Marius

The sprawling, lavish rooms of the Don's palace could be best described as 'appropriated'.

Marius considered this statement to be uncontroversial - he was, after all, the best storyteller he knew, and thus could be more than confident on how his descriptions ranked.

Yes, when he stalked the corridors with his trusty broom, mopping away at the already pristine floors, occasionally having to move the collapsed body of a drugged up hybrid or simply mop round them, he felt that every golden brick in this place was nothing more than a stolen product. In the courtyards, filled with blooming flowers basking in the invisible stream of fresh air that swept in from the Oasis just outside the walls, he saw that this place had once supposed to serve a noble ideal - if anything in The Everloft could truly be called 'noble.'

His most pressing concern was the Tigran guards that patrolled the corridors and sparkling anterooms of the palace. They were watchful sentries that defied his experience of the feline kind.

The private chambers of the guards added to his estimation: as he cleaned their chamber pots, enduring their stares of derision, hearing their acts of copulation (and never looking - that mistake had cost him a few points of precious HP which the male kitty slapped out of him) he began to notice common themes: paintings of great warriors standing tall amidst legions of cowing demons. Many of them bore variations on the same image as that which hang high above the Don's throne room: the man with the short, cropped silver hair, his face a pale image of pure confidence and heroism, his right arm holding a blade aloft that crackled with thorns of lightning, while an army stood stalwart behind him.

And just like the Don's rendition, every painting had the eyes of the figure scratched out or scorched along with other, more colorful markers of disrespect.

Not that Marius cared particularly for the fate of this immortalized Argent hero, but it did add to the little Lore-Piece he was building up in the back of his mind. Any piece of information had to be acknowledged with subtle appraisal, swallowed, and dissolved when he was back in the human bunkhouse, clinging to rags while the cold of the desert night nipped at his frigid bones.

He thought back to tales his mother had told him on those long nights where they waited for his father to come home, both knowing they'd get a beating for something, and both figuring out little plans of escape in their heads. His mother taught him many things - the old goat - and one of them was how stories could take your mind off anything. And she'd told him stories of the Argents - the half-men and half-women who stood freezing their assess off up north and their suicidal silver-haired leader (What was his name again? Gayl?). He was the kind of man, she said, that Marius should steer clear of: the ones with nothing but their duty on their minds. The idealists. Those who didn't tell stories to entertain, but to inspire - to inspire young minds that didn't know any better to throw their lives away under the pretenses of something as meaningless as 'honor'.

His hands clenched on his broom as these thoughts ran through his mind. They led unpleasantly to images of that girl - Yelena - being tortured down there in the dungeons of the mad bird. And this dumb little weight pulled on his heart when he dreamt of her. It pulled at him, crushing his limbs, whipped his back. Kept him on the straight and narrow. He wasn't just doing this for himself. His body was weak. Hers? She was built different.

No, his weak body was not his strongest tool in his silent fight against this place - and it was a fight, there was no doubting that now. Humans here were less than dirt. They were the clumps of meat that sloshed around and absorbed the dirt - and even when there was none at all they were lashed when they didn't continue their pointless, degrading task of wiping, dusting, or mopping the palace interior. No, under these conditions, he had to leave. Freedom was his best option.

Alone? Maybe. But the bastard Nils would find him. He knew it every time he stared into that beast's slitted, amber-clad eyes. So he needed the girl. He needed a plan to get her, and him, out of here.

And for that he needed his eyes, not his weak bones.

The gazes of the Steel-armored Tigrans might have been just as piercing as his, but they couldn't see through his greatest ruse: the fact that, as Yelena had fought tooth and nail against captivity back in Duskwood, he had not only pilfered the loot from Madame Raava's corpse, but he'd used it:

Seed of Raava (Dominion Lord Loot)

SP: +1

It was, in effect, a cheat item - a way to cheat the system and gain an extra skill point without any of this 'Level Up' shit. Maybe they'd assumed the girl had used it; maybe they thought he was too dumb to know what it did. Either way, he'd used it to hone his greatest tool for survival in this new domain:

Appraisal (LVL II)

Appraisal success can now lead to additional information about items and abilities. Appraisal can now be used on auditory stimulus in the immediate vicinity of the Delver.

"Delver," he'd scoffed as he'd upgraded the skill in the dead of night, when the other men were either returning to their bunks drunk or dreaming of a better existence beyond the world of the sands.

