by Plum Pascal
Beside his cart are a few cages. Inside them are tigers, crocodiles, and apes. Behind these nonmagical beasts, in even larger cages, are all manner of monsters: a manticore, a sickly albino dragon, and two broken hippogriffs. All look extremely worse for wear. The manticore, usually a stunning beast with the body of a big cat and the imposing tail of a scorpion, appears blind in one eye. It suffers from mange and bears deep gashes from being whipped.
The hippogriffs are in even worse shape. With the body of an eagle atop the legs of a magnificent horse, these creatures are typically strong and proud. These specimens, though, reveal wings that are clipped. One of the hippogriffs has unnaturally bent legs, leading me to believe both hind legs are broken. Each is covered in scars; their eyes have the clouded look of something that has long ago given up. Their emaciated bodies are pressed tightly against the bars of their cells, where they lay in a bed of their own feces. The smell is vile, worse than a corpse left to rot, contributing to the overall smell of death that haunts the air in Grimreap.
“They have a taste for flesh,” says the greasy animal handler, an ogre who’s as tall as he is wide. He smiles at me with toothless, brown, infected gums. His hair is thin but thick with grease, slicked back to expose a high forehead and flesh filled with large pits from Atacomite overuse. Atacomite addicts all look the same, with missing teeth, bulging veins, pits in their flesh.
With my highly-tuned vampire sense of smell, I catch a whiff of him. His blood is rancid, like meat or cheese left in the sun. He smells worse than his animals.
“Not in the market for what you’re selling today,” I tell him, my voice low as I don’t wish to attract attention.
“They won’t eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I’m not. But I don’t respond. Instead, I’m irritated with myself that I haven’t wrapped myself in shadows to avoid interacting with these lowlifes. It has become my custom to hide myself in darkness before I venture into Grimreap and yet, this trip, I’ve forgotten to take this precaution. I’m surprised—I’m usually anything but scatter-brained. Well, as far as my memory will allow me to remember, that is.
I can’t recall anything before the day I awoke in the graveyard and became what I am today. What I’ve been for the past one hundred years.
Yes, this is an odd blunder. But perhaps it’s not that surprising, considering there’s been something in the air for the past few days. I can’t quite put my finger on just what that something is, but I can feel it all the same: A certain portentous energy that wasn’t there before.
One of the first lessons I’ve learned as a master assassin is to trust my instincts, because they have never failed me. And my instincts have been on high alert recently, warning me that something is coming. Something significant.
The ogre fishes an item out of his pocket: a long, thin whistle. There are curious engravings on it.
“What’s that?” I ask, somewhat disappointed in myself. I know better than to engage while I’m here, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Fear,” he answers with a cryptic laugh, then raises the whistle to his mouth and blows. The cages nearby rattle as the creatures within them shift uncomfortably. One moans, the sound reminding me of the banshees’ wail, the lingering melody that haunts the Raven Forest.
“They’re trained never to attack whoever possesses the whistle,” the ogre tells me. “Your enemies, however, they won’t be so lucky.”
When he moves closer to me, his stench is so strong I have to take a step back. I shake my head to let him know I’m still not interested. Then I wrap myself in shadows before continuing along the main entrance of Grimreap, passing a plethora of stalls selling everything from the illegal to the dangerous. I stock up on some secondary poisons: Draught of Living Death, and chloride which I can use to make a number of toxic concoctions. Explosives, too.
Before concluding my business for the night, I make my way into a crowded tavern called “The Sunken Sword”. Although I don’t thirst, or require use of the tavern’s facilities, I’m after information. And lurking in the corner of a tavern is one of the best ways to eavesdrop and learn news from around the realms.
I make it my business to know Variant’s business.
I walk up to the bar, manned by a particularly ugly troll. Half of his face is caved in, obliterating one of his eyes and dragging part of his mouth down. He has to ask me what I want three times, because it’s difficult for him to speak and even more difficult for me to understand. I order a tankard of ale and when he hands it to me, I notice his hands are huge and his fingers are covered in hair. I pay for the drink and eye it warily; it looks like piss.
