and took it from her with a thoughtful hum.

"What shall thee find in there?" the Sylvan sighed.  "Thou'lt only buy thyself another hangover, trying to cure this one with more to drink."

"The ladies- and the soldier."  With a casual smirk, Aleksei sat down on the short wall, toasted, and took a long drink.

"Pelor's dress, he's stone," Amilie wondered, walking toward him with her glass of water only half gone.  Feeling better than she had before, she sat next to him and assumed a natural position- one foot folded under her on the short wall that was mostly meant for decoration.  The shirt she was wearing rested lovingly between her legs, and the wood Elf at long last recognized it for what it was.  "There's no stomach in there, just another keg."

"Heh," Aleksei scoffed, sitting the drink down away from her.  "This is close to truth.  It is not true what you are thinking, that you are not smart.  Can learn the divination, yes, if this is still what you want."

"Hey, speaking of bone rattlers and smoke breathers, it's some one of thy kind with a crazy multicolored getup calling himself looking to talk to thee," Trelwynen sighed.  "If it wasn't for my hope that some priest could talk thee out of spots like this, I'd not have told him where I was going."

Aleksei took one strong pull and leaned back to sigh a belch out.  "If truly he is looking, he will find me- without any help from anyone."

"Ugh, the smell- the smell of it," Amilie complained weakly, sitting up off the wall and putting her slender hand to her face.

"What a lovely effect you have on people you claim to care for," a grave voice grunted.  "Perversion, dirty carousing and lazing about until well past midday."

Aleksei simply turned his back to the source of the voice.  "You will not find who you are looking for here."

"You look for comfort in every drink and every female, Bloodtalon." A male Dragonborn who looked to be older than Aleksei stepped out into the torchlight, leaning on a staff that it did not appear as though he really needed.  "What right have you to denounce any hopeless quest while you pursue your own?"

"I am not Bloodtalon."

"You will always be Bloodtalon- but you are covering- acting, pretending, hiding.  It's dishonorable.  Look at you."  The priest moved forward and touched Aleksei, who immediately pulled away- but the damage had been done.  Aleksei shuddered slightly as he felt the breath of the red dragon engulf him.  He could almost feel the cold deerskin flap that separated the small place of worship from the cold waste outside at his fingertips.

"A sad reaction, to move away from one trying to help you.  Understand, Sir Trelwynen, that the male you see before you is a deserter."

The screams of the women as the two-handed blade swung in beautiful, calculated arcs that had felled experienced Tiefling soldiers and utterly shocked Dragonborn nobles who had opposed the wrong commander.  Arcs that took their heads from their shoulders, punched jagged holes through their throats or ripped their midsections open.  The ale, a little more than half finished, hit the ground.

"He has been part of many armies, many armed guards, many protecting forces- he was once on the front lines of the Arkhosian-Turathi War.  In fact, he was the youngest commander the army had, and once one of the most successful.  That makes his current condition all the more pitiable."

An intense pain began to radiate from Aleksei's chest, and he winced slightly, trying to keep it from becoming too obvious.  There could only be one reason for its sudden power- he struggled to systematically check the rooftops around him, reminding himself that at least three innocent people were very close to him.

"But time after time, he has dropped out of disciplined organizations, falling prey to strong drink and loose females- sometimes, even other males.  All due to the desertion of the true faith; the way he swore to and then ran from, like a common coward."

All around him, the low walls and rough wood benches rapidly deteriorated into the overturned pews.  The dry well became instead the offering altar that he had profaned by using it as a guillotine.With the moans and shrill shrieks of his victims shredding his mind, Aleksei was lucky to catch just one tell tale flash.  It darted away from the edge of a roof and seemed to simply disappear into thin air, but the old soldier knew better than to believe that.

"Please- please to go inside," he breathed very quietly.  The command wasn't lost on Amilie, who got up as quickly as her unsteady balance allowed.  Aleksei could hear her hiss at Udala, who for once, did exactly as she was directed without reply.

"Don't want them to hear?" the elder Dragonborn scoffed.  "Embarrassed of your inglorious past at last?  Over twenty years you have wasted in taverns just like this one, hiding from what you are.  What you were always destined to become."

"Ostav'te menja v pokoe-"  The pain grew so great that Aleksei could hardly breathe.  The Sylvan- Trelwynen, Aleksei reminded himself carefully- and the cause of his bloody reverie were both in open air, between the back wall of the tavern and the walls of the derelict houses on the other side.  The perpetual darkness of the place would not help them.  "Inside, Elf," he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.  Strange?  No.  Far too familiar.

"Eh, lad?" Trelwynen shot back, surprised at the deepening of his partner's tone.  Instead of doing as he was commanded, he picked his head up to look at the rooftops that seemed to have captivated the unarmed soldier.  He pulled his bow, which he had pridefully refused to check at the door of the tavern, but didn't yet ready an arrow.  "Not while thee sees something out here."

"A distraction," the older Dragonborn explained.  "A pitiful fight against his true path.  You might tell your superior that he is on his way to utter breakdown, if you cared for him at all.  He needs guidance."

"Ja ne budet prinimat' zakazy ot vas."  Aleksei, finally turned around, his eye catching the intelligent yellow-brown eyes of the old priest.  His robes, well-crafted and richly adorned, were a clear indicator of his status as wyrmkeeper.  Upon actually looking the male full in the face, the agony within him seemed to triple, feeling as though it would soon stop his heart. Aleksei watched the corpses of his temple slaughter get up to accuse him, pointing to the blood that painted screeching portraits across the walls and the ground.

"You flee the arms of she who knows you, and seek instead the god that will not listen.  He will never listen to you.  You cannot escape yourself, nor the work of your hands," the wyrmkeeper urged in what should have been a soothing tone.  But under his voice were the more concerned words of all the supposed rebels.

Charging past the priest, Aleksei grabbed an unsuspecting Trelwynen by the neck, easily pushing him inside the tavern's back door.  A split second later, a dagger that would have split the Sylvan's head in two caught Aleksei near his lower ribs.  He breathed deeply, the pain of the wound no match for that which had already entirely engulfed his chest.  Simply reaching around himself and pulling the blade out, he turned a cold eye to the very shaken wood Elf.

"Stay," he commanded, the single word as heavy as lead.

"Voyonov?"

The faltering quality of his voice was annoying- and tempting.  Purposefully turning his back, Aleksei pushed himself away.  The world around him contorted into a warped battlefield; bouts of balefire bringing tortured young Dragonborn to their knees, Tieflings being run through by multiple poisoned arrows, and the great red dragon soaring through the sky, reveling not in the protection of an empire, but in the simple death and destruction.  As Aleksei walked through the blood-soaked area, he heard phantom shuddering cries and clutched the dagger tighter, intending to bring a swift death to whatever weakling was so calling for it.

"Aleksei?"

"Lyoshenka?"

The Dragonborn soldier turned sharply, and was hugged fiercely and fearlessly by the very source of the crying.  Without really looking to see who it was, he prepared to strike it away from him.

"Why did you leave?"

"Ja poterjal tebja tozhe?"

The power of the memory of his mother, a radiantly upright woman who loved him even while he was destroying the last place she held dear in the world, stopped the Dragonborn cold.  He felt her weakening grip on his shoulder, saw the beautiful, light crystal blue eyes that his father had once claimed were plucked from Bahamut's very face.  The shadow of the red dragon pulled away from his mind, draining down the darkened streets like the vomit that he'd earlier dumped down a convenient alleyway.  Suddenly physically weak, he recognized and dropped Bahlzair's silver dagger, stunned that he'd even touched the thing.  Wrapped around his waist like a living chain was none other than Amilie, barefooted, still shamelessly wearing only his shirt.  Closing his eyes and feeling the pain that had engulfed him drain slowly out of his body, he laid his scarred and battered left hand on her head.

"Ah, Lishka, I- cannot answer."

"You're hurt- and I'm still sick.  Let's find us a priest-" Amilie stood straight, moving back slightly so that she could look up at the amazingly sober Dragonborn.  "-one that will heal us, instead of doing whatever that other thing did.  I always had my suspicions about those dragon people.  They say they're not the Cult, but they're just like the nutters in Daerlun, and I bet they don't do anybody any good, do they?"

"Nyet," Aleksei sighed, unable to keep his hopelessness out of his voice.  "Always they will be evil.  Always."

