Rorik hummed a quiet, tuneless melody as he strode through the dank, winding sewer tunnels beneath Maze. The sound of his boots on the damp stone echoed faintly, broken now and then by the soft splash of water as he sidestepped murky pools that reflected the faint shafts of light streaming down from the grated openings above. The muffled din of the bustling city filtered through those grates; the clatter of carts, the distant murmur of voices; but Rorik paid it no mind. His thoughts were fixed on his destination and the man waiting for him.
Christelen: Rorik hated the bastard.
"Creepy bastard," he muttered under his breath, his voice swallowed by the dark. He dodged another foul puddle, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench that clung to the sewers. The air was heavy with mildew and rot, making each breath feel like inhaling filth. Regardless, he moved with practiced ease; his path through the labyrinth of tunnels long and memorized.
After some time, he reached his destination: a small, unassuming door set into the curved wall of the sewer. Its surface was smooth, almost seamless, marked only by faint, intricate runes that glimmered faintly as he approached. Rorik pulled a tarnished amulet from his pocket, its chain worn and twisted from use. He waved it across the door in a swift, fluid motion, the faint glow of the runes flaring for a brief moment before the door slid open silently, moved by an unseen force.
Rorik didn't hesitate. He stepped inside, and the darkness swallowed him whole as the door slid shut noiselessly behind him.
The short hallway beyond the door led Rorik to a circular chamber illuminated by the eerie, flickering light of braziers filled with pale blue flame. The smell here was worse than the sewers: sharp, metallic, and cloyingly sweet, mixed with the unmistakable scent of decay. Tables cluttered with strange contraptions and scattered tools lined the room, their surfaces covered in parchment scrawled with indecipherable symbols, jars filled with unidentifiable substances, and pieces of flesh that looked like they'd been dissected for study.
At the center of the room stood a black-robed figure, hunched over a corpse lying on a low stone slab. The figure's movements were slow and deliberate as it worked, the sound of a needle piercing flesh and the wet squelch of organs filling the otherwise silent chamber. Rorik stopped just inside the doorway, his stomach churning as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
"Christelen," Rorik called, his gravelly voice echoing faintly against the curved walls as he cleared his throat for emphasis.
The figure didn't react at first, its hooded head tilted slightly, as though considering whether to acknowledge him. Then, in a voice like rats' claws scraping against stone, Christelen spoke.
"So, it is done?"
The words sent a shiver up Rorik's spine. He scowled, willing the discomfort away, and forcing himself to step further into the room; the faint blue light casting deep shadows across his rough features. "Yeah, it's done. My boys have them all set up. After what we did to that bitch Lira's place, the city should be in an uproar, just like you asked."
Christelen's hooded head bobbed slightly, a motion that could have been approval or indifference. "Good. Good… I will inform my master that all is proceeding as planned. He will be pleased."
Rorik shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the corpse on the slab as Christelen resumed his work. The necromancer was sewing the chest cavity closed with black, glistening thread, his movements precise. Rorik swallowed hard, averting his gaze. "Your master," he muttered under his breath. "Right."
Christelen paused, his hood tilting slightly as if he'd heard the comment. When he didn't respond, Rorik pressed on, his voice louder and sharper. "Look, we stirred up the gremlin's nest with this one. If we don't move soon, the whole city's gonna be kicking down our doors before we know it."
A humorless chuckle escaped Christelen, the sound dry and hollow, as if it came from a throat long unused to laughter. He continued stitching, the needle flashing in the dim light. "Fear not, little man," the necromancer said, his tone dripping with disdain. "The pieces are in place. You will keep your men where I told you to put them, and I will handle the rest."
Rorik frowned; his unease growing. He hated the way Christelen spoke to him, hated the cold, detached way the man carried himself. But gold was gold, and Rorik wasn't about to bite the hand that had pulled him out of the gutter: a prison camp. He'd gone from digging ditches to leading a gang of men who feared him, and all of it was thanks to Christelen and the shadowy benefactor behind him.
Still, it didn't make him feel any better. "What exactly is the rest?" Rorik inquired; his voice tinged with suspicion.
Christelen's hands stilled; his head turning toward Rorik. Though the hood obscured his face, Rorik could feel the necromancer's gaze boring into him: sharp and cold as a blade. "Soon," Christelen said, his voice low and deliberate, "we will show the entire middle continent something that will never be forgotten. All debts will be paid, all grievances settled."
Rorik's blood ran cold, but he forced a sneer onto his face, masking his unease. "Big words," he said, his tone trying, and failing, to sound casual. "Just make sure your 'power' doesn't get us all killed. I like my head where it is."
Another dry chuckle from Christelen, though this one was quieter, almost to himself. "Do as you are told, and your head will remain firmly on your shoulders. Fail me… or my master… and... well you can join the rest of my children."
Rorik bristled but didn't respond. He'd learned early on that pushing back against Christelen wasn't worth the risk. Instead, he nodded sharply, forcing himself to ignore the chill that crept down his spine as the necromancer turned back to his work.
The conversation was over. Rorik clenched his fists, forcing himself to turn and leave, his boots echoing softly in the chamber as he made his way back down the hallway. The door slid open for him as he approached, the runes flaring briefly before the darkness of the sewer enveloped him once more. As the door closed behind him, Rorik quickened his pace; eager to put distance between himself and Christelen's domain.
With Rorik's departure, silence fell over the circular chamber. The sound of the sliding door sealing shut was the only indication that the gruff gang leader was gone. For a long moment, Christelen remained bent over the corpse, his gnarled fingers carefully threading the black, glistening thread through the torn flesh. The needle gleamed in the faint blue light of the braziers, moving with mechanical precision as if guided by something more than mere skill.
The stillness was broken as the shadows in the room began to twist and writhe unnaturally, pooling together into a vaguely humanoid form beside Christelen. Its edges flickered and dissolved like smoke, only to reform again. The creature's presence carried a palpable chill, the very air around it thickening with malice. A hissing voice rose from the figure, its tone oily and slithering, like water dripping through cracks in stone.
"I can feel the circle closing," it rasped, the words carrying an almost gleeful undertone.
Christelen paused his stitching and looked up, his skeletal fingers reaching toward the shadowy form. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, before resting atop the figure's head in a sign of affection. "Yes, my friend," he rasped, his voice hollow and grating, like wind scraping over dry bone. "As can I. The threads are tightening, and the last pieces are falling into place. Not long now, and our dream will be realized."
The shadow hissed in approval, its shifting form briefly expanding outward as though stretching. Tendrils of darkness rippled and coiled around Christelen, caressing him like a lover. He returned to his work, his needle piercing the corpse's flesh with renewed urgency.
The shadow mirrored his movements, its insubstantial fingers weaving patterns in the air as if aiding Christelen in his task. Black mist began to seep from the darkened corners of the room, rising like smoke from invisible fires. The mist swirled and danced, its movements almost sentient as it gravitated toward the corpse on the table.
As Christelen finished the last stitch, he withdrew his needle with a sharp tug, and the mist surged forward, sinking into the corpse like water absorbed by dry earth. The shadows around the room seemed to pulse, their shapes shifting erratically as a faint glow flickered to life in the corpse's hollow eye sockets; a sickly blue light that burned with unnatural intensity.
The body convulsed violently, its back arching off the table. Air moved through its mangled, atrophied vocal cords, producing a grotesque, strangled sound that echoed in the chamber like a dying gasp. The corpse's limbs jerked sporadically: its muscles twitching.
"Yes," Christelen hissed, his tone triumphant. He raised his hands, his fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air, guiding the mist as it continued to flood into the corpse. The shadowy figure beside him mirrored his movements, its own formless hands casting shapes that defied logic or understanding. Together, they worked in silent harmony, bending the darkness to their will.
The corpse began to move with more coordination, its limbs stiffly obeying the commands of the necromantic energy coursing through it. Christelen stepped back, his hooded gaze fixed on the reanimated figure as it sat upright on the table; its head lolling to one side before snapping upright with a sickening crack. The glowing blue light in its eyes flared brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room.
"Rise," Christelen commanded, his voice laced with power. The corpse obeyed, sliding off the table with now flowing movements. Its bare feet slapped against the stone floor, its posture hunched but unmistakably menacing.
The necromancer allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, his bony fingers curling into a tight fist. His gaze shifted to the other corpses laid out on the tables surrounding him, each one waiting to be woven into the tapestry of his dark design.
"Just a few more," Christelen muttered, his voice barely audible as he moved to the next body. The shadowy figure followed, drifting beside him like a loyal hound. Its hissing voice rose once more, a faint chuckle underlying its words.
"Not long," it whispered. "Not long at all now."