Then I find a small, inconspicuous table in the corner of the main room. I take a seat, being careful to wrap myself in shadows yet again. Leaning back, I listen.
There is endless conversation echoing around me. A blood elf informs his companion about a woman he found along the road and the sadistic sexual things he did to her. Listening to his story makes me want to subject him to the tortuous death of Rotting Worm Venom. The inky, black liquid rots away flesh and bone, melting sinew and boiling the blood.
But if I went after every rapist in Grimreap, I’d have a full-time job. Besides, it’s important to preserve my arsenal of poisons, which are rare and expensive. Perhaps it’s more fitting to say I’m no hero, nor do I claim to be. I keep to myself and that’s the way I like it.
Finally, I hear something that piques my interest.
“… Crongus fucked an angel over at Anona’s,” says a load, boasting voice from a nearby table. I turn at the sound to see an arrogant, if especially ugly, were-rat relaxed over his stein. He’s in his animal form, the form most shapeshifters choose to take while in Grimreap. It’s easier to remain unidentifiable and under the radar that way—a rat is more difficult to detail than a person.
“Bullshit, Crongus fucked an angel,” replies his companion—another were-rat, this one just as hideous with his long snout, beady yellow eyes, matted brown fur, and long, stained teeth.
“I guess, technically, he just started to but then he got interrupted.”
The second were-rat shakes his head staunchly. “I still say Crongus lied and you’re a gullible dumbass to believe ‘em, Dranmore. There ain’t been an angel in one o’ them lower precincts in years. An’ everyone knows if you see an angel, you gotta turn her over ta Variant.”
“Will you let me finish my fuckin’ story, Olegad?” asks Dranmore.
“Go ahead, but it ain’t nothin’ but bullshit.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t,” Dranmore responds.
“Then fuckin’ get to the point!” demands Olegad.
Dranmore nods and doesn’t appear offended by his companion’s surly tone. “When Crongus was about ta get to the poundin’ part, he said this huge fuckin’ gargoyle burst into the room and almost made Crongus shit his pants!”
“A gargoyle?” Olegad repeats, clearly doubting the story. “They ain’t been seen in years, neither. Not since Variant forced ‘em into the Gorge for good.”
“Just listen, fuckface!” Dranmore takes a sip of what’s probably ale.
“I’m listenin’,” Olegad grumbles.
“So the gargoyle bursts in an’ just takes the girl, bed linens an’ all, an’ walks out wiff her!” Dranmore doesn’t appear any less excited to tell the story, even as Olegad rolls his eyes. He continues. “My man Crongus ain’t one to let coin go to waste, so he grab the gargoyle an’ fuckin’ socks him right in the face!”
“Crongus socked a gargoyle?” Olegad shakes his head and laughs.
“Crongus said he was a big fella, too, but he passed right the fuck out after just one hit!” Olegad continues to laugh, but Dranmore isn’t finished yet. “Crongus sees the gargoyle’s unconscious but knows it ain’t gonna be for long. Still, Crongus fucks the girl real good then gets the hell outta there. ‘No angel’s good enough to fight an angry gargoyle twice,’ he says.”
“Shit,�
�� Olegad laughs.
“Then Variant’s guards get there, o’ course, owin’ to his latest edict. So Crongus gets caught an’ spends the night in the dungeon. But he say it was worth it for the most legendary finish he ever had.”
“Bull fuckin’ shit, your friend hit a gargoyle,” says another man at an adjacent table when Dranmore finishes his story. “And no one who sees the inside of Variant’s dungeon ever lives ta tell ‘bout it!”
“Are you callin’ me a liar?” accuses Dranmore as he eyes the stranger narrowly.
“No, I’m callin’ yer friend a liar. You’re just the dumbass who believed him!”