Was that what they were? Delvers? That was what the world above always said of those who braved the Everloft, willingly or not. They were the cream of the crop. Heroes among men.

Well, maybe once. Maybe during the reign of this 'Jael' character. Down here now they were little more than gutter rats in a golden sewer.

So every day he'd be cleaning, he'd also be observing. Silently - but purposely. He knew his eyes (and, with his newest upgrade, ears) would be his greatest asset in this place where all action was scrutinized by the dauntless Tigran soldiers. So, every day, during every wasted hour of pointless cleaning or chewing on morsels of muddied fish the servants got for their rations (restoring a whopping 2 HP per consumption or, if the diner wasn't injured, doing nothing at all) he was watching. Analyzing. And waiting for his moment.

And he wasn't the only one doing so, either.

On a few occasions he'd noticed the dark-skinned red-head that the Don kept as his pet meandering around in the courtyards, staring at the bloated Koi-fish in the pools or sauntering down the inner corridors, hips swaying with the kind of movement that could get boys like the ones he bunked with into real trouble real fast. When he saw her, he promptly shifted his eyes away. Marius knew a trap when he saw one - and she was an obvious penis-slayer. If the Don let her out, you could be certain that he was doing so with abolsute confidence that if anyone touched her he'd have him fun with them.

Still though, looking at her in the courtyards - casually observing the way she let her small, jeweled fingers play on the water's surface, causing little ripples to radiate from her hand like Glance magic, Marius more and more thought that there was something going on there.

Then when she'd raise her head and fix him with her two chestnut coated eyes surrounded by her crimson veil, Marius promptly moved on with his work.

Besides the Don's concubine, the rest of the lads he bunked with were oblivious to his observations. Most of them acklowedged him with barely a nod of their heads. Some of the hybrids spat at his feet - the same ones who laughed to see Nils batter him with harsh words or blows every morning. The humans, however, now they were the servants. And servants pick up things. Casual snippets of conversation muttered absent mindedly by their 'employers', little changes in atmosphere that signalled something unusual, when the general level of alarm in the palace was raised and when the guards seemed slightly more on edge. No one knew better than Marius how useful a slave could be to anyone wishing to infiltrate the household of his master.

And they talked. Not to him - most wouldn't even cast a pitiful look in his direction. But they talked to eachother. They spoke in hushed whispers, on the breaks - what little breaks they got - between cleaning sessions. And when they did, they could never quite put their finger on it, but they always felt like someone, somewhere, was studying them. Didn't make much difference - humans need company, and gossip is the lifeblood of human conversation.

That was exactly what Marius exploited. And he learned much - picking up scraps every day from across the outer palace perimeter where he was permitted access.

The Don, it seemed, wasn't kidding when he said he 'owned' the First Layer of the Everloft. Apparently, he and his men had cleared every dungeon round these parts decades ago - back when they'd taken his place in a revolt that led to them rejecting their Argent roots and the ways of their old master. This Jilae - Revok - he'd set himself up as their leader, and with his closest revolutionaries had enacted his little reign of terror.

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The 'tutorial' dungeons where the new people came in? That was their playground. The creatures in the dungeons, including the Dominion Lord, 'respawned' - they came back after a few days. And this meant the Don and his merry band of bandits had an infinate source of both revenue, equipment, and experienced manpower - If you got through the Dominion Lord, you'd find the men of the Don waiting for you, and you'd be conscripted into his service willingly or not. If you failed the tutorial dungeon, well, you'd be looted and divided up among your captors. This way, the Don kept his hold on his people. Really, Nils and the trained assassins comprised a pretty small group of enforcers, but their ranks had swelled with new recruits, or had been bolstered by the equipment of idiot heroes who came down this way looking for glory, only to find their deaths. The Don didn't work with heroes. In fact, Marius heard that at a rough estimate this place was populated by around 80% surface prisoners who'd been chucked down here to die just like he was.

He had to smile at the irony of it all. Those stuffy Amaratian priests thought they were punishing them, and yet all they were really doing was delivering them to another prison system ran by their own kind.

The only mystery was what the stuffy Tigran guards were all about - with their robotic movements and rigid, stone-like faces. He couldn't understand what devotion they must have had towards the Don. But what he did know was that, besides Nils' team, these guys were the elite. The honor guard. The heavy hitters. He'd appraised them once - looking for kinks in their gold-plated breastplates and pauldrons, and was sobered by what he found:

Armor Type: Heavy

All PHY DMG <10: IMM

Not a good sign - and basically impossible for him to fight, even with equipment. And he wasn't getting through them without a fight.