Amilee squinted, some soggy memory struggling to come to light for a few moments before she took a decisive breath and shook her head clear.  "Never mind them.  Now, let's find us someone who will help."

2:15 Spectre.

One moment, there were no sounds other than the rain.

The young Human, a newly-minted Hawke Manse guard, turned her gaze ever so slightly over her shoulder, unable to deny the feeling that she was being followed.  She checked for shadows, listened for quiet footsteps, even tried to smell what little rain-soaked breeze was passing by for any scent that didn't belong.

But there was nothing.

With a quiet sigh, the young woman turned back around and continued walking back toward her home.  She was fortunate to share a stone-built place, not too close to the docks, with two other young women who had decided not to wait until they were some male's property to live their lives.  After a long shift, most of it spent standing outside of Hawke's impressive wrought iron gate in the rain, she was really looking forward to spending the rest of the evening warming herself in front of the central fire where one of her more homey roomates would be cooking.  She turned into the alley that led to it, but only got a few feet down before a rolled strip of cloth was wrapped tightly around her neck.  Her first fear was that she'd be choked to death, but she was simply yanked backward with enough force to get her to the ground.  There were twenty seconds between the moment she dropped and the moment a heavy blow to the side of her head pushed the consciousness out of her.

"Thanks," Mi'ishaen breathed, quickly stripping her mark of her armor.  The cuirass and boots were good enough to use, but the other two pieces were useless.  While Mi'ishaen was sure that putting a hard leather cuirass over a cotton dress was not at all the highest of fashion, she decided that it would have to do until she was able to buy better.  At least Karth- at Nithraz's request- had replaced the thin prison wear with an actual dress made by someone who wasn't forced to cover every prisoner in the hole.  According to Nithraz, if Mi'ishaen dressed more like a woman, she would realize that she was one.  It was a theory that Karth had rejected as complete nonsense, much to his credit, in Mi'ishaen's mind.

After deciding to use the manse-marked daggers, Mi'ishaen used the girl's blouse for extra storage, leaving the young thing nearly top-bare in the street, then set off for the part of the Urmlaspyr where the sun was rumored to never show its face.

As she expected, there were a few merchants crammed into the much tighter, darker alleyways even though it was raining steadily.  Most shied away from her approach, either in reaction to the Hawke seal on the upper left side of the cuirass or to the soaking wet Tiefling making her way down the street as though she owned it.  It was some time before she could find a tight-lipped, quick-eyed buyer who was calm enough to face a Tiefling without being squirmy about it and brave enough to buy Hawke-marked items.  As the details of the deal were gone over, however, he seemed to either lose some of his nerve or his patience.  She was just pulling the top of the sword from its holster to show the unusually distracted buyer that it was the real deal when her tightly-wound nerves finally convinced her that something just wasn't right.

A fighter in a set of leather armor that was completely black got the jump on her, pulling her head back by her hair in the effort to put a solid punch into her throat.  But Mi'ishaen grabbed the arm that was coming down at her neck and turned her entire body in a direction that the arm could not go, forcing the rogue to turn with her in an awkward sideways spin that set her free of him.  The goods fell to the ground, the pieces of armor becoming dangerous obstacles and the short sword sliding deeper into the alley- the merchant tried to quickly do away with the blade, but a thrown shuriken that suddenly appeared from somewhere on the other side of the next building convinced him to leave it precisely where it was.

Mi'ishaen, her hair free of the attacker's grasp, now looked at him, wondering which of them would move first.  He had no weapons drawn, so she did not draw her new acquisitions either, especially since she was not completely sure of how they would feel in her hands.  After mere seconds of uncertainty, the fighter, the well-fleshed and probably male, shifted forward to try a kick to the ribs.  Mi'ishaen deftly blocked it, moving forward to throw a punch that got blocked just as easily.  A few similar back and forth passes that the Tiefling could only assume were mere warm up movements were traded.  While this was happening, a second dark figure appeared- to first kick the pieces of armor down the alley along with the sword, then for the inevitable opportunity to catch Mi'ishaen in a disadvantaged position. 

The only thing worse than suspecting that something was about to go wrong, to Mi'ishaen's mind, was to have it happen.  Problems that were complete surprises were much easier to handle, ego-wise, than those that loomed large and obvious in the much-too-near future.  This particular problem included getting kicked just under the ribs first, then in the backs of the knees.

She crumpled to the ground, more annoyed with her ability to be grounded than pained.  Normally, this would be a terrible position, but when the first attacker picked up his leg to kick her in the head, Mi'ishaen decided to repay her pain into his knee.  She grabbed the back of his ankle and mercilessly slammed the side of her fist into the joint, eliciting a sharp crack and a howl of pain that echoed down the streets beyond the alley.  He collapsed instantly, unable to bend his knee, and Mi'ishaen pulled him up to give him a skull-cracking headbutt that robbed him of consciousness.  She quickly rocked back from her knees, stood and turned, seeing that the the famine-thin cheater had a dagger drawn.

While Mi'ishaen had never been much of an advocate for playing fair, she was furious at this dark figure's interference.  She drew both daggers, taking a lightning quick moment to spin each one singly over the first finger of each hand, then to spin them simultaneously.  One of the very early memories she had of her father was him doing just that with throwing knives- first spinning the one in his left hand, then the one in his right, then both at once.  He'd flip them into the air a few times as well, catching them by the hilts first, then by the blades.  Most thought that this bit of play was just showing off, but Mi'ishaen- much like her father before her- had always taken the weight of her weapons extremely seriously.  One never knew when they would have to perform.

As it turned out, it was fortunate that she'd taken those few seconds.  The second rogue was quick on his feet, smart, and as good with just one dagger as Mi'ishaen was with two.  Both agile fighters danced about each other, sparking with energy that they poured into their respective muscles and weapons.  About ten or twelve punches and slices later, Mi'ishaen knocked the feet out from under her attacker, winding him.  Without a second thought, Mi'ishaen delivered a crushing kick to the side of the man's head and buried one of the daggers she had swiped from the guard as deeply as she could into his throat.  She waited a few seconds, twisted the hilt, then tugged the dagger out, sighing heavily- with satisfaction.

"What, tired?" a light, feminine voice called buoyantly from the side of the alley that gave way to the street.  "Seemed to me like you could have fought much harder."

Mi'ishaen found she had just barely enough restraint to turn around and look at the source of this exuberant soprano without just tossing a dagger between its eyes.  There stood a woman, dark hood pulled back to reveal a red haired, sea green eyed, freckled face.  Her skin, fair and slightly creased, preached of years that had not yet weighted her tone, and the various streaks of grey that rested with the vibrant red locks somehow seemed hideously out of place there.

"Ah, Diven.  And by a woman, too; now he's got twice the crow to eat.  Oh, my- it's a shame Selvien wasn't as good as he thought he was-" the woman marveled as she fearlessly walked past the concussed male, who was apparently a jerk named Diven, and looked down at what was left of Selvien, whose torn-open throat was now a gory mixing bowl for blood and rainwater.  "You can replace him.  That is, if you don't feel like returning to jail- again."

"And what do you get?" the Tiefling breathed, just barely audible.  She didn't care for the way the woman had shown up without making a sound, or how she'd begun making offers before she'd so much as given her name.

"Me?  I've been on your side of the table before-" the woman placed a firm knuckle under Mi'shaen's chin to have a good look at her face in what little light was available.  "-Blade daughter.  Or do you prefer Gorgeous?  No, that was for your pet girl- who you don't own, that's right.  Have to say, your friends are very interesting.  I just get a little cut- say, five, eight percent of whatever you do naturally.  Based on what I've seen and heard, you carry your trades like your blades- one for each hand, and I love, love, love it.  So flexible, so resourceful, so- useful.  Now, what you get is what's more important.  I give you cover, I give you information- but you keep your freedom.  Your talent isn't on a leash, ever.  You break the wrong guy's bones, I throw someone in a trap.  You want to know where your heart throb is, I get a pair of eyes right down into that old bone rattler's crypt.  Be good to me, and I'll be better to you- and I don't even have to be the only game in your town.  I prefer to be a priority, but you are, as it is said, a free agent."

"Who are you?" Mi'ishaen spat, turning to gather her wares, only to discover that another black clad figure had already put them back into the soaked shirt.  "Did you cut the same deal with these rats?"

