The coins clattered, glints of gold whispering their sweet seduction to the man.
"Discreetly. No questions," she adds, her brutish companion making a show of his sheathed blade.
Boyen gulped. Bad business is good in these parts, but these people seemed to fit in a category of their own. Despite that, it was business nonetheless.
He nods and takes his price, "Follow me."
They step behind the bar as he left four coins near the keeper, taking a hidden path beneath the building. There were many eyes in that bar, but only one pair at the far end of the pub took notice.
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A pungent musk wafted in the sewers. Being hundreds of years old, the grimy walls had long been torn open by overgrown roots feeding on mysterious bits and the putrid black liquid that flowed through the canals. Boyen has had his fair share of stories about these tunnels, that they were cursed or that something demonic lay waiting in the dark to lure unfortunate souls. Nothing but baseless gossip that piqued public interest, or so one would think. After all, it wasn't too strange to find a corpse at every turn or so.
"Stay close. It's easy to get lost in here," he called out, holding the lantern to their faces.
They reached a cliff, a dark shaft with no visible end. Iron bars stapled to the walls nearby led downwards like a ladder to the abyss.
"We've been walking for hours in this shithole, Drow." the brutish one whined.
"You got a better idea?" she quipped before following the guide to descend.
"The streets are crawling with Templars, Dane. We need to keep 'it' safe." Clyde, the third one, smiles encouragingly.
The tunnels were long forgotten by the world above, and fewer knew that it went much, much deeper into a place of history past.
They found themselves in a great subterranean realm, where the pillars of a haunting network of winding passages and sepulchral chambers danced with the flickering light of the lamp. An ancient catacomb where unknown generations rest in eerie silence.
"This is it. I can't take you any further." Boyen announces, sighing, "I don't know what you want to do in this hellscape but, as a courtesy, I'll tell you one thing."
"Save it. Our business is concluded." Drow interjects, drawing something from her pouch, "You may return."
Surprised, he stopped to argue, but ultimately shrugged, "Good luck, then."
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The venerable bells of the church tolled melodically as the sun hid on the horizon. Nights at the cathedral grounds were serene and peaceful as the people went back to their homes at curfew. The Bishops and Priests were having dinner, discussing private matters over food and wine. Their laughter echoed throughout the sanctum.
"Oh, you must look forward to the festival, Your Excellency!" Father Salvis exclaims, "Nobleman Lustre has promised to host a feast in your honor. He's the richest in this district and my, his daughters are a sight to see~!"
The Bishop heard none of his words.
Bishop Edmund vi Demetria was deep in thought. Though he hid it well, the man was so terribly anxious that his knees would often tremble. At the very least, all this wine was helping him cope.
"Oh, and the Declaration of Succession is almost upon us! Personally, I think the second prince, Prince Regius, would be better suited among the heirs. We all know how much of the miscreant the youngest is, and Prince Bartholomew... well, unless he is found at last, we will never—"
"Salvis." Edmund snarled, his eyes dark with malice.
But as sudden as it came, a kind smile grew on his face, "It seems I've had too much wine. Forgive me but I shall return to my quarters ahead of you."
The sleazy priest nearly choked. Cold sweat and shivers prickled his neck at the concentrated bloodlust he just took.
"Are you alright?" the Bishop asked, seemingly concerned in genuine, "You must rest, Father. All this excitement and wine must have taken its due alas."
"Y-Yes." he stutters, wiping the sweat off his neck.
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The Bishop was quite fond of the balcony view and yet again, he found himself there enjoying the scenic district night. It was never Edmund's choice to enter the priesthood, but a visionary must make the necessary sacrifices to enforce change.
"You're late," he mutters, breathing deeply.
Drow, Clyde, and Dane stood behind him.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Well, it turns out you were right about the everchanging labyrinth," Drow admits, stepping in front.
"And the relics?"
For a second, her gaze lingered on the Bishop. But it was difficult to discern what she was thinking exactly. The next moment, she reveals a circular tattoo adorning her left palm. Intricate glyphs lined the circumference and arcane symbols completed the design into one complex circle. A soft hum indicated its invocation and the runes radiated blue.
