"Tell you what," Biter said, wading knee-deep through the brownish, tepid waters. "These Vovequians don't half know how to make a good sewer."
Conrad hummed in agreement. He was holding his breath and dared not open his mouth to speak. Indeed, the sewer was a fine achievement in architecture and design, linking every toilet in the Bastille through an intricate network of smaller tunnels that led underneath the building, eventually trailing out through a much larger exit into the Quen River. As much as it was the most excellent sewer Conrad had ever seen, it seemed all sewers still held the predictable, foul stench of multitudes of human waste. Far worse than any battlefield Conrad had ever fought on.
Biter turned, raising an eyebrow at Conrad's firmly shut mouth. "Don't hold your breath lad. You'll only make it worse for yourself when you end up gasping for air, inhaling all the shit and stench in one."
Conrad shook his head. He hoped that alongside his inability to feel anything but cold, his gift from Bearskull might allow him to hold his breath indefinitely. There was no reason for Conrad to believe this would be the case, but it was the only hope he had of avoiding the horrific odour of the sewer.
In any case, Conrad soon found out he couldn't hold his breath forever. With a sputter and cough, he proceeded to do exactly as Biter had predicted, inhaling lungful after lungful of putrid smells. He wretched as his nose and mouth were assaulted by them.
Biter laughed. "Told you so. Not to worry now though, few more minutes and we'll be at the catacombs."
"No," Conrad declared.
"No what?"
"I'm not taking another moment of this shite," Conrad sputtered. "We'll just storm the front."
Biter shook his head and ignored Conrad's complaints after that. As they neared their destination, Biter seemed to get more and more serious. He marched with his sword at his breast, as if he was readying himself for war; a one-man army ready to face whatever would be between him and Arten.
They turned, leaving the louder rushing of water behind for quieter splashing in the narrower tunnels, accompanied occasionally by the distant squeaking of a rat. The smell was no better here, though Conrad found solace in that a new route meant they were close to where they needed to be. Very close.
A few minutes more and Biter held up a hand before slapping something that made a metallic ring as he hit it.
"Hah!" he said. "Perfect. Tell you what, if I'd have known there were so many perks of being a Captain, I might have tried a bit harder to get promoted."
"What are you on about?"
"Oh, the amount of shite you can look through once you climb even the first rung. History, strategy, sewage plans, all that sort of gaff."
"That's how you knew where to go," Conrad commented.
Biter tapped two stubby fingers to his stupid, bald head. "You really thought I wouldn't have a plan, didn't you?"
"So," Conrad said, stepping closer to see Biter had his hand wrapped around a dark, rusted ladder. "Where's this going to take us?"
"Up, mate."
Conrad scowled. He was sure Biter couldn't see him, only furthering his frustration.
"This old thing should lead us right in the depths of the catacombs," Biter said. "Where the Vovequians used to prepare the bodies of their 'higher society,' as it were. Put the corpse on a slab, rip out the guts and chuck em in the sewer."
"Don't they need their guts?" Conrad asked. "I mean, how else are they going to function in the afterlife."
"Fucked if I know mate. Arten would know, all I know is they've got mad thoughts, this lot. Real nutters, they are."
With that, Biter began to climb the ladder. His sword tucked awkwardly under one arm, he stepped up each rung gingerly, whispering a prayer to himself as he did so. It was a quiet thing, so quiet Conrad knew Biter didn't want it heard by anyone but himself, so he pretended not to hear it.
Biter swung open a square door leading to what must've been the catacombs. The soft touch of candlelight flickered down into the sewer, letting Conrad see the ladder he was about to climb. Now he saw the thing in all its damaged, derelict glory, he understood why Biter had prayed while climbing. Each rung – if it wasn't already broken – looked as if it would snap under the weight of a pigeon.
"Here," Biter said, leaning out of the open door. "Chuck me your sword."
Conrad threw his sword up hilt-first. Biter caught the blade with ease.
"Any tips?" Conrad asked. "For climbing?"
"Not any that would work for you."
Conrad shot another scowl.
"What? I'm small, been climbing and squeezing into spaces since I was a boy. Just step up rung by rung, that's all I can say."
"Some help you are," Conrad muttered.
"What was that?" Biter asked.
"Die in a hole, spudhead."