"Oh, I can understand your annoyance, but some pressure testing was necessary," the woman sighed contemplatively.  "Like I said, I've been on your side of this, but I've been on the dealer's side for an admirable amount of time.  We both know I can't stay that way by working gently.  Call me Dark.  And while you weigh your options, think of this- there's a lovely little task force specifically being designed to get you back in a prison cell as we speak.  It's going to be led by your favorite half-blind, alcoholic fighting savant, who is currently on an ever-shortening leash.  Think about when Nithraz finds out that you really are a murderer- maybe not the one he's looking for, but- well, why be picky?  He'll hang you both like midday wash, find your girlfriend, hang her too, just for holding your blood-stained little hand."

"And just how do you know all this- Dark?"

"You should come meet my associates for yourself, Minx.  And when you come, know that I know that you will leave.  Maybe it'll be within minutes.  Maybe it will be a few weeks, months, years.  But you will leave; you have to.  Know that I'll keep in touch- like a distant relative or an almost-estranged friend.  It's always good to have someone who is just as aware of her usefulness to you as you are of yours to her, don't you think?"

Mi'ishaen had to admit to herself that she liked the way this older woman talked.  Still feeling there was somehow a catch, she looked at Dark expectantly.  "Deals like yours don't get made in the open air."

"Love it," Dark nodded, putting her hood over her head.  "Hand that tat back to Stone; it's why I brought him.  I know what it's worth, and you worked for it."

Stone, who was a full-blooded, muscle bound and heavily tattooed Orc, stepped up to show that he had picked everything up.  In his arms, the bundle seemed about as challenging to carry as a new born baby.

"If I hand it off, he keeps it where I can see it," Mi'ishaen replied tentatively.

Dark laughed quietly and nodded, like an approving mother.  "Hand it over, Stone.  Let's see if she can keep up with her hands full."

It wasn't an idle saying.  Mi'ishaen had quite the challenge trying to keep up with the older woman and her surprisingly agile associate while whipping in and out of alleys, avoiding guards and slipping into foul-smelling tunnels that were ankle-deep with unexplained filth.  Remembering how Silveredge had gagged first at the smell of kobolds and then again at the odor of the jails, Mi'ishaen wondered how she'd handle trudging through what was no doubt the offal and upheaval of others.  As used to unpleasant situations as she herself was, she was rather grateful that she'd acquired boots.

After twisting and turning down so many tunnels that Mi'ishaen was not sure where in the actual city she could actually be, the temperature began to climb significantly.  The floor of the burrow dried out dramatically and even became cracked like a land struck with drought.

"What is this place?" Mi'ishaen finally breathed, her gear feeling much heavier than it had when she started following the woman.

"Thank goodness- I thought you'd never ask," Dark replied lightly.  "These tunnels were thought up long ago by the Drow who ran the Darkness back when the Dhuurniv were still trying to convince the rest of the dark Elf population that the Dalelands property was a good investment."

"So your organization is called The Darkness?" Mi'ishaen questioned.

"Not for a long time it hasn't," Dark snorted.  The three finished the pathway, which led up to a solid stone door with heavily carved patterns.  Dark seemed to simply put her hand to the door, which responded by splitting in four places, shifting slightly, and pulling back into the walls of the tunnel, revealing quite the collection of pointy objects just inside.  "That Drow was a Dhuurniv, and when Little Miss Netherese Lapdog called in her favors, she demanded little sister's whole operation.  The matron made a decision that apparently sat fine with her daughter, but not all of us were in agreement with having Sembia- and thus, the Shadovar, overrun this town again.  So, there was a split- not a small, democratic or polite one, either.  It was civil war in here for some years.  But in the end, Engus- a Dwarf with a hammer that could split the head of a small dragon in half- held this place, and a few others like it, along with those of us who weren't in agreement with being the Netherese's bitches."

Dark motioned for Mi'ishaen to enter first, but Stone waited for both women to enter before he would do so.  Past the weapon racks filled with swords, axes and maces of all kinds was a squat Dwarven female with braided black hair- on her head and on her chin.  Having just thrown a sword into a water barrel, she turned to Dark and Mi'ishaen expectantly, arms crossed.  The steam cloud that hissed as it rose behind her put a formidable touch on her pose.

"Hammer, Minx.  Minx, Hammer," Dark said simply, more focused on the door, which was refitting itself together as though it had never split.  "Stone, thanks for your time.  Minx, the hardware, if you don't mind?"

Hammer, who was all business, looked up at Mi'ishaen and grunted as Stone gave her a nod and walked through the room to another tunnel-like hallway just beyond it.  Not seeing a flat space that didn't have various pieces of armor or weapons all over it anywhere, Mi'ishaen bent down and laid the make shift sack on the floor.  The Dwarf wasted no time in sitting right down and getting her well-calloused hands on the merchandise.  After turning pieces this way and that, running her fingers along the lines of the stuff and whipping it around a few times, she began to give her deep voiced pronouncements of value.

"Hawke tat; worst I've seen.  Greaves, two piece.  Arm and leg guards, ten piece.  Cuirass, prob'ly twenty five piece-"

"I'm not selling the cuirass," Mi'ishaen replied.  Hammer looked up from the armor to her seller, then over to Dark, who waved a careless hand.

"She's trading it."

"And where do you think you-" Mi'ishaen began.  But Dark simply leaned to the left slightly to have a better look at the other side of the room.

"Stitches?   Stitches- oh, there you are.  Come here.  Mama wants you, Stitches."

The way Dark had lightened her tone made Mi'ishaen think that Stitches was some sort of pet- a dog, a rat, something that responded to its name, and came when it was called.  She was absolutely shocked to see a perfectly grown Drow male, heavily burned, scarred and completely naked, who looked around himself fearfully as though he were about to have half his body bitten off at any moment.  Where there were bits of his natural skin left, it was ash grey, and his dirty slate grey hair- matted with mud in places- had been cut short and pulled into a tight ponytail with a filthy piece of twine.

"Stitches, Minx needs a good set of armor.  It needs to fit all around her, see?  All around.  And, she's got a tail- have a look."

And Stitches, who seemed to have absolutely no understanding about what personal space was, walked up to Mi'ishaen and attempted to pick up her dress to look.

"Hey, hey, c'mon!" Mi'ishaen hollered instantly, yanking the edge of her dress away sharply.  As the Drow nearly tripped over Hammer in his mad rush to get away from the source of the loud noise, Mi'ishaen figured that Bahlzair would have a field day spitting acid at this weak product of female domination.

"Softly," Dark said seriously.  "Mind flayer damage.  He might fall down somewhere and twitch for hours if you scream at him like that.  He hasn't got the foggiest notion of indecency, trust me, and was gelded like a farm horse before I ever saw him.  Stitches?"

And the Drow popped his head out from behind one of Hammer's worktables, wide coppery brown eyes blinking slowly.

"So, will you cut Mama good leather that will fit her nicely?  Hmm?"

"I'm- um- sorry I yelled," Mi'ishaen offered, raising a hand to wave slowly.  At first, Stitches ducked as though she were going to somehow magically fly over Hammer to hit him, but once he actually recognized the gesture of greeting, he ventured to show a hand and scrunch up the fingers a few times to approximate a wave back.

"Very nice," Dark smiled warmly.  "Stitches?"

A small, but emphatic nod came from the other side of the work table, and after some bustling, the Drow returned with some much cleaner twine.

"I'll have to take the cuirass off, huh?"  Mi'ishaen said calmly and evenly, preparing to shimmy her way out of it.  There were a few strange moments where it seemed Stitches was not going to come any closer to Mi'ishaen, but absolute stillness and a bit of patience was rewarded with a rather comprehensive measuring.  Mi'ishaen again felt that strange sensation of vague embarrassment that had nagged at her when the court mage was sending some sort of magic hand through her hair.  While Stitches was strangely considerate, thorough and gentle for someone who clearly didn't have all his dice in the right bag, the Tiefling still felt- awkward.

Hammer, who patiently waited until this dog and pony circus came to a close, looked up and gave her closing values.  "Daggers, five piece; short sword, fifteen piece.  Done."

"And the shirt?" Dark asked, crossing her arms expectantly.

"Rags," Hammer replied gruffly.

"Waste now, cry later," Dark commanded.  It was a tone heavy enough to mildly startle Stitches, but Hammer growled for a few moments before accepting the ruling.