There’s the sound of wood scraping against the stone floor as Dranmore and Olegad slide their chairs away from the table and stand up. The eavesdropper does the same and it looks like a standoff. A few seconds later, though, a full-out brawl erupts. Dranmore hits the eavesdropper so hard that the crack of his shattering nose rises above the high-volume level of the tavern. I see a few heads turn, but owing to the other two fights going on simultaneously, no one seems very interested.
As to Dranmore’s story, I, too, have a difficult time believing it. For starters, Olegad was right—gargoyles aren’t exactly commonplace. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be a wise decision to go up against one. I’ve come across a few and hitting one is a probable death sentence. If you’ve ever hit solid stone, you can imagine the feeling.
Still, the story alarms me. While I’m certain it’s been exaggerated, I’ve come to find that even the most ridiculous accounts still contain a kernel of truth. It’s just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff.
It’s not only the mention of a gargoyle that strikes me. Angels, too, are very rare. No one’s seen a male in over one hundred years, not since the Great War when Variant had them all destroyed, save himself. And the females appear to be headed for a similar fate, sightings of them continuing to be few and far between. With Variant’s newest edict, any and all females are to be returned to him. Even though the edict doesn’t explain why, I think it’s fairly obvious.
Crongus knocking out a gargoyle is clearly a lie, but why mention the gargoyle’s presence in the first place? Especially when it’s not as though gargoyles are seen with any regularity. They’ve been banished to the Gorge for as long as anyone can remember. Additionally, Anona’s precinct exists in the mortal plane—a realm a gargoyle wouldn’t dare enter. Not when Variant cursed them into turning to stone when they venture outside the shadow realm. No, a gargoyle would never take his chances in the mortal plane unless… unless there really was an angel.
The whole story appears too farfetched, too unbelievable, too ridiculous. Then why am I still considering it?
You’re not, I tell myself and continue scanning the tables for other bits of news from the realms.
That’s when I see them, a group of four travelers sitting at a table across from me. They lean over bowls of soup and eat as though they haven’t seen food for days. There’s nothing necessarily interesting about them and yet, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there is something interesting about them, indeed.
EIGHTEEN
Baron
Grimreap
Shadow Realm
Three are men and one is a woman. She’s done an admirable job of hiding her body by draping herself in a gray cloak, but her female form is unmistakable. From beneath her hood, I see flashes of dark purple hair, and her hand reveals skin that is dark as night.
All are in disguise.
I can see the shadow magic weaving in and around them, shrouding them. Whoever wove the magical net is skilled; the only reason I can see through it is because I’m composed of shadow. Shadow magic animates me, it woke me from the grave.
Reveal True Form, I whisper, focused on the four of them. Instantly, the shadows scatter and only the truth remains, at least to my eyes. Their disguises remain intact to any within the tavern who care to look.
The woman is stunning. Her white hair frames a face of which I’ve yet to see an equal. I can see the lightness radiating from her and I conclude she must be fae. Or an angel, but the chances of her being an angel are slim. Yet, there’s something beyond the blazing light that surrounds her. I can see the tip of something dark, something sinister and shadowy. It makes little sense to me, and I have a hell of a time pulling my attention away from her.
Gargoyles, I say to myself as I study the two men on either side of her. Their rubbery, black wings and their immense size give them away. The third man is an elf and, as such, of less interest to me. Gargoyles, though… perhaps Crongus wasn’t as full of shit as I previously believed. And, since he mentioned a gargoyle, then isn’t it within the realm of possibility… I look back at the woman. She could easily be an angel. I can’t recall the last creature I beheld with white hair.
For some reason, though, it’s not the woman who keeps my attention now. It’s one of the gargoyles—and as I glance back at the elf across from him, I realize there’s something arresting about him, too. I’ve never laid eyes on either of them, but I feel as though I recognize them all the same. Yet when I try to place where from, I don’t have an answer.
I watch the table with curiosity, until I notice I’m not the only one. Three booths down, I recognize Ferchad, a weapons smuggler who is well known here. In typical blood-elf fashion, he’s pompous, righteous, and considers himself the biggest fish in the vile pond that is Grimreap. With him is my least favorite of his accomplices, Hendor. He’s a man so disfigured and grotesque, I can only guess at his race. But he’s large and mean, lacking the wits of his leader but able to deal twice the physical damage.