Drow reached her hand into empty space. With swift precision, she secured an object swathed in dark leather, and then, in seamless succession, revealed another meticulously wrapped, fist-sized cube enveloped in parchment and delicate strands of rope.
"The Order thinks you're rushing things, Priest," her eyes narrowed, "One mistake and I am to return with the entire capital in tow."
The Bishop eagerly grabs the first item from her, but his enthusiasm is abruptly stifled as her hand clamps around his throat, constricting his breath in a vice-like grip.
"And the interest will be your head." she tightens her grip and makes him struggle for a moment longer.
The old cleric falls to his feet. "...outsider scum!" he curses, coughing after finding his breath.
Nonetheless, he carefully removes the leather and reveals a very strange dagger. It had three razor-sharp blades with unique depictions intricately carved on each side, showcasing an otherworldly level of detail. The edges themselves were embellished with ancient runes and glyphs, and nestled within were intricate networks of a thousand circuits, all converging at three distinct sigils hidden beneath the crossguard. The alabaster hilt was sculpted in the form of a coiling serpentine revealing a headless and mutilated, skeletal humanoid torso, holding an enigmatic black marble that seemed to absorb all light.
"Ahh... So it is real!" he moans in awe, showing tears, "It shan't be long now, my lords."
The old man picks up the other parcel and rushes inside, whispering in delight.
"Salvation draws near."
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The silence was a stranger to the old workshop, but it was one of those rare nights when the smiths killed the furnace fire and went home. Yet the dark and deserted place could not rest from the light of a single lamp shining upon a young artisan and his passion.
Oscar tinkered about his craft, assembling a personal item that he built and designed from whatever scrap he could gather in the shop. The boy was left to his bearings and to everyone's surprise, he decided to pick up the hammer on his own. But he cared not about their thoughts or about how peculiar he is compared to other children. His interest was glued to one thing, and one thing only.
Flipping up the welding glasses, he smiles childishly. Nobody understood what he was making, not even the masters foresaw the kind of masterpiece that was brewing in this child's mind. Yet watching him persevere so surely was mesmerizing, as if he knew exactly what he needed just from reading a couple of pages from the decrepit registry in the back.
He steps back, eyeballing the dimensions of his creation.
"Hmm."
It took many days to collect all the necessary parts, but the most important element was also the most difficult to acquire. Argonite was a special ore known to be highly conductive towards Chaos Particles, often used in the making of arcane machines and weaponry. Luckily, this particular workshop was under contract with the District Governor for production, so Oscar was able to collect the discarded bits and pieces he needed.
Gathering his things, he lights the way toward the registry.
This place had seen generations of smiths from way back when the kingdom was yet a budding power before it became the tyrant that it is today. The family who owned this place seldom sook wealth and so they stayed a humble line of artificers. But what they lacked in gold, they hoarded in wisdom.
Setting the lamp down, Oscar found the mess he'd left to have remained, scattered books, marked pages, and collected blueprints. He was quiet for a moment, immersing himself within these papers of thought as the cogs in his brain spun into overdrive.
'The Ego is the product of the soul and body's union.' He reads, 'The soul is the energy of life, while the body serves as an existential anchor.'
The young man glances at his creation, a nervous grin tugging on his lips as he continues to read. However, as time passed, he realized that none of these books contained the answers he needed.
"...has no one ever considered making an artificial anchor?"
Long had he forgotten when he last slept and the bloodshot look more than showed that fact. His eyeballs felt like they would peel dry from reading while the dark bags under bore resemblance to deep-set tar stains. But the only thing that left him concerned was the foggy haze making his thoughts incoherent due to the clouding headache, leaving him no choice but to concede.
Oscar leaned against the wall, struggling to keep himself upright. In a momentary lapse, his weight inadvertently shifted onto a nearby shelf. However, to his surprise and relief, the shelf emitted an audible click and smoothly slid backward, instead of falling over.
"What in the world?" he exclaimed, carefully pulling the shelf back into place. The confounding thing about this was the fact that behind this shelf was nothing but a solid wall.