"Rags, some pence.  Done?"

"Done?" Dark asked Mi'ishaen, who was feeling the Drow's icy fingers creeping up the inside of her leg in an attempt to take an inseam measurement.

"Total?" Mi'ishaen asked, trying not to shriek or tremble at how close to a tickling spot Stitches was getting.

"Seventy four gold, some silver, some pence," Hammer grumbled immediately.

"Which will cover some of the cost of your new fittings," Dark encouraged.  "Let's start with your weapons; you'll need those immediately.  Stitches, aren't you through?"

Stitches, who had somehow known or sensed that the insides of Mi'ishaen's legs were not the places most used to getting touched, was in the process of very carefully measuring off the thickest point of her calf.   After finishing calmly, he smoothed his hands down Mi'ishaen's legs, which for some reason gave her a small comfort.  Pulling away from her and inspecting his various knots, he turned to Dark and nodded, immediately scampering off to the other side of the large room.

"Fascinating creature.  So sensitive to sound and fluctuating emotions, but resilient and determined otherwise- that damage won't be forever.  He's amazing with armor enchantments.  Practically wills the stuff to protect you.  Anyhow, go ahead and have a look at Hammer's dagger assortment.  Some of them she's made, some of them we've gained, but she only ever keeps the good stuff.  The okay stuff gets traded to allies.  The tat gets sold topside- to people like Hawke and her pet wizard."

"I keep hearing about this woman and her mage as though the pair of them are the strangest things to happen to this town," Mi'ishaen said offhandedly.  "Nobody even says the poor man's name.  I know they can't be the biggest freaks around; warriors bed wizards all the time, no matter who's wearing the skirt."  She walked by the rack filled with different sorts of daggers- dirks, kukri, and a few pieces she didn't even know the names of.  Passing by a set of katars made her smile briefly.

"See something you like?" Dark prompted immediately.

"Just reminded me of someone," Mi'ishaen replied, moving along.  Stitches made unnerving noises at the other side of the room, as if in response, which gave Mi'ishaen the creeps.  "This is quite a collection."

"Hammer's the best- the Forge was built around her," Dark laughed.  "Literally.  Engus was her mate, and gave her this play room for her hundred and twenty fifth birthday."

"A good present," Mi'ishaen affirmed, her eyes finally alighting on two daggers that looked utterly out of place.  The hilts curved just slightly, fit with pommels that started with a wide moon shape base and finished with a sharp edge.  The blade itself seemed to have fangs near the base, then split to finish in two points, making it look more like an insect's head than a weapon.

"Good choice," Hammer noted, still sitting on the ground with what were now her wares.  "Take both. Fit you."

"Spin 'em around, see how they feel," Dark soothed knowingly.

Mi'ishaen carefully lifted each dagger from its place on the racks that wound around the entire room, balancing them on each finger and finally spinning them, testing their weight.  For such a strange appearance, they handled nicely.  Every edge, even the outsides of the base's "fangs," was razor sharp.

"Tiefling make.  Fallencrest import.  Ebony handle, tang goes clear through.  Pommel screws down onto it, tight.  Twisted mithral quillon.  Four functional points, eight edges, all mithral.  Light, quick.  Plain edge; no sawing through bone.  Done?"

"How much-" Mi'ishaen began.

"Done," Dark cut flatly.  "I know you wonder about how much all this is, and how you're going to pay for it.  So do I.  It'll take Stitches a few days to get some armor on that frame of yours.  While you wait, roam around the hole awhile, meet some fellow bottom feeders, sharpen your skills, get all your questions answered.  When he's done, get out there and- well, just don't get caught, hmm?"

Mi'ishaen looked from the daggers that she could not possibly afford to the woman who seemed to be essentially loaning them to her against an uncertain future payment.  "Seriously, who are you?"

The older woman nodded, removing her hood at last.  "I see.  For most, Dark is enough, but for you- Rashiira.  And this place- this is the Forge, one of Spectre's buried holdouts.  I manage ninety six or seven free agent rogues like yourself in this location- I say 'manage,' because the difference between what I'm doing and what Esvelita's pet has got her beloved Drow puppet doing is your freedom.  I respect the intelligence and the ability of each and every one of my rogues by saying, 'You are your own man or woman.  Do what you think is right.'  In Darkness, you're as protected as you would be in any gang, but micromanaged and twisted into a scheme that you may or may not have any stock in, just as you would be in any normal gang.  In Spectre, I'm only as close to you as you want me to be.  If you live, it is because you are able to.  If you die, it's because you deserved it.  All of us have our unique blessings, and we use them to the full, to our own separate and collective benefits- Stitches?  Go."

And Stitches, who had already studded part of a length of prepared leather, picked up five or six small shards of metal and rapidly tossed them at Dark as though they were shuriken.  Mi'ishaen instinctively moved back toward the racks, and was astounded at Hammer, who simply turned to move a few weapons off another table.  Dark, meanwhile, did some impressive dodging, managing to completely avoid being sliced.

"Some more work with Nails, Stitches," she panted after making sure that he had emptied his hands.  "or House Dhuurniv will make a meat stick of you.  Anyway, Minx-"

"Mi'ishaen," the Tiefling replied simply.

"Welcome to the Forge.  Make and remake yourself as many times as you like.  Dark is my fourth outside name.  Hammer's had hers since the coterie was still in one piece.  I see a female perfectly capable of being just as dangerous on a male's lap as she is in a fight.  That tavern picking was clean, but you're capable of fighting hard.  Now, if you see different..."

Dark trailed off purposely, waiting for Mi'ishaen to give herself her own outside name.  After a few moments, the Tiefling took her eyes off the working Dwarf and Drow and turned to the woman whose deal she still wasn't completely sure she wanted to accept.

"I'll let you know," she stated, resting the daggers on a table and heading for the hallway down which Stone had disappeared.

"To be expected," Dark agreed.  "You're a girl of deeds, not words.  You'll find me when you want to talk some more; I'm always closer than you think."

2:14 Dirty honor.

Nithraz had never cared for taverns.

Tavern lighting was never bright enough, nor did the tables ever seem quite clean.  It was difficult for him to explain why he found the need to inspect every bench and stool before he rested his weight on it, and many of his co-workers and subordinates wondered what kind of warrior didn't enjoy a good brew with his friends.  But for Nithraz, every tavern was intolerably filthy.  They smelled- seedy ones reeked of salt, vomit, sweat and despair, and good ones boasted alluring perfumes, high class wines, fresh petticoats and well-crafted lies.

But every tavern smelled, and not one was clean.

On this night, nearly two weeks after Voyonov was supposed to report on his progress with the Rooftop Reaver, as the erratic murderer had quickly come to be known, Nithraz was finally back out in the Eastern Quarter of Urmlaspyr.  The area was noted for being in perpetual shadow, thus earning the nickname "Dark Quarter," and all kinds of creatures took advantage of the shade.  While Nithraz's iron-fisted force had once gotten the area to an acceptably low level of crime, he had been whipped up the ranks before he completely succeeded in clearing it.  As he walked the streets, one luridly painted shack of sin after another preached to him that he probably should have taken a bit more care to do so.  Loudly laughing men and women danced in the poorly-lit alley ways, about half of them getting paid to be that happy.  Two or three peddlers disappeared into shadow upon his approach, leaving twitching buyers behind to glare about themselves with confused, hollow eyes.  One bold thief snatched a gentleman's purse right in front of Nithraz- and while the captain of the guard certainly raised his voice about the situation, the dazed male shook his slightly ruffled head.

"Don't worry about it," he said amiably, his rapidly dilating eyes struggling to focus on the half-Orc.  "It saves me putting money in Cuthbert's poor box, doesn't it?"

And Nithraz had closed his eyes briefly- more a reaction to the signs of parral usage than to the nearly-nonsensical dismissal of his concern.  He quickly moved to the side and allowed the gentleman to pass, since the high captain knew that if the man didn't make it home in time, he would go blind and pass out before he got to a safe bed.  People who used substances like mushroom powder were bad enough- the logic of those that believed that small dosages of blatantly lethal substances could be fun instead of downright idiotic absolutely escaped Nithraz, who couldn't help but feel that such creatures were to be deeply pitied, if not incarcerated for insanity.  This outlook made it extremely difficult to understand his still-new and apparently perpetually intoxicated guardsman, who was rumored to only come up from the bar for air when something loudly attracted his attention.  He had not been seen outside of the Dark Quarter since he'd been assigned a patrolling partner, but he had not reported being on the trail of his mark either, which seemed suspicious.  Seeing his partner- a nimble Sylvan bowman who seemed to have seen nearly everything in his three hundred cheery-eyed years- walking down the roughly cobbled street prompted a much-overdue conversation.