Ferchad is the type to constantly assert his dominance in a city that has little use for hierarchies. Still, there are always those weaker to exploit in whatever way possible, and Ferchad has a knack for finding them. Granted, he sometimes chooses incorrectly. He once made the mistake of coming after me, but quickly learned his lesson; now, he knows enough to leave me alone. I can’t say things are amiable between us, though we have an unspoken understanding to avoid one another. I haven’t and don’t wish to test the bonds of that tenuous arrangement.
I watch Ferchad gesture toward the two men whose faces I recognize but can’t place. Moments later, he notices the woman. Although she’s still in disguise as far as Ferchad’s concerned, she still appears as a woman—and most women in Grimreap have a price.
Ferchad walks over to the table. I can’t make out what he says, but I can tell by the tension between the strangers that he’s insulted them. The largest one, the one whose face I can’t place, leans forward, his fists clenched tightly in front of him. Even from where I sit, I can see the vein on his forehead protruding. One of Ferchad’s cohorts returns from the bar to join the excitement, seemingly vibrating with aggressive energy.
Propping himself on his palms with his arms out straight, Ferchad leans over the table. I can sense there’s about to be a fight and I have every intention of being well on my way before Ferchad is even able to deliver the first blow.
After nearly a century as an assassin, I’ve become something of a master where unceremonious exits are concerned. Remaining unnoticed is a necessity. Thus, I slither my way around my table and covertly stick to shadow, invisible to prying eyes. I turn at the sound of a large thud to see Ferchad laid out flat on the ground. The large creature whose face I can’t place is standing over him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his arms rippling with power.
In that moment, the girl turns in my direction and looks up, directly into my eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible that she’s able to see me, but our eyes lock all the same. The seconds tick by and I find I’m incapable of pulling my gaze away from hers. I’m both dumbfounded and profoundly bothered that she can see through my shadows.
Finally, I break her gaze and glance at the door of the tavern. I need to depart now if I’m going to avoid the trouble that’s already started brewing. Yet, I find myself hesitating. I glance back at the girl and find her ey
es still fixed on me.
I cannot explain why, but I approach the table where Ferchad’s just finished dusting himself off from his fall to the floor. He’s fuming, angrier than I’ve seen him in a very long time. And for good reason, he’s been made a fool of.
I have no interest in dealing with the vile man, especially since we have a fragile agreement between us, but the angel…
My interest lies where all of my interests lie: in selfishness. Everything I work toward will benefit me at a future date. And if ever there’s an opportunity that goes counter to Variant’s edicts, I’m more inclined to get involved. I hate Variant and his fucking rules.
Thus, if Variant wants to possess each and every angel, I will do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen. As a general rule, I will go to extreme lengths to ensure Variant never gets what he wants.
I feel an inexplicable pull to the girl’s pale blue eyes, which haven’t stopped studying me. There’s knowledge in them, a wise understanding of the world and all within it. I have a strong desire to know those eyes, to see what they’ve seen, to understand what they understand. To see if they know anything about me.
Who I am… What I am… Why I am.
Ferchad approaches the table once more. The large gargoyle made a mistake in pushing him; Grimreap is no place for power plays. Survival, for most, demands a bent head and the ability to allow things to roll off one’s shoulders. But gargoyles and elves aren’t typically the types to back down. Here, it could mean their death.
I step closer to the group and pick up Ferchad’s cold, slithering blood-elf voice from the crowd.
“You’ve made a mistake, friend,” he hisses to the gargoyle. “And it’s just cost you your lives.”
“No one will die today, friend,” the gargoyle spits back.
Immediately, something stirs within my chest and my mind. A flash of memory, like a blot of color against a canvas of gray. For the last century, there’s only been gray. My memories from before my revival have been only blank but now, something rouses me—an image from a half-remembered dream. The stranger’s growling baritone pulls me forward, urging me to learn more.