But they'd come later. They were just a another piece in the puzzle he was solving with his eyes and his ears. He left them, as the enigma, to the side, and instead focussed on what was knowable: the scummy prisoners who he bunked with.

Though Marius wasn't dumb enough to believe these guys were all scumbags. The Amaratians would throw their own priests down here if they knew half the shit those old geezers got up to. Nah - some of the lads down here were nothing but boys. Boys he'd met in his travels on the surface. Boys like the one he'd led to his death in the dark tunnels of Duskwood...

Nah, they weren't all bad. They were just young. And stupid. And unfortunately for them, they were easily manipulated.

"Hey, Maryweather," one freckled, dark-skinned lad said to him as he shuddered himself to sleep on a particularly baltic evening. "Don't sweat Nils, eh? You're the newbie. He does this with all the newbloods. Give it time, and there's be newer fish for the old git to fry, eh?"

Marius beamed his most pathetic of smiles to the boy, who took him in with the sight of a young man glad to be of help to a struggling adult. No doubt on the world above he had wanted to be of help to his parents and received nothing in return but a clap round the ears - Marius could see the characteristic red-swelling just under his earlobes. That was a mark of parental abuse. It was nothing the Yok'ra taskmaster would have done.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked him on this night. Not that it mattered a jot. But personal connection was necessary for this kind of job.

The boy tried a jovial smile, showing rows of teeth the shade of tattered, forgotten tombstones. "Aedar."

He nodded and took the boys hand in his, making sure to shake just enough that he gave the impression of a jittery, grief-struck fool. "Thanks, son," he muttered. "You're the only one who's shown *cough* who's shown me any kindness in this place."

The boy looked away and shook his head the way boys do when they're secretly proud of themselves - of playing a role that matters more than they've ever mattered in their lives.

"Don't sweat it," he said. "Us humans gotta help each other out here, right?"

"Why does the Don hate us so much?" Marius asked, moving closer.

The boy shh'd him as he looked towards the room entrance. The lamp-light of a Tigran guard was throwing the shadow of its bearer across the brickwork of the outside wall.

"Listen," he whispered. "We don't know for sure. But I think he used to be hurt by humans upstairs - for being blind, like."

There was probably more to it than that, but it checked out. Oppressed chick getting back at his oppressors by ruling the show down here. He knew the type.

"But what's the point in all this?" Marius asked with a desperate sweep of his arm over the room. "All this suffering? Why does he hold this palace?"

With another careful look at the doorway, Aeder continued with a cautious air of excitement. He probably just liked having someone rely on him.

"The Don controls everything with this place, yeah? This place is built on the Oasis. In there's the only entrance to the Second Layer."

Now that was something worth knowing.

"So why don't you head down there? Why don't you escape down below?"

The boy glared at him, wide-eyed and horrified.

"I don't wanna go down there. Its bad enough out here!" he pointed out to the shifting sands dunes outside. "Besides, you gotta kill the Layer Lord to reach the exit, whoever that is, and I'm no soldier. None of us are. We're just trying to survive. We do a decent job, and we get the wine and women sometimes," he said with a smile. "It's alright here, really. Definitely beats going below!"

Poor kid. This place really was his whole world now.

"Stick with me, Maryweather," he said as he patted Marius on his back. "If you need a hand, let me know. We humans gotta stick together."

With that, Marius smiled and shook the boy's thin, but firm, hand. He really did believe that this life was the best one he could live.

But such concerns were not Marius' to grieve over. All he needed to know was that he now had an ally on the inside.

And when he got the storeroom key on the beginning of his second week, he put that ally to good use.

He'd followed Aeder on a few of his routes during the weekend, just chatting away with him about menial things like the boy's family, his aspirations (such as they were) and his interests. He hadn't really been listening to him so much as keeping track of his surroundings, noting when Aeder passed the different rooms in the North wing and how the eyes of the Tigrans were always focussed on them both, some of their halberds lowering in warning as they chatted in between their sweeps.

He recalled that the storeroom in the North Wing had one Tigran posted outside. He maintained his vigil there till around mid-afternnon, and then was promptly relieved by one of his brothers.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought something was off about them. Their stillness, their almost machine-like pathways they took through the palace walkways and inner chambers. They were like wind-up toys more than real, feline hybrids.

But he put such musings from his mind for now. Now, he needed to activate phase 1 of his super-special-oh-so-genius plan to escape: cause a diversion.