"Trelwynen, you report promptly every morning, and I appreciate it.  But where is Voyonov?"

With a laugh, the white-haired Sylvan pointed a harshly-tanned finger over his shoulder.  "The Patched Petticoat, sir, if ye can stand it.  Before this, it were the Bonny Dale.  Been years since I showed me face in there; all the handshaking and chin wagging just about wrenched me old joints.  About midday, we was at Le Lune Silvestre; that had been more your speed, aye?  He were looking well out of place with all them adoring Elven coquettes in proper boning.  Even some of the Eladrin come down to have a chat- or to try to.  Rough lad, that- not at all good with the Common.  But some things don't need talking, eh?"

"So then it's true that he just walks from one tavern to another?" Nithraz marveled, almost more to himself than to the Elf who was nearly two feet shorter than he.  "How does he-"

"Something diff'rent about Voyonov, sir," Trelwynen replied with a knowing smirk that crinkled his wizened brown eyes into slits.  "Never seen a man so near vagrant, yet so well trusted- and downright liked.  I've heard a few yarns about men like himself, and I intend to divine what he is at the root.  I been around long enough to have me suspicions; I'll sort him out, I promise ye."

"Good night to you, Wyn, get some rest.  If you intend to sort Voyonov out, I suspect you'll need it."  Nithraz nodded in response to Trelwynen's sharp salute and watched as the wood Elf fearlessly whistled a tune down the street toward the nearest guardhouse.  Surprisingly enough, shady pushers that had scurried away from Nithraz's own advance so much as saluted Trelwynen, who seemed to stop to shoot the breeze with them.  The half-Orc only suspected that something else was going on when one dealer stretched out a slender hand to indicate the direction in which the cutpurse that Nithraz himself had ignored had gone.  With a harumph of slight surprise, the high captain went on his way toward one of the more interesting taverns in the area.

The tavern owner, a sweet-faced female who was a Human with a few tell-tale streaks of Drow, called upon all the patrons to toast Nithraz upon his entrance.  "Fy 'Igh Cap'ain, all!" she called out, the harsh accent of the Dahst cliffs curdling an otherwise pleasant alto voice.  "What shall I bring ye, sair?"

"My soldier, if you can find him," Nithraz sighed with a slight wave to the toasters.  He tried not to look too hard at the stool that was quickly cleared for him, but his reputation had preceded him, and one of the barmaids instantly covered it with a white dusting cloth cleaner than one could possibly expect out of a place called The Patched Petticoat.

"An' ye means fis 'ere gent wha' run off fa cot'rie, ye may 'ave 'im i' tha side boofs somewheres.  'Ow 'e pegs a scrap from fere is past reason, but I tell ye, ye canno' drop a pin 'e dinno' 'ear.  'Im wi' one eye gone's a bet'er guardsman fan 'alf tha two-eyed Dragons I seen.  I gives ye great fanks for sendin' 'im when ye did.  In a fortnight, I 'ad 'eads enough o'fem Stingers ta dec'rate a castle wall, so I did!  Says 'e 'ears fa blood singin', yeah?  Tis talent- so says me Ryn, wha's Drow clean frough."

Nithraz found himself squinting with the effort of understanding the young woman, whose pleased Drow husband, Valryn, had come to her side to nod his agreement.  "A coterie?" was all he managed after finding himself lost in her rapid monologue.  "A clutch of stuffy snuff sniffers?"

"May I bother you for the sheep-back stew, Illiam?  Moon table, two bowls, easy on the spice.  I'll be glad to direct the High Captain."  And with a brief kiss that was hooted at by the more intoxicated patrons, the two split, leaving Valryn to lean over the counter to speak more quietly with Nithraz.  "The Stingers have been doing some serious damage to all the ladies in the Dark Quarter.  Slicing faces, taking fingers, cutting great swaths of hair, things like that.  They're not the petty poisoners they were when Illie first introduced me to this rats' nest some eight or nine years ago.  Didn't honestly think that just two males could get them on the move.  When Voyonov practically dragged the old Sylvan into the bar, I was suspicious.  There was animosity at first, but then I showed him what they'd done to Wendre.  Sweet- and very young.  Half-Eladrin; just about glows when she smiles.  Never saw those dirty bastards coming.  Lost two toes and most of her right hand's first finger.  Soon as she reached down to take her stocking off- well- that surface Elf was changed.  I almost saw hate in his face.  If Voyonov's blade was the thunder, the elder's arrows were certainly the lightning.  You're not here to reassign them, are you?"

Nithraz didn't bother to tell the Drow that he had not sent Voyonov and Trelwynen at all.  "This is more of a progress report.  I just need you to point him out."

"In the Hammer booth, second one off your right shoulder," Valryn replied, nodding in the general direction.  "He, unlike the Sylvan, usually folds himself up as tight as he can so's not to scare the good paying folk.  If you don't see him, Udala may have finally worn his gentleman's nature down.  She's nothing if not stubborn- on the other side of the booths, fourth room."

Not quite understanding what the dark Elf meant, Nithraz nodded and turned to begin his hunt.  There were four booths on either side of the tavern, although he could hardly call the tables that were hemmed in on both sides by salvaged pews "booths" in good conscience.  As they were from different churches, some of the benches had the markings of their former homes on them, prompting the guests and wait staff alike to call them by the symbols.   Nithraz prided himself on discovering this upon hearing a patron request Eve's Glory- the waitress nodded and promptly walked a hand holding couple to a pair of benches with a relief of a hand with a heart -shaped hole in its palm.  From the other side of that same wall came some muffled but impassioned sounds, and a mildly embarrassed Nithraz realized exactly what Udala was after.  Stepping through the entryway to the side hallway and crossing his arms, Nithraz was greeted by the sight of the towering seven foot Dragonborn with his back to the wall, holding a well-rounded female in his arms in front of him.  She, for her part, had hiked her skirt nearly to her waist to wrap her legs as far around his upper body as she could, and both were completely absorbed in an intense kissing session until the half-Orc knocked lightly on the wall with one knuckle.

The Halfling female turned and fixed Nithraz with a fearless glare, but Voyonov- who had expertly moved her to one hip- pushed off the wall and got into as solid of an attention as he could while balancing her.  Nithraz wondered at how strangely sober he appeared, even when the odor wafting from himself and his much shorter female friend pointed clearly to the contrary.

"At ease," the high captain managed, the scene tempting his gag reflex.  "I'd like a word with you outside- if the lady doesn't mind?"

"Da, ser," Voyonov replied sharply and instantly.

"The lady DOES mind," the Halfling shot back at the same time, her own inebriation taking the sharpness off her pronunciation but not a bit of the edge out of her tone.  "Took me three days to get him this far!"

"But now that you are getting me, Udalka, I am not going away from you anytime soon," Voyonov assured in an easy, liquor-soaked baritone as he gently set the fuming female on her slightly unsteady feet.  It was a vocal quality wildly different from that which he'd just directed toward his superior- so much so that Nithraz was utterly confused for a few moments.  "Your prize is coming back, yes?"

"Better," Udala growled, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at Nithraz.

Voyonov bent one knee to kiss her on top of her head, then followed Nithraz out of the tavern with only the slightest hint of a stagger.  There were not a few calls after him- some from patrons that were still relatively sober.  Apparently, Voyonov had won himself the nickname "Talon," which was for some reason not an epithet with which the Dragonborn seemed entirely comfortable.  For all the warmth and gratitude inside, Nithraz found he could breathe a lot easier in when the tavern door had closed behind them.

"So you had time to put a damper on the Stingers while searching for the Rooftop Reaver?" the high captain asked without even turning around.

"He is moving away from me when I am coming too close," Voyonov sighed.  A touch of the horrible stench of mushroom ale on his breath made Nithraz shudder.  "First, he is striking at temple of Lolth.   Then he is causing fires at different burial grounds.  Always he is making revenge, but I am not always sure what he is revenging.  Some things that are angering him yesterday are not bothering him in a few hours."

