You know of who I am,

    You know of my greatest deeds

       And as such you are my replacement.

-Note within the hidden journal.

It took a rainy week of searching for Vallerian to track down his target. That mysterious friend of Celeste's had turned out to be a boy. He learned that bit of information from an aged whore who could at least remember last week, let alone ten years ago. Any others who might have been old enough to remember had wasted away on kiyra leaf. That was a sorry sight he had seen too much of this past week.

Vallerian rose from his creaky bed and made his way to the inn’s common room. He had spent the week set up at this dingey inn just on the other side of the wall from the Red Curtains. He had no intention of returning to The Forest without answers. And Celeste had made her intentions clear enough, so that had cut Gardinal’s home as a potential bed. That would change today though. Today he was going to go grab the boy and win back The Prophetess’s favour.

Vallerian left the inn, rusty door hinges creaking closed behind him. The rain today seemed lighter than it had been. Threatening only to drench him to his small clothes, rather than his bones. Vallerian tightened his cloak around his shoulders, pulled up his hood, and joined the sopping masses in their endless trudging.

The days had dragged on, long days and longer nights spent in the Red Curtain district of Southshore. Every night wasting money on aimless hints that someone might know somebody who might remember this area ten years ago. It seemed the kiyra leaf left few with enough wits to remember anything from that long ago. Still, he had reasoned, there were worse places to be stuck in than in the brothel district. The pleasant sights had certainly made the experience more enjoyable. Not that he had partaken. He was a married man and his wife had once told him of her distaste for… what had she called it? “Sullied men?” Regardless, Vallerian had very nearly wasted his whole week lounging about disreputable establishments, drinking wine that barely deserved the name, and at least enjoying the scantily clad scenery. Of course he had spent some time following leads he had found.

Vallerian turned a corner, passing under a precarious wooden structure that looked as if it had fallen over and come to rest leaning on its neighbour across the street. That meant he was close. He had let his mind linger on the Red Curtains, because that was better than accepting where he was headed. Where all the information he had gathered led to: The Pits. He had been there once, years ago, though like much of his youth he tried not to think about it. His father had taken him. The monster had claimed Vallerian needed to witness a man dying if he was ever going to become a proper lord. Vallerian had been seven. Bastard, he cursed his father. Vallerian had sworn to never set foot in the Pits again.

But here he was, returning to one of them. There were many of course, the Pits festered like lesions on a leper all across the city. They were not even solely the domain of Southshore either. Anywhere the cruel hearts of man sought their depravities, one would pop up. It was no surprise to Vallerian that a majority of them were in Silvermarket, right against the walls of the noble districts. His fellow nobles prattled on about virtue and honour, but they were the Pitsmaster’s best customers.

The Pits had existed for centuries, established by petty crime lords that fed off of the perversions of others. But some sixteen years ago, a shadowed figure began wresting control of each and every one. That man was known as the Pitsmaster, and his reputation preceded him. Vallerian could only hope he wouldn’t run into the man.

Far sooner than he would have liked, Vallerian reached his destination: a small unassuming shack just a few streets down from the Red Curtains. Vallerian strode up to the structure, ignoring the gaze of the men that lounged about outside. Armoured men whose sheathed swords had well-worn hilts. He would be safe though, they wouldn’t get in the way of potential customers. Wearing velvet and fine leathers as he was, Vallerian would appear a fine customer. He knocked on the shack’s door.

In moments, the door pulled open to reveal the scrawniest Khazimi Vallerian had ever seen. His skin a sickly pale grey, his eyes twitching and bloodshot.

“Hmmmmm.” The wretched creature hummed. “Mmmmyyy Lord?”

Vallerian grimaced at the man, but in short order he found himself being guided into the building by it. The entryway to a pits location was always nondescript as to avoid the crown’s attention. The current king, however, didn’t seem to have any interest in curbing the Pitsmaster’s endeavours. But every few kings or so one would be particularly pious and would try to purge them from the city. It never lasted.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Vallerian followed the man through a twisting maze of crumbling rooms. All empty facsimiles of a Southshore shack. If Vallerian were to guess though, this place had never once been used as anything more than a front. The pale man stopped and stared at him once they arrived at a staircase.