He waited till he and Aeder were beside the storeroom door, and then he let loose.

Dirty Trick: Activated

His foot tripped up the boy with the kind of sneaky swiftness he'd have been proud to display on the surface world above. He even gave a little nonchalant whistle as the boy went down like a stone, not even a scream escaping from his lips as his paralysed body hit the baby-smooth golden floor he'd slaved over for months, if not years.

Instantly the Tigran guard was upon him. Like a cat springing towards a trapped mouse.

"Ah - he - that is to say, sir, the lad may need some medical assistance! He is forever having such difficulty with his balance!"

The guard bent down and touched the inert boy's body.

"Paralysis." the guard said. Not a question. Not an exclamation. Just a statement.

"Er - yes - well, you see..." Marius began.

"Move on, servant," the guard snapped as he took up the boy.

Marius did as he was told. Slowly.

He turned round just to notice the Tigran guard turn his back and march down the corridor with the boy, and Marius realised that he probably had about a fraction of a second before his relief came round the corner, saw him and the boy (now waking up, of course) and put two and two together.

But a fraction of a second was all he needed.

Hasty Retreat: Activated.

He could say with absolute confidence that he'd never put anything in a hole faster than he'd fitted that key in its lock and bust through the door. It was closed behind him just as his burst of speed vanished.

Right, he thought. Now what?

Phase 2...Phase 2...ransack?

Sure.

If he was being honest, he didn't know what key he'd grab from the drunken snake this morning. But anything was a bonus when your prospects were a shit-filled mop and little boys whose career prospects began and ended with filling their mops and buckets with more shit. This place had to have useful stuff he could employ.

How was he going to get out? That was a worry for future Marius.

He found that the storehouse was little more than a meagre assortment of crates and barrels filled to the brim with disguarded junk - busted weapons, broken farming equipment that'd probably been used when the place was still in its fully functional state, but there were a few odds and ends that he could make use of. His ugraded Appraisal helped him sift through most of the crap from the capable, and he took only that which would prove useful.

At the bottom of one battered crate, he saw a bed of splintered steel and broken blades, one of which, he saw, a careful hand could employ:

Steel Shiv

DMG: 1-6 (REF)

WPN Type: Short blade

Better than nothing, he thought as he turned the silver sliver in his hand. Plus it was easily conealable. If he needed a weapon in a pinch, this was his best bet.

In another barrel he turned up a few of those Tears of Yevua vials the egotistical mimic had given him in Duskwood, and he pocketed two - again, just enough that he could conceal them, not too many that anyone coming in here would get suspicious to see them gone. He didn't imagine they kept a professional stock list round these parts.

But, after what must have been twenty minutes of careful ransacking, which was quickly turning into desparate plundering, he stumbled across something that was of great interest to him indeed.

It was a vial like the one containing the Tears, except this one was little bigger than a pea. Inside flowed a clear liquid that could have easily been mistaken for water without his newly trained eyes. He could just make out the little caustic purple sparks that rippled along the surface of the vial's contents.

He Appraised the little potion again, just be sure his eyes weren't decieving him, or that he was hallucinating in this Amarata-forsaken desert heat under the pains of starvation and menial labor.

That had happened before.

But to his pleasant surprise he found that he was entirely correct, and for the first time in the past week, a genuine smile broke across his features.

How he was going to use it, he didn't know (again, a worry for future Marius) but he'd just found his second best ally in this place. This tiny bottle would be his salvation.

Or rather, their salvation, he corrected himself. As much as she was a nuisence, he wasn't getting any further below without the Argent girl. Of that, he was perfectly certain. The only snitch was how could he use her? How could he get past that damaned wall of 'honor' she'd erected between herself and the rest of the world?

Thoughts for another time. For now, he needed to get out of here in once piece.

But just as he was pocketing the tiny bottled wonder, he felt a familiar twitch go through his nervous system:

Skill Synergy Unlocked: Uncanny Danger sense + Appraisal LVL II

Danger (sound): Door unlocked

Hostile in Stealth

He'd heard it, too. He'd heard the thin metallic click of something turning in the keyhole and then the door being gently pushed open. But, surprise surprise, he'd heard it too late.

When he turned round, shiv in hand, he felt the cool point of a silver blade touch the side of his neck, and looked into two ashen-chestnut eyes staring at him with icy focus through a crimson veil.

He was face to face with the Red-Headed concubine.