"Chaotic- I see.  Like your little Tiefling that MacSairlen was sitting on- and by the way, she's finally gotten loose.  MacSairlen is confident that he will find her, but I'd rather add that to your plate and let him get back to some higher profile problems on the docks-"  Nithraz, hearing rapidly approaching footsteps, turned to see a loosely clad, well made up young Human female nearly throw herself into Voyonov's arms.

"Please- they've got Amilie this time, I'm sure of it.  I heard her down the street before, but now it's too quiet, and they sent two big men just a few nights ago-"

Voyonov closed his eyes and laid a clawed hand on the brunette's shoulder.  "Saoria, yes?  Tell me where this is happening, Riashka."

"East- but not in that street you told her to stay out of.  She was prancing up and down by Petey's Peppered Pots, though you couldn't pay one of those flea bitten whores to tell you if they saw her!  Why don't they understand that we're all threatened if the Stingers manage to get one of any of us?"

Voyonov patted the young woman's head and turned away from her.  "I am coming back, Riashka.  Please to go inside and tell Udala that I am coming back, and when I do, I will make sure you are not losing money for this problem, yes?"

As the young woman nodded quickly and bolted inside, Nithraz wondered precisely how Voyonov was going to honor his pledge.  Just as he had not shown up to check in, the Dragonborn also had not reported to the treasury for payment.

Keeping up with Voyonov was a serious task.  Nithraz didn't intend to run neck and neck with the Dragonborn, but even remaining close enough to give the appearance of backup was wearying.  It was as though the news of someone in danger had put an extra urgency in the male's footsteps- and he was moving forward with such arrow-like focus that Nithraz had serious doubt about whether he was actually about to observe a fight between rogues and a drunkard or dead men and a well-trained soldier.

When Voyonov whipped himself into a narrow side street and drew his famously heavy, talon-tipped kilij, the time for guessing was over.  One surprised rogue, his armor lined with spikes that Nithraz knew were poisoned, was shoved to a wall by Voyonov's odd sideways charge and slid to the ground, winded.  The second Stinger was quick to draw his dagger and attempt to stab the off-balance Dragonborn in the right side where the chainmail wasn't quite sufficient to protect the skin-covered lower ribs.  Somehow, Voyonov managed to stumble far enough backward to have the knife meet the wall instead, but he was quick to lean forward again and push the rogue's head into the wall with a forceful elbow.  The rogue, well concussed, did a bit of his own staggering, dropping the knife completely and putting a hand to his bleeding forehead.  The first rogue, who'd recovered enough to grab his comrade's knife with the thought of putting it into Voyonov's guts, clanked harmlessly against chainmail.  It got Voyonov's attention, however, and the large creature dropped to one knee, letting the heavy kilij crash down onto the young male's skull.  Just after this, a third Stinger appeared out of an uncovered hole between Nithraz and Voyonov- on the Dragonborn's blind left side.  The second drew his other dagger and attempted to take advantage of the fact that Voyonov had evened the height differential between himself and his opponents.  Unfortunately, he hit the scale that protected most of Voyonov's shoulder, and the dagger didn't manage to punch through it.  Instead, the towering creature tried to stand up again, receiving a light slice to the back of the shoulder's leather-like skin, pushing his attacker backward and- awkwardly enough- tripping over him.  Losing his balance entirely, Voyonov sat down heavily on the unlucky rogue's ribs, crushing blood out of his mouth.  At this, the third Stinger, who was rather slender, came to an absolute halt and clearly got ready to flee the scene.  Sheathing the kilij, Voyonov sprung forward and tackled the escaping rogue by grabbing his waist.  Nithraz wasn't a fan of the gust of alcohol-scented air that resulted, but the rogue under Voyonov was completely sickened.  Comically enough, the Dragonborn got up instantly when he heard the male beginning to gag.

"Come, come, my friend," he breathed heavily, picking up the nauseous Stinger and dusting him off.   "I will wait a few moments while you are catching your breath, yes?"

"Oh- oh gods," was all the rogue could manage to say before gagging again.

"I'll take this one," Nithraz offered, running forward to collect the crumpling Stinger.  "Check if that one that you- eh- sat on is alive."

"Da, ser," Voyonov replied with a nod, turning and ambling over to do so.  "Ah- nyet, it seems perhaps I am heavier than I am thinking I am.  I should maybe be eating little less."

"Or drinking less," Nithraz said pointedly, unable to stop himself.  "Clean this mess up and report to me- in the afternoon.  I'd rather not see the hangover that you'll undoubtedly have first thing in the morning."

"Da, ser," Voyonov grunted, already preparing to heft bodies.  As he bent, however, he heard quiet sniffles echoing from someplace below him.

Nithraz, who didn't hear anything, turned away and began to return to the main guardhouse with his prisoner, satisfied with the thought that he would probably imprison his guardsman until he agreed to sobriety.  Supposing that Voyonov was looking for someplace to relieve himself, out one way or another, he offhandedly called, "There's a big hole right here.  Probably dug to some cellar- somewhere in Sembia, with luck."

Voyonov sat on his feet for a while, turning his head so his right eye could take in as much as was possible.  Spying the hole where he'd remembered it, he scooted over and- sure enough- the sniffling came from deeper within it.

"That half-Orc has a wide streak of mean," a familiar female tone grumbled.  "I heard your little waif say you were coming back, but I didn't trust it.  Thought I'd be useful-"

Voyonov raised a hand to quiet Udala, but she came close instead, pressing the flask she'd carried out of the tavern into his clawed hand.  Without a second thought, the Halfling disappeared into the hole, which wasn't nearly large enough for the Dragonborn to get into, and returned a few minutes later, pushing up a bound and trembling Human female.  Voyonov wasted no time in wordlessly handing Udala back the flask.

"Alright, come on, sweetheart, this'll warm you up a bit," Udala soothed.  As soon as Voyonov got the gag out of the Human's mouth, Udala got the flask into it, not accepting protest as an option.  By the time the solider had managed to cut all the ropes, the flask was a third of the way empty, and the Human was breathing more deeply.  "There we are.  Now, what's your name?  Where should we take you?"

"Amilie," the girl replied after a tight cough.  "Say, what was that stuff?  It burns."

"Well-spoken- an educated lass, eh?  This here's spiced rum.  Give it a few minutes, and it won't burn," Udala counseled.  "What happened to that lot?"

Voyonov shrugged as if the two dead men were no big deal.  "I am looking for Amilie, because Saoria is telling me she is being taken by Stingers.  They are having good taste, but they are not handling Amilie in the right way."  Udala, who had taken a swig from the flask, handed it back to Voyonov, who took a healthy portion of it before handing it off to Amilie.  "Please to finish this, yes?  Almost you are not shaking- this is good."

Amilie shifted slightly closer to Aleksei, who naturally set himself up to become a pillow for her, much to Udala's annoyance.  She took a deep breath and finished the drink, making a face as she swallowed.  "It doesn't burn as much, but it still burns.  When will it stop?"

"You've got a little girl in your lap, Talon," Udala snorted, only half joking.  "It'll stop in a few minutes, trust me.  You'll forget it ever burned at all in a few minutes.  I promise."

"Thank you so much," Amilie sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with her fingers.  "I had only just walked out of Petey's- the flophouse down the way?  It's my first night alone, and- and then this- I-"

"What're you doing in a flophouse, anyway?" Udala laughed, scooting closer to Aleksei in hopes of gaining more of his attention.  "You don't look like that sort of girl.  You're so- how do I put this- childlike.  Innocent, I suppose."

"Oh, thank you, that's nice of you to say," Amilie burbled, grateful tears pushing their way down her cheeks.  "I'm afraid that's not the case, but- I just- I'm so glad I didn't have to go with those men, and- I heard the commotion, I was so scared, and- oh, thank you so much!  Both of you, you're so sweet, and brave, and nice-"

"I'll bet it doesn't burn now," Udala joked, jabbing a patient Aleksei in the ribs.

"Why- no- I guess- it doesn't!" Amilie smiled.  "You were right, it went right away like it never happened, and all that's left is this scratchy feeling in my throat.  But it's not so bad as a cold, and I feel much better.  Oh, really, thank you so much-"

Udala found herself the recipient of a fairly off-balance and surprising hug.  Aleksei smirked.