“Hmmmmmm… Enjoy yourself down there…. M’looord.” The creature seemed to croon at him, but stood in his way with a hand out. Vallerian sighed, dropping a few silver into the pitiable creature’s hand. Kiyra leaf was a jealous mistress, and it held her paramours tight. Vallerian shuffled around the man, careful to not touch the sorry thing. Past the man, Vallerian descended into the darkness.

At the bottom of the stairs, Vallerian stepped into a large lounge. Masked patrons reclined among piles of lush cushions. Buzzing about was every sort of debauchery these monsters could want. Three prepubescent boys sat draping their arms around a portly Fereni man. The boys wore nothing save metal collars around their necks and a black teardrop tattoo beneath their eyes. The fat man’s grime-covered hands explored the children’s bodies in black streaks. It made Vallerian want to throw up.

But everywhere he looked he saw more of the same. Little girls, no older than Celeste, wearing silk thinner than he thought possible. The girls whispered in the ears of elderly men, pouring wine into overflowing cups. Full-grown Fereni men, naked in chains, fed a lounging merchant-wife. And a hundred more sights all the same. Every depravity a man could imagine, here on display. All the flesh temptations branded with the Pitsmaster’s mark, a black teardrop tattoo. Closed doors circled the room, and from them came moans of pleasure and pain in equal measure. Vallerian's gut churned at it all, worse when he thought of how he couldn't do anything about it.

“You're brave to come in here without a mask, my lord.” A slow seductive voice whispered into his ear as a soft hand reached under his tunic from behind. The hand trailed up his abdomen, swiping up the centre of his chest. Vallerian spun and pushed away.

A Fershya woman, maybe a tad younger than him, stood before him. Vallerian felt himself blush taking in the sight of her. She had long brown hair that cascaded down her bare shoulders, barely covering her exposed breasts. A thin silk wrapped her around the waist and down, so thin it didn't hide a single one of her curves. Vallerian swallowed as she leaned in.

“Like what you see?” Her soft lips gently stroking his ear. Vallerian stumbled back from her.

“I'm... Uh... I'm not here for that.” He managed to stammer out through a dry throat. She looked him up and down slowly, dragging her large eyes across his body.

“Pity.” She murmured. “A taste for blood then?” She asked, words dripping from her pouting lips. Calm down, Vallerian commanded his fast-beating heart, you aren’t here for that. “We have delights for all tastes.” She whispered, leaning into him once more. Vallerian stepped back. He had no intention of getting pulled in under the Pitsmaster's sway.

“The pit fights.” He said hastily. “Please.”

She looked at him with those smokey eyes of hers, but eventually bit her lip. “Fine,” she shrugged bare shoulders. “This way.” The woman turned away from him and walked, swaying her hips in a practiced motion that kept him following as much as her leading. It reminded him of the way his wife moved. The thought of Lyleria purged any interest he might have had here. Angering her was not a risk he intended to make.

The Fershya woman guided Vallerian out of the lounge, and into a larger, darker room. A cavernous space, stone columns were lit by dim candles stacked in tall dripping piles around them. Shadows danced across the vaulted roof, cast by mobs of dark figures gathered around deep pits shaped into the floor. The Ferhsya woman led Vallerian to one of the pits, flashing her long legs as she guided him. Approaching the pit, she spun and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Is this what... gets you going?” She whispered in his ear, her breath coating his skin. Vallerian shrugged her off, looking down into the pit. A scrawny Jöln man with a knife faced off against what looked like the largest hound Vallerian had ever seen. Torches flickered on the stone walls around them as they circled their arena.

In a flash, the pit exploded with vicious action. The hound leapt at the Jöln, and the small man lifted his knife into the animal’s maw. The blade slid across the hound’s jaw, slicing open the side of its mouth. But the beast was able to dig its teeth into the man’s hand forcing him to drop his dagger. The Jöln screamed in pain as the hound ripped back, tearing off half the man’s hand. The fight was over, the Jöln fell back as the hound persisted, climbing atop him and mauling away at the man’s face. Slowly, the screams died out.

Around Vallerian, some of the people hollered in joy, others in anger. Coins clinked as money passed hands. Beneath, in the pit, two large men dragged the Jöln's corpse out a small inset gate. Another two men leashed the animal. Vallerian turned away from the viscera as a bulky Khazimi man and scrawny Fereni were pushed into the pit to replace the previous victims.

Vallerian steeled himself. “This will do.”