Inspecting further, he shed light on the nooks and spaces but found nothing strange. Oscar's curiosity was piqued, his mind grappling with the inexplicable phenomenon he had just witnessed. His fingers traced the edges of the shelf, his thoughts racing as he considered the possibilities. Could this be some concealed mechanism, a forgotten relic of the room's history, or perhaps an elaborate prank?
"...Hold on." he steps back, recreates the previous instance, and pushes on the shelf. Only this time, it wouldn't budge.
"What? Is it stuck or something?" though futile, he tries again and is met with the same result. He attempted this a couple more times with the patience of a gnat, eventually stepping back in frustration.
"Okay. Calm down. You can do this without a sledgehammer." he reassured himself, a violent twitch in one of his eyes betraying a hint of irritation.
Then a light went on in his head, "Huh. Why didn't I think of that sooner?"
Oscar proceeds to gently pull on the shelf, careful not to ruin the mechanism. Sure enough, the entire thing laden with its burden of books, glided outwards buttery smooth. During which mechanical clicks could be heard underground and a faint rumble went off once it was brought out all the way through.
Revealed behind the wide shelf was a path downstairs. A torrid breeze with the scent of moss and candlewax rushed past the bewildered young man. His interest was now at its peak and his prior lethargy was all but gone. "...do the others know about this?"
His interest was about to get the better of him when the distinct sound of the shop's front doorbell ringing open reached his ears. Much too immersed in this newfound secret, dawn arrived before he could even notice. And a familiar voice announced its presence calling him out.
"Wonderboy! You here?" the man's raspy voice boomed all the way inside as he puffed his cigar. He had a nice black coat hiding a suit with a bright red tie and a trilby that adorned his head. "I know you're in there kid! Come, I got ya something."
"Sir Asimov?" Oscar emerged behind the counter, perplexed, "What brought you here so early?"
"Woah there," the middle-aged man was taken aback by the child's appearance, "You look like shit, boy."
It's true. Oscar was still sporting the insomniac look and most of his bare skin was covered in streaks of soot from working with the furnace, all the while his singed hair cried for water like a castaway. "Speak for yourself, old man. There's been a lot of work lately," he chuckled.
"Take a bath for crying out loud," Asimov quipped, playfully fanning his hat with a grin. "Anyway, take a look at this."
He reveals a black handgun magnetically attached to his leg strap. The barrel was unusually long and the overall design had a very robust approach. This thing was closer to a handheld cannon with 6-revolving rounds for bullets that could puncture past reinforced concrete.
"She's a beaut, eh?" he boasts, putting it on the counter, "This one's called the Pacifier. She's been with me since before I founded the guild but, it's been a bit off lately. I was hoping you could do your thing."
Oscar's eyes were sparkling. "May I?" he asks, his mouth quivering in excitement.
"Go ahead," he says, putting his hat back on and going for the door. "Have the Forgemaster send me the bill later."
Though unlicensed and have yet to make a name for himself, Oscar was one of the few Artificers in the entire district and was an exceptionally skilled one at that.
"No need." those words stopped Asimov in his tracks, "I'll be done in a few minutes."
He watched silently as the child who needed to step down the counter using a ladder, waddled away with a gun half as thick as the width of his chest. Anyone would call him crazy in this situation, yet he held firsthand knowledge of the child's extraordinary capabilities. And in all his years, never had he witnessed this kind of genius before, not like this one.
"This is ridiculously light!" Oscar exclaims from the back, making him cackle.
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Just beneath the surface, concealed within the uncharted tunnels where the basement led, thereupon lurks those who thrive on the forsaken remains. Munching gizzards and tearing meat until not even bones are left, they hide about unseen and unheard lest new sustenance tumbles from above ground. For centuries they have indulged in an assortment of scavenged fare, maggoty or fresh, yet nothing could ever spoil the delectable taste of human flesh.
It was another dark day in the sewers of District 5 and the world above knew naught of the secrets rotting beneath their feet. It was a day of jubilation when the beguiling festivities commenced. When the eyes are distracted and the drinks blur words said, it was only a matter of time before the bidding darkness is once again fed.
~fin~