"This is good night," he said proudly.  "Two beautiful women becoming friends."

"Must be a dream, huh, Talon?" Udala purred, putting a hand under his scaly jaw.  Amilie sat back for a few moments as the two kissed gently, then reached up to take a single skin-covered fleshy tendril of Aleksei's mane-like hair between two fingers.  Since it was very sensitive, Aleksei couldn't help but shudder with poorly-hidden pleasure.

"You saved me," Amilie stated simply.  "I could muster a little more than just a thank you, huh?" Before Aleksei could even think to protest, Amilie had turned his head and pressed her lips onto his, closing her eyes and enjoying the moment thoroughly.

When she did pull back, Aleksei simply reached over for Udala, who was absolutely dumbfounded at this young woman who seemed to have spanned the space between an innocent girl and a free loving woman in less than a minute.  "Also Udalka is putting herself where I cannot go to help you out.  Is she not also deserving good thank you kiss?"

"Why, yes!" Amilie agreed gleefully, and leaned over Aleksei to do just that, pressing her hands to Udala's face as though she'd been the most handsome creature she'd ever seen.  "A most beautiful savior- yes," she soothed, looking deeply into Udala's eyes before wrapping her arms around her and tenderly touching her lips with her own.  It was clear that she was a professional, staying locked to the Halfling for more than two minutes and provoking some rather pleased sounds.  "Both of you.  My heroes," she breathed contentedly after she let the Halfling go.

"I am cleaning up this mess, yes?  You go somewhere, not far, and I will maybe follow you after," Aleksei suggested.

Amilie clambered up unsteadily, but wound herself into Udala's embrace as soon as she could.  "Those Stingers are nobody's friends, not even the Shar-scarred's friends.  They all think they're slicker than birdshit on ice, well, that's enough.  Dump them in the river, see if they don't sink right down to the hells.  You come with me to the Pots, and I will make sure- you watch me, just you watch- everybody treats you real good, okay?  I will make you feel so, so good- special treat."  She purred the last part of her declaration almost directly to Udala, who- wonder of wonders- blushed so profusely that even the pale skin in her scalp turned brilliant red.

"That- you're- quite a girl," Udala stuttered, her own drinks finally catching up with her with full force.  Aleksei felt he had to laugh.

"Maybe you two are sitting in one place, and we are going to the Pots safely together.  Then, we are all making each other feel good-"

"Special treat, you watch," Amilie finished, all smiles as she leaned forward to brush her hand on Aleksei's scales.  "Melt all this- to cream.  I'm the Semmite guard favorite- I know I am.  Know all the tricks to heat that chain mail right up, just you watch."

Darkening Path 1:D The source.

"If you don't mind, Menye?" Vashen sighed, watching as Iaden and Seyashen wondrously materialized just a short distance from the worn table.

"At your leisure, m'lord," Akmenyn replied, shifting his head to the right slightly to indicate to Iaden that father and son should have a bit of privacy.  After a brief, but fierce hug for the father who was much more lightly built than he was, Iaden complied.

Vashen got up from the table and, contrary to the emotion that had begun to surface in his voice, turned away from his son.  "Yasha, we made the mistake, your mother and I, of teaching you to fear what was, for you, merely another ability.  You were already perceptive, spoke well, and understood written material far beyond your age level, but at your first sparks of your- magical talent, Mei worried about what your adult life would be.  It appeared that she knew a few too many necromancers who met unhappy ends at the tips of spikes, or on slag heaps, or tied to great weights at the bottoms of rivers.  It is our fear, a stealthy terror that overshadowed every 'I love you' you ever heard, that has planted a well-deserved anger in your heart."

Seyashen, who had expected a much different answer, got up and tried to near his father, who pulled away from him.  "But I- you can't blame yourself for my-"

"I must, Seyashen, because the blame is mine," Vashen scolded in a tone that froze his son solid.  "But to see you- I don't regret it.  I don't regret for a moment giving you the extra meanness in your voice that you will need to fill those incantations, those rituals, those spells that all once seemed much too weighty for you.  Your fury, which you nursed quietly- perhaps unconsciously- is now a great weapon.  Like Menye's throwing knives, or Iaden's sword or my bow.  It is a tool- use it, and then put it away."

Seyashen stood back away from his father, staring at him incredulously.

"What do you wonder at?" Vashen rumbled, finally turning around.  "You should know; there are few secrets hidden from the dead.  You feared your mother's teachers' judgements, but you also hated them with a passion I didn't think a child your age should have.  The neighbors did frighten you, but when they shrunk from you, they sparked in you a desire to destroy them for those timid looks and secret whispers.  You trembled as I climbed to the gallows, but you had condemned every single person in that square in your heart long before your magic broke loose of you, compelled to do as you would not even admit that you were commanding.  And you were furious with me, too."

"Why would you say that?" Seyashen whispered fiercely, his voice suddenly robbed of most of its tone.

"Because you were, boy, admit it!  How I would not stay with your mother.  The way I left for days and days and days, either dragging the entire family behind me or leaving you to wonder if I were dead or not.  The nights you starved, wishing your father were like the other males, who went out to the market and returned with food.  It killed you that not only was I different than every other grown male you saw, I made you different than any of their children.  You blamed me and your mother for somehow passing down the curse of necromancy.  You hated me, cursed me every night, then hated and cursed yourself for doing so.  Yours was a never ending, vicious downward spiral of rage so fierce that you preferred those night terrors to the agony of waking."  Vashen stopped, spent and panting, and shook his head.  "And I watched you.  I feared you.  I feared that you were right, that it was my fault.  I couldn't bear to face you for a moment more than I had to, barely looked at you, rarely talked to you.  I felt the sick, heavy heat of your emotions when you stared at me from across a room, oppressive enough to crush vomit out of my body.  There- there you have it.  You have it all.  Now, what will you do with me?"

Seyashen took a deep breath and turned his back to his father, looking out over the desolate landscape that sported gusts of dusty wind and bare, dry trees.  "I have the rest of my life to consider that, Vashen.  You should rest, while I think about it."

"Rest?  How?  Every night you tug at the tether of my soul.  I haven't even been assigned to a specific level of Baator, because just the time someone gets around to placing me, I'm having to consciously resist your summons.  I've long assumed that that, not any punishment that any demon can think up, is my penance."

"Don't worry.  You can go to your appropriate damnation in peace.  Unless I need you for something, I won't call.  And when I do call, be assured that you will come, whether you like it or not-" Seyashen held up his hand when his father began to protest.  "I am the death mage here.  Most other spirits can expect me to treat them with some semblance of respect, but you- ah, you.  At last, since it's clear that you're aware of more than I had thought to admit to, I will treat you exactly like you deserve to be treated.  Like a man so consumed with his own agenda that he could not be bothered to raise his plethora of hapless children- a terrible father, an uncaring spouse and thus, a half-made man."

"I should split your throat through, boy," Vashen growled.  But somehow, there was an unmistakable trace of pride in the Tiefling's voice.

"Lift that cursed bow against me, Vashen, and I promise you, I will rot it out of your hand.  You'll feel acid sores the like of which you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy's mother in law."

"Acid and rot- you sound like the Barikdral matron."  Seyashen whipped himself around to stare holes into his father, who simply shrugged.  "She was the only fool in the entire empire who dared to send a shambling skeleton with a message- an attempt to keep me from tearing a hole into the side of the Empire- I take it you've heard of House Barikdral."

"I am a Tiefling, and I am a necromancer.  Anybody who knows anything about necromancy assumes that I'm of House Barikdral- and until this moment, I'd thought them all mistaken."

"Well, they may not be.  Although, since your father was a bastard, abandoned on the doorstep of a front for a pair of ruthless Human crime lords, you may be one of the few shreds of proof that he's of that house at all.  So, perhaps you're not the only one who dislikes his parents- at least you know who to curse."

It was as this point that Seyashen noticed that a stream of dark water had pushed its way up the peak and was now cutting an obvious circle around himself and his father.

"We'll come back to this, Vashen," he breathed, and although it was almost more for himself than it was for his father, he could see his father nodding out of the corner of his eye.

"Put some power in that voice, boy.  You may not think so right now, but I look forward to getting my bow melted into goddamned acid.  Can stay that way, for the good it did us all."