Christelen's fingers danced through the air as he began again, the mist rising once more to answer his call. The room seemed to thrum with energy, the air growing colder with each passing moment. His thoughts turned briefly to Rorik and the chaos the gang leader's men were sowing above ground. All of it was a necessary distraction, a means to an end.
And the end was coming.
With a faint, humorless smile hidden beneath his hood, Christelen plunged his needle into the next corpse, the sound of flesh tearing beneath his steady hand. The dream: their revenge, was so close he could taste it.
And when the circle was complete, nothing would stand in their way.
Rorik emerged from the sewers into the harsh midday sun, shielding his eyes with a grimace as they adjusted to the sudden brightness. The stench of the tunnels still clung to him, a rancid reminder of his meeting with Christelen. He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the unease that always lingered after dealing with the necromancer. The air above ground, though filled with the smells of the bustling city, was a welcome reprieve from the suffocating decay of the depths.
A small group of his men waited near the sewer entrance, lounging against the alley walls. All were armed: daggers, clubs, a few short swords. Their ragged, rough appearances marked them as street fighters through and through. At the head of the group stood Shiv, Rorik's second-in-command, a wiry man with a quick temper and a talent for making problems disappear. He straightened when Rorik approached, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.
"Meeting with Creepy is out of the way," Rorik announced, his voice devoid of its earlier unease. "Now, let's get down to business."
"Right, boss," Shiv said, stepping forward and falling in beside Rorik. His hands rested lightly on the hilt of the curved knife at his belt, a constant habit of his.
Rorik pulled a folded map from the inner pocket of his coat and spread it across a nearby crate. The parchment was worn and smudged, but the markings on it were clear: a series of bold X's scattered across various locations in the city.
"These are the spots," Rorik said, tapping the map with a calloused finger. "I want the lads to finish setting things up by tonight. No excuses, you hear?"
Shiv nodded, his eyes scanning the map. "Understood. I'll get the teams moving."
Rorik's gaze turned hard as he folded the map again and tucked it back into his coat. "Tell the rest to sober up and be ready to move soon. No more messing around, no more drinking. We need to be ready to strike at a moment's notice."
Shiv gave a sharp grin. "Sounds like a big night ahead."
Rorik ignored the comment, his expression darkening. "Let's hope the bait we laid out does the trick. If it does, we hit them; and we hit them hard. We need to make it fast and bloody, so they don't have time to regroup. After that…" He paused, his lips curling into a sneer. "After that, it's up to Creepy and his boss to deal with the rest."
Shiv's grin faltered slightly. Even he wasn't immune to the unease that came with Christelen's involvement. "And if it all goes sideways?" he asked, his tone cautious.
Rorik's eyes glinted with a dangerous light. "If it goes wrong, it's every man for himself. You get clear, you lay low, and you wait for my word."
Shiv nodded, the weight of the words settling over him. "Got it."
Rorik stepped back and surveyed the group of men, his presence commanding immediate attention. "Shiv, get to it," he barked. "I want those spots ready, and the boys primed for tonight. No slip-ups."
With a sharp nod, Shiv turned and began barking orders to the waiting men, his voice echoing in the narrow alley. The group broke apart, scattering in different directions as they set about their tasks. Rorik watched them go, his expression unreadable; but his mind churned with anticipation and a sliver of unease.
He trusted Shiv to get the job done and his men to follow orders. They weren't loyal to him out of love; but they respected his leadership, his ruthlessness, and his ability to keep them well-fed and well-paid. That was enough to keep them in line; for now.
Rorik leaned against the alley wall, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a match. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling upward in lazy tendrils. His eyes drifted toward the sky, where the sun blazed brightly, indifferent to the chaos brewing below. God's balls did he love it when a plan came together.
Rorik took a final, long drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before he flicked the smoldering butt into the gutter. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he pushed off the alley wall with a grunt. There was too much to do today, and none of it would get done if he lingered.
His next task weighed on him more heavily than he cared to admit. He was about to talk to a legend. . . a dangerous move, even for someone like him. He had no idea how the meeting would go, and the uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his confidence.
The streets were growing busier as he moved toward the edge of the Red Light District. Vendors hocked their wares from rickety carts, their voices sharp and urgent: while workers and tradesmen trudged through the narrow lanes with their eyes down, focused on their business. It was a treacherous place for Rorik. This was enemy territory, a patchwork of alleys and establishments controlled by those who would happily slit his throat if they knew he was here.
He adjusted the sword at his hip, his fingers brushing the worn leather of the hilt. He could've brought men with him, an entourage would have made this trip safer, but Rorik hated traveling with an armed escort. It felt like a show of weakness, and weakness wasn't something he allowed himself to display.
The sign for the Afterlife pub creaked overhead, its faded lettering barely legible against the peeling paint of the hanging board. Rorik shoved the doors open and stepped into the dim, smoky interior.
The Afterlife was everything Rorik had expected it to be. Loose floorboards groaned under his boots as he entered, and the heavy scent of pipe smoke, stale ale, and cooked meat filled the air. The haze of smoke hung low, swirling in lazy eddies around the flickering lanterns that barely illuminated the rough-hewn wooden beams of the ceiling. Half the tables were occupied by men who looked like they belonged in the shadows: scarred, rough, and loud with laughter that carried a dangerous edge.
Rorik ignored the glances that followed him as he made his way inside. He wasn't here for them. His eyes swept the room until they landed on the man he'd come to see.
At the back of the pub, near the far wall, sat Silverhand.
The man was slouched over the table, his head resting on his folded arms. His black hair fell in unruly strands across his face, and his attire was as unorthodox as his reputation suggested; gray linen trousers, black leather boots that buckled up from the ankle, and a black leather vest worn over a bare chest. But it wasn't his disheveled appearance that marked him as remarkable.
It was his arm.
Where his right arm ended at the elbow, a silver prosthetic took its place. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its intricate design inlaid with glowing blue runes that pulsed faintly, like the beat of a distant heart. The metallic appendage flexed occasionally as if alive, its movements almost imperceptible but unnervingly smooth.
Rorik approached, his boots thudding against the creaking floorboards. Silverhand didn't look up, didn't even flinch as Rorik stopped at the edge of his table.
"Silverhand," Rorik said, his voice even but carrying a note of respect.
The man shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to let one dark, bloodshot eye glare up at him. "What in the hells do you want?" Silverhand slurred, his words laced with disdain. "With the shit you've been doing, I should kill you where you stand."
Rorik raised his hands in mock innocence, his tone taking on a forced cheerfulness. "Come now, I haven't done anything to you, have I?"
Silverhand straightened slightly, his head tilting as he fixed Rorik with a piercing stare. The faint light of the pub caught the sharp edges of his jaw, but his eyes were black pits: cold and unrelenting.
"The only reason I haven't popped your head off your dumb shoulders," Silverhand growled, his voice low and deadly, "is because you've been screwing with the Mage Tower. And that, you see, pleases me greatly."
Rorik grinned, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. "That's why I'm here today, Silverhand," he said, his tone coaxing. "I just need you to stay out of my business for a bit longer."
Silverhand snorted, but his interest seemed piqued. "Out of your business?" he repeated, leaning back slightly. "And why would I do that?"
In answer, Rorik pulled a large, heavy sack from his coat and dropped it onto the table with a dull thud. The bag spilled open slightly, revealing the unmistakable glint of gold coins. The light from Silverhand's glowing arm reflected off the gold, casting faint ripples of blue across the table.
Silverhand's expression didn't change, but his metallic hand moved with unsettling fluidity, resting lightly on the sack. "That's a lot of money for a little man," he said, his voice almost thoughtful. "You're only planning to mess with the Mage Tower?"
"Aye," Rorik lied smoothly, his grin widening. "I know you've got a grudge against the Tower Master. I'm not asking for anything complicated; just turn a blind eye. Let me do my thing, and then we can all walk away happy."
Silverhand's dark eyes bore into him for a long moment, unblinking and unreadable. Then, without a word, he snatched the bag and made it disappear with a deft motion, tucking it somewhere in the folds of his vest.
"I'll think about it," he said flatly, raising the mug in front of him and downing the rest of its contents in one go.
Rorik's grin faltered, but he forced himself to nod. That was as much of a promise as he was going to get from Silverhand, and pushing the issue wasn't worth the risk.
"Pleasure doing business," Rorik said, stepping back and turning toward the door.
As Rorik pushed the pub door open, a blur of movement caught his eye. A youth darted inside, nearly colliding with him before pivoting at the last second and slipping around him with the effortless grace. The kid muttered a quick apology before vanishing into the smoky room, his steps light and fluid.
Rorik raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. "Reflexes like that…" he muttered to himself, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.
With a final glance back at the dim interior of the Afterlife, he stepped out into the sunlight, letting the door swing shut behind him.