"Oooh, she bites. Climb the ladder," ordered the bald man.
With reluctance, Conrad did as he was told. The ladder creaked under his weight. Even without armour, it seemed a normal-sized person was too much for this old thing. Conrad spread out as much of his foot as he could on the rungs, to try and spread the pressure of his weight. It worked for a short while, but was no permanent solution. As he neared the top, a rung snapped in two. Jagged metal cut into the back of his calf, causing Conrad to cry out and lose his balance. He fell for a moment, loose in the air.
Time slowed. Something flashed in Conrad's eyes, replacing the dingy sewer with the open air, the door above with the edge of a cliff, the waters below with fluorescent, giant mushrooms, beckoning him with their glow.
A firm grasp pulled Conrad from his vision, stopping his fall before it could begin proper.
"Fuck me you're heavy," Biter said bluntly, dragging a limp Conrad up and out of the sewer, planting him firmly on the stone floor above.
Panting, Conrad looked around. There were no more cliffs, no more open space, just the enclosed catacombs.
They were smaller, duller, than he'd first expected. It seemed the Vovequians cared not to paint the halls of their dead. There was no art here, nothing except for grey walls and grey sarcophagi engraved with the names of the corpses within. It was claustrophobic too. Low ceilings and curved, narrow tunnels meant that standing abreast, Conrad and Biter filled most of the space around them.
"Couldn't even swing a cat in here," Biter panted.
"Works better. Means we can't get swarmed," Conrad said. "Are you sure we're in the right place though? Can't see where you'd put a man here, not a live one anyway."
"We're only getting started here lad," Biter said, passing Conrad his sword. "If you thought the sewers were a labyrinth, just wait until you see this."
Conrad stood. "Did you get plans of this place?"
"No, we're going to be depending on luck here. Even worse, time's not on our side."
"Why?"
As if it were planned, a shriek echoed throughout the halls. It was piercing, rageful, and inhuman. Conrad had heard this scream before, only once, and it made him shudder now as he did then. It was the battle cry of the Pale Boys.
"That's why." Biter confirmed. "We've just hopped into the middle of the rat nest, mate. They know we're here and they'll be on us like flies on shit if we don't move."
"Why are we the shit in that metaphor?"
"Get your arse moving," Biter ordered. He dragged Conrad away from the approaching shrieks into the closest exit. They ran as quick as they could through the labyrinthian tunnels, never daring to turn back even as the approaching sound of footsteps could be heard.
They couldn't run forever though. As they rounded another grey corner, a Pale Boy was waiting. This one, unlike his brothers, had chosen to remain silent, in the hopes his prey would come to him.
Like the rest, this Pale Boy wore heavy plate armour, with ragged, bloody wrappings around his joints, hands, and feet. Covering his head was a finely crafted helmet. Following suit with the rest of his armour, the headpiece was black like coal. Over his face, the helmet was a simple, flat piece of steel, though on his head there were layered plates of steel, looking as if the helmet had a bird beak atop it.
Silently as he had waited, the Pale Boy grasped a flail from his hip. The head was a horrid, studded ball, which had enough dents to let Conrad know it had caved in many a skull. It was the weapon of choice for the Pale Boys, the flail. Well, any blunt weapon they could get their hands on was enough for one of those maniacs. In blunt weapons, they wielded something similar to the Patriarch's great halberd, his Reckoning. Though the weapon also had an axe head on its other side, the hammer was seen as both his favoured weapon and the chosen tool of Atoth.
"Heretic," the Pale Boy stated, in a tone cold and lifeless. Conrad swallowed as the Pale Boy gripped the shaft of his flail, unravelling the chain slowly.
Biter was not one for waiting. His feet scuffing against stone, he charged forwards. The Pale Boy swung his flail wildly at Biter. The latter ducked under the destructive head with ease, letting it smash a chunk out of the wall to his left. With a graceless but powerful swing, Biter cleaved the fanatic in two at the hip, letting blood gush all over, staining the walls and floor.
In death, the Pale Boy was silent too. Only a slight grunt escaped his mouth as his torso smacked against the floor. Biter cleaned the blood from the sword with the cuff of his sleeve.
Conrad stepped towards the Pale Boy, pulling the helmet from his head.
"It's not him," Biter said.
"I'm just checking."
"They don't make them warriors that quickly. Takes more than a few days to remake a man, but only so long to break him."
Before Conrad could say anything else, the screaming Pale Boy caught up with them. Conrad spun to see the skinniest person he'd ever laid eyes on, charging towards the Zweihander with a frothing mouth and murder in his eyes. Strangely, this Pale Boy wore no armour, nor did he carry a weapon. His yellowing nails, sharpened teeth, and balled white fists were the only things he could've killed Conrad with, yet he charged boldly all the same.
Conrad stepped back, dodging the first swipe of the zealot's talons. Then, leaning on his backfoot, he pushed his bade forwards, resting it on his elbow for precision. The Pale Boy was spitted like a pig, though he didn't stop screaming until Conrad had wrenched the sword from his mouth.
"Do you want to check if that one's Arten?" Biter sneered.
Conrad shook his head. He couldn't share in Biter's joke. None of this was funny to him. He looked down at the Pale Boy; its white, milk-like skin. Its hairless body and bloodshot eyes. He wondered how this creature could have ever been a man. More importantly, how could anyone choose to turn a man into these things?
Biter kicked the body of the naked Pale Boy. "This is a good sign. Shame though."
"What?"
"This one. He's fresh. Just broken, not trained. Means we could follow the footprints he was so kind to leave us, see if there's any other freshers nearby."
Biter pointed his sword to a set of red footprints in the stone. Conrad looked at the Pale Boy's feet to see that shards of glass and metal had been jammed into the soles of his feet, so that he bled as he ran.
"Fuck," Conrad breathed.
"Aye," Biter said. "Here's what I think they've done. Let this fella out, knowing he was done for, but if they bleed him as he runs, his footprints will lead them to us. Only thing is, the reverse is true as well."
"Right."
"Look," Biter said, pulling Conrad away from the dead Pale Boys. "Get all this out of your head, now, or you'll end up dead for it. I'll be blunt with you mate; you've never cared about anyone in this army. Sometimes I've even wondered whether you're really my mate."
"Of course I am."
"Anyway, you didn't care before, so don't now. These things come with war. Well, they come without too. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"Not really."
"Fuck it. I don't have time to explain."
Again, Biter dragged Conrad through the catacombs. Now, they were retracing their steps, and instead of running away from the Pale Boys, they were running right to them.
*
"And why was it you wanted to come down here again?" Thyrus asked, itching the exposed bit of flesh at his elbow. Thyrus always seemed to be itching. Flakes of skin fell from his arms like leaves from a tree in Autumn, always leaving Robert disgusted by the man. Thankfully, he rarely spoke to the speaker for the 'Pure Sons,' or any of the other mad men who called themselves the same.
Pure Sons. It was a needless title. Most, including Robert and even the Patriarch on the odd occasion simply referred to them as the 'Pale Boys.'
"Boredom, mostly," Robert said. "I am so bored with all the colours of Quenasses, all the painted buildings, all the zest for life."
Thyrus did not look convinced, cocking his head like a dog. Even without the white skin, bloodshot eyes, baldness, and scars, he was an ugly man. Though those things didn't help. Wrinkled beyond his years, with constant patches of pink and dried skin, most people were gladdened when he put on his helm.
"And you came to the catacombs to find less boredom?" Thyrus asked.
"That, and down here no one can bother me. If I'm being honest with you Thyrus, I'm already quite sick of the politicking. There are far too many letters to write, decrees to sign. How I wish the will of the Patriarch could be expressed by action alone."
"I share your sympathies, Sir Robert," Thyrus hummed. His voice always sounded close to song. "Though I must remind you the Pure Sons are utilising these catacombs as a home away from home if you will. In the weeks of our stay, we have renovated much to better suit our needs, so I can only show you parts of the original catacombs."
"Oh," Robert said. "I don't mind if things are a tad unfinished. You could show me a plain wall of stone and I would still find it preferable to another poorly painted brick."
Thyrus breathed in deeply, as if preparing to explain something simple to a child. "We merely do not wish to be interrupted down here, Sir Robert. Training takes place here, both that of body and mind. We have new recruits too that must learn the ways of purity."
Recruits, Robert thought. Is that what we call slaves now.
Robert had always found the creation of new Pale Boys to be slightly distasteful. No one except the insane bastards knew for sure how one was made, but he'd heard the rumours. For so much as a bad joke against Atoth or the Patriarch, a man could find himself strapped to a chair for weeks, having everything of himself destroyed, only to have it replaced by a mad zealot. Whatever man went in, the Pale Boy that came out was always different. Some couldn't speak, while others spoke all the time, though nothing they said could be comprehended. There were those that lost parts of their bodies, and others that lost their minds entirely. Those were the ones sent out on the front lines as soon as possible. Others were mostly people, and these became the hardened warriors of the Patriarch's vanguard. Thyrus was one of these lucky ones; he could speak well, fight, and keep himself presentable in spite of his ugliness. Still, he was likely nothing compared to the man he'd once been.
"I see," Robert said. "Well then, if you'd just leave me here, I'll be happy to make my own way around, and I'll see to it your lads don't even know I'm here."
"Oh no," Thyrus said, with a noise that might've been a laugh. "You'll not be alone. I will supply you with company."
And see to it that I don't go where I'm not supposed to, Robert thought.
Robert considered his options. He could run from Thyrus right now and hope that he didn't get caught. He could even kill the speaker right here. There were no witnesses. Both were decided by Robert to be stupid ideas though. He was deep within the hornet's nest now, and he would have to be as good as possible to ensure he got out alive.
That bastard Germain, Robert thought. I should've known he'd send me on a goose chase.
Robert resigned to following the ugly old Pale Boy, hoping that at some point he'd get a chance to slip away. He still had no clue what he was looking for, but it would not be found under the supervision of zealots.
"In the catacombs," droned Thyrus. "We've found the quiet and privacy necessary to continue our most vital work you see. Now, as Atoth said on his days of battle. Hmm, which was it now?"
"Fascinating," Robert said.
"The Fifth? No, the Tenth, definitely the Tenth, for the Fifth was when he uttered the most wonderful thing. 'A man's heart is most still as it is about to stop beating'."
"Of course," Robert nodded.
"And on the Tenth, Great Atoth said: 'Though the cries of battle are music to my ears, the quiet is where I find strategy. And it is in strategy and ferocity that a force finds victory.' Goodness, even repeating that so many times, it still brings chills."
"Pure poetry," Robert said, watching Thyrus itch another few flakes of skin from his arm.
"Of course, I'm not just reciting our Warrior's words for fun, though I could do that all evening. In quiet, we Sons of his find our strategy as well, if you follow. Without our privacy, we would not be able to continue. The masses look unkindly to our piety, no matter how necessary. Sir Robert? Are you following?"
"Hmm?" Robert said, pretending not to realise he'd let Thyrus get a good ten paces ahead, hoping the Pale Boy would keep walking and chatting to himself. "Of course, of course. I was just admiring some of the stone carving here. Quite the feat, is it not?"
"Hmph," Thyrus huffed, unconvinced. "It is the work of heretics. Though it appears strong, it is nothing compared to the Chapel of Nesselberg. Perhaps I could book you in for a tour once we are set to return home. A man of your reputation, your stature, would do great in bolstering the Pure Sons' image."
"Hmm," Robert replied, pretending to think on the matter for as long as he could, formulating an excuse in his head that would prevent him from ever stepping foot near that awful place.
A shriek saved Robert from having to answer. Animalistic, it was. The noise echoed through the halls of the catacombs, piercing Robert's ears like a knife.
Thyrus' eyes widened. His hand reached for the hilt of his mace. "Stay put, please Sir Robert. I believe something most unusual has occurred."
"What are you doing down here? Butchering cats?"
"Enough jests," Thyrus ordered. "And stay put. Run back up to the Bastille if you wish, for I must leave you now, and there will be no further following. Am I understood?"
Robert nodded, readying himself for the performance of a lifetime. He widened his eyes, opening his mouth just enough to appear scared, not dumbfounded.
"Would there be danger, Sir Thyrus?"
Thyrus nodded glumly. "Perhaps."
"T-then yes, it appears I have overstayed my welcome. Oh, think of the time as well, my w-wife must be worried sick. Oh, and there are documents to sign."
"Oh, for Atoth's sake just get gone!" Thyrus cried. "I'd heard you were a coward Wisser, but I'd thought better. Now though, I see why they say your wife is the better man between you two."
Thyrus turned away, disappearing into the dim depths of the catacombs.
Perfect, Robert thought. I knew there were rumours going, but I never knew they were calling me a coward. Really? I'll have to have Anne track these bastards down, then we'll see who's the coward.
Another shriek: where the first had sounded like one of a beast on the hunt, this one sounded sadder, defeated, as if a bear had been caught in a trap. It also came from another part of the catacombs, away from the direction Thyrus had walked. Now convinced there was at least some method in Germain's madness, Robert Wisser marched onwards into the catacombs, glad he'd brought his blade with him tonight.
*
"Where are you keeping the converts?" Biter roared at a Pale Boy. He'd pinned the zealot to the wall with his blade.
The Pale Boy gave no coherent answer, just like the others. He looked shocked as Biter's sword skewered his belly, watching the blood ooze with great interest. Then, he laughed. The Pale Boy laughed as if he was being tickled by the sword in his gut. It was an uncontrollable, shaking fit of laughter, robbing the Pale Boy of his bodily function and Biter of his patience. The latter knocked the fanatic to the floor with the back of his hand, leaving him to choke on his own blood.
"I hate that the most," Biter said.
"You hate what now?" Conrad panted, after having just killed two more Pale Boys himself. He could see another towards the end of the corridor, likely waiting for reinforcements. He swung two cudgels back and forth, rapping them against the stone walls and floors.
"The ones who laugh, think death is just a joke, as if it'll stop me cutting them down or something. Aren't you only supposed to laugh if you win?"
"Yeah, sure," Conrad said, too tired to engage with whatever Biter was going on about now. They'd been fighting through what felt like a horde of Pale Boys. Around each corner of this maze the Vovequians called catacombs, there was another group of them. Like rats they were, endless and plentiful. Well, they were like well-armed, well-trained rats that didn't go down until you cut them into pieces. It was only thanks to the enclosed space of the catacombs that Biter and Conrad hadn't been beaten to death. In the narrow corridors, they forced the Pale Boys to face them one at a time. Fighting back-to-back, Biter and Conrad could cover each other, cutting down dozens of the howling creatures. So far it has been easy yet tedious work, though it seemed they'd only thinned the chaff of the Pale Boys. More new, naked converts lay dead on the floor than anything else, and the armoured foes were older fellows, lacking in speed and strength. Despite the barbarous nature of the Pale Boys, they had the cleverness to wear down their intruders before sending in the executioners. Conrad only hoped they'd find Arten before any of those decent opponents showed up.
While Conrad had been gathering himself, Biter had charged forwards. Gripping his blade in one hand, and hilt in the other he rushed the cudgel-wielding Pale Boy, beating his weapons aside with one blow, and jabbing him in the belly with another. The Pale Boy dodged back, avoiding a third strike aimed at his gut, and swung the cudgels wildly at Biter's head. Biter parried both, using his zweihander as both sword and shield. The Pale Boy swung again, leaving himself far too open. Biter stepped to one side in the little space he had and swung his sword downward, cleaving the Pale Boy from shoulder to hip. It was a quick bout, as all Biter's fights were. Tonight though, there was something different. Biter had a serious look about him, like he didn't see the fun in the fight. He wasn't winning as a by-product; he was winning because he needed it.
Biter and Arten may not have been as close as Arten and Conrad, but they knew each other well, so Conrad was not surprised Biter cared that Arten had disappeared. But this, this was something else. Though he hid it well, Biter was furious. Conrad saw it with each swing of his sword, each roar as he cut another foe down. Though he'd smile and crack wise, Biter was seething inside.
"Ey up," Biter said. "We might have something here."
Conrad followed to where the bald man pointed, stepping out into an open, circular space. It must've been a centre chamber of sorts, as four equally sized tunnels met around its walls. Conrad exited out of the southernmost tunnel, though it could've been the eastern, or northern tunnel for all he knew. There weren't signs. Compared to the claustrophobic space of the catacombs beforehand, this was a sweeping chamber, with a ceiling as high as three men, and enough room for twenty.
Shoddily attached to the circular walls were what appeared to be wooden shacks or coffins. Tall but thin, they had enough space to perhaps hold a man. There wouldn't have been enough space for him to sit or lie down, but Conrad doubted that was a problem for the Pale Boys.
Biter didn't hesitate. As soon as he saw the wooden structures, he set to taking them apart.
"Arten!" He whispered harshly, banging on each plank of wood as hard as he could. "Arten! Say something if you can hear me mate."
A few weak groans emanated from the glorified coffins, though they were indistinct. Any one of them could've been Arten, or none of them.
Biter shattered a few planks of wood with the pommel of his sword. He peered inside, only to look back at Conrad and shake his head.
He smashed into another pen, recoiling instantly as a pale hand shot out, clawing at his face.
"Well?" Biter said, punching the hand back from whence it came. "You going to help?"
Conrad snapped into action. Holding his sword upside-down, he began to bash away at the flimsy wooden boxes with its pommel. Luck smiled on him today it seemed, as Conrad only had to smash open one of the shacks before finding his prize. Conrad nearly choked on a gasp of relief as he looked to see an alive Arten.
"Got him!" Conrad yelled, forgetting that there were likely Pale Boys within earshot.
"You're joking," Biter said. "On your first one?"
Conrad smashed away another two chunks of wood before pulling Arten out from his coffin. Arten was a big lad, but much lighter than Conrad had expected. With only a ragged pair of yellowed trousers covering him, it was easy to see Arten's ribs, the lack of muscle and fat around his chest and arms. What had first been an overwhelming joy was slowly being replaced with worry as Conrad saw the state of his friend. He had none of his short brown curls, nor much hair at all on his body. His back and chest were filled with deep cuts and harsh bruising, and his extremities had already begun to pale. He hadn't helped himself from the box, instead allowing Conrad to do all the work. He hadn't even said a word to his rescuers, only acknowledging them with sad, watery eyes. They looked grateful, those eyes, but they barely held onto their humanity. They were more like a dog's, looking up at its master, awaiting praise or punishment.
"Fuck me," Biter whistled as Conrad et Arten rest on the floor. "Look what they've done, eh. What have they done to you mate?"
Arten didn't reply. Not with noise, at least. Still looking up at Conrad and Biter, it seemed now he recognised them, as a small smile crept along his handsome face. A single tear streamed down his paling cheek.
"How can they do this?" Conrad asked. He wasn't sure who the question was for, he wasn't even sure he wanted an answer.
"Because he crossed a line," Biter said in a low voice. He gripped his bald head, rubbing his hand over it. "Harsh as it is, these punishments don't come without you breaking the rules. There are things you just can't do."
"You can't say that," Conrad said. "You can't look at him and say this was just. That's a lie, and we both know it."
Biter didn't say anything. His hand had stopped rubbing over his head. It was shaking atop his bald dome.
"I don't know where your head's at," Conrad continued. "One minute, it's do or die for Arten, and the next you think he deserved this. Really?"
"It's my fault," Biter murmured.
"What?"
"I said it was my bloody fault alright?" shouted Biter. "Both you lads, I let you run wild, let you be whatever you wanted, until it blew back in your faces. Both of you, barely alive now, and I didn't do anything to stop it."
Conrad was taken aback. He didn't know what to say, what to think. They'd joked about Biter being a father for the lads while they were at war, but he'd never expected the bald man to take it so seriously.
Before Conrad could say anything, Arten stood up and pointed to the tunnel exit behind them. There, leaning casually against the awkwardly curved wall was a man Conrad recognised, if only for their meeting a few days prior. He would've stood out anyway, what with his annoyingly handsome face.
"Oh," said Sir Robert Wisser, a charming smile sat proudly above his strong chin. "Don't mind me. Say your pieces. I can take you in any time."
Wisser locked eyes with Conrad, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before stepping into the chamber.
"Conrad," Biter said solemnly. "Get Arten away. Do you remember the way we came?"
"No," Conrad lied, readying his blade. "I'm afraid you'll have to show me."
"This is no Vovequian peasant," Biter said. "This is the best swordsman in the country."
"We'll see about that. Even if he is, all the better you don't face him alone."
"You know I can hear you," said Robert Wisser. "We don't even have to fight, you know, I could just arrest you here and now."
"We all know that's not happening," Conrad said