Seyashen turned back around and found that he was standing in the low ground by himself- the table, his father, and the distant images of his uncle and cousin had disappeared.  He was alone with the circular swirl of dark water, which began to reach slender fingers out toward him.  Now having a solid idea of what precisely he'd been following, Seyashen simply moved a hoof outward to touch the stream, and was instantly transported to the center most peak.  There, on a table-like slab of black stone, stood a battered fountain that sucked in the dark water.  Acidic clouds that Seyashen was sure should have choked him to death brushed harmlessly past his shoulders, and dribbles of the liquid seeped through the vein-like cracks that made the ivory white fountain seem as though it would fall into pieces at any moment.

Seyashen moved forward and reached out his hand to see if there were any way for him to replace the ivory fountain controlling the dark flow, but just as his fingers touched the fountain, he heard a strikingly familiar sound.

It was his own laugh.

He retracted his hand for a few seconds and cautiously looked around himself, but when he saw no one, he shook his head clear and returned to concentrating on the fountain.

"And so you continue to pretend?  Bravo."

Seyashen stopped moving and crushed his lips together to ensure that he himself was not talking.  After a few moments, he noticed that the waters had again begun to make a ring around the area in which he stood- a circular flat space not unlike the peak that he had just left behind.  But this time, instead of reaching hopeful trickles out, the dark waters seemed to really be intent on claiming him, quickly pushing itself toward him.

"You think you know what's going on?  Got all the pieces to this puzzle, huh?"

Seyashen got up and backed up, his lips still mashed together between his teeth.  And there, floating in glory above the weakening ivory fountain was a horned image made entirely of the dark water.  Even without an identifiable face, there was no mistaking who this creature was.  Even the self-satisfied way in which it twitched its tail was utterly familiar.

"Your attempts to control me are pathetic.  They're not even real," the image proclaimed, alighting on the fountain and walking down on the water.  "You need me to stay precisely as I am, and you know it.  Who here are you acting for?"

Seyashen blinked, crossing his arms and maintaining his silence.  I'll be damned if I'm crazy enough to talk to myself, he thought simply.

"Define me, and you define your limits," the image continued, flicking his hands at the waters to encourage them to flow freely toward the fountain.  Small waves began to smack against the ivory, visibly widening the cracks.  "Control me, and you have touched the bottom of your power.  You will have discovered precisely who you are, exactly what you are capable of.  And while you sit and ponder what a terrible, wicked, heartless sociopath you really are, I'll feed off the open wound of your self-loathing and bitterness.  Then, I'll break through you and hurt whomever put us in this giant mindfuck.  I'll rip the skin off their bones, pull their insides outside and melt their muscles off, you know I will."

Alright, I'm crazy.  Seyashen pursed his lips, then flicked his arm outward.  Dark water rolled back with it, momentarily allowing the still-parched ground beneath it to be seen.  "There are no limits," he said simply.

"Oh, I love it!  Do tell!  If you haven't got any limits, why do you keep holding me back?  I'm the best and strongest part of you!"

" 'Darkness is endless and eternal; there can be no limit to it.  There is likewise no limit to the power of those who study the darkness but that limit that they place on themselves through fear-' "

"And I've loved all that negative fear energy- all these years!  Just makes me stronger, all of it!"

"-or self-restraint,' " Seyashen finished, consciously deciding to stare his faceless opponent down.

"What are you, reaching for sainthood?  I made those townspeople live their fears.  Everyone who looked at me was terrified of me, and I made their worst nightmares true.  They wanted to burn us- they did!  You know it!  But they were too scared of me to pick up a single brand.  You love me for that, always have.  You adore my raw power- and be honest, you've kept me this way on purpose.  So that you could always know for sure that I was the real deal.  No cultivation.  No practice.  No help.  Nothing but pure, unadulterated dark power, straight from the blood of Asmodeus!"

And as the waters touched Seyashen's hooves, filling him with seemingly boundless energy, he nodded.  "You're right.  I do appreciate- even love- lack of control, at times.  Sometimes I don't care who I hurt.  But I shouldn't have to blind myself to keep myself from razing entire cities to the ground."

"I don't see what the problem is," the image laughed.  "We've worked successfully like that for some time now."

"No, no 'we' haven't.  I've been scared of 'you' for some time now.  But I don't need to get rid of 'you' or cover 'you' up.  I will use you- like a sword, or a bow."

"You're limiting me," the image growled fiercely, circling Seyashen like a predatory animal.  "I'll only take it for so long, and you know it.  You'd be watching an hourglass for the rest of your life.  Why not just let me free?  Let me expand, punish the ones who hurt you.  It's my pleasure to put the big bad bullies in their graves, then pick them up when I want to play with them again."

"I punished them.  I killed them and resurrected them to kill others."  Seyashen extended one hand out and watched in patient silence as the waters lovingly wrapped themselves around him.  "This power is mine.  All your abilities are mine.  You are mine, because you are me."

"I'm stronger than you," the image responded in a tone close to that of a jilted lover.  "I'm a fearless and remorseless destroyer.  I am all I need.  I don't give a shit what anyone says about me.  You won't catch me crying in mommy's lap when I'm offended.  You have always wanted to be me."

"Just once more," Seyashen sighed.  "I covered my brothers and sisters in acid blisters when they pissed me off.  I brought those buildings down because I hated the way Eiko was treated.  I killed every weakling that looked at me with fear in his eyes until the Dragonborn priest literally died to stop me.  And I kept wavering between offing myself and everyone else because I wasn't sure who I hated more."  Seyashen looked up from his arm to the dark image, and slowly, the water around him began to form into tentacles that encased his arms, then split until he had about twenty tentacles branching from his back.  "But this day, this very day, I will finally admit that there has never been a separate you.  It has always been me, and I am singly responsible for hundreds of deaths.  I will stop beating myself up about it, stop blaming somebody else for it, stop pretending like it wasn't really me and that I can't really control it."  The tentacles wrapped themselves around the dark image and lifted him high above the ivory fountain.   "I can be a fearless and remorseless destroyer, yes.  Want to try that out?"

The ivory fountain collapsed entirely, but instead of shooting up from the ground without control, the dark water simply flowed directly to Seyashen, who effectively became the fountain.

The focus.  The source.  All this power is mine.

The dark image, choked, managed to beg, "What will you do with me?"

The question, although somehow expected, still caught Seyashen by surprise.  "What?  What will I do- with me?  With myself?"

And Seyashen awoke, naked and alone in the dim candle light of a stone chamber.  His arms and legs were tied, and on a table a few feet away sat a pair of black metal horns.

"Ah, there you are."  The Master Inquisitor got up from a meditative position in a dark corner and lit a few more candles.  In a few moments, Seyashen could see that he was clearly in a torture room.  As he looked at the various implements, he could tell that a few of them had been used recently.  "Did you find your answers?"

Seyashen closed his eyes again, feeling the cold stone slab beneath him, and eventually the tugging at his wrists and ankles as he was released from the table.  "Where is the Axis of Afflux?"

"Where is the breath of the gods?  And again, traveler, where is your the threshold of your greatest pain?"

Seyashen opened his eyes again, but didn't try to sit up.  "What is one's greatest pain but their best teacher?"

The Master Inquisitor, whose mohawk had been laid flat and bound behind his head,  had decided to go without his bandages this day- or night.  The candlelight exposed him utterly, but Seyashen found himself unperturbed by what he would have previously believed to be some sort of perversion.  Bringing a chair to the side of the stone slab, the Master Inquisitor sat down and laid his arms on the rests, palms upward.  "I give you a statement, Questioner, for I sense now that you are ready to hear it."

Seyashen shook his head, turning his head so that he looked straight up to the ceiling, which was lined with mirrors and sported two candelabras that were obviously missing the catches for dripping wax.  "I'm listening."

"While other gods may not, Afflux indeed delights in torture.  But it is not always merely for his entertainment, or even for mine or yours.  It is instead for enlightenment.  For the greater good of all.  The answers are in the bone, in the flesh, in the blood."  The Halfling leaned his head back and sighed uncomfortably, a strange sound for him.  "Yet, did you find your answer?"

Seyashen shook his head again, then allowed it to fall to the side so that he could see the Master Inquisitor again.  "What is the question?"

Rolling his head to one side so that he could catch the weary eyes of his newest initiate, the Master Inquisitor whispered, "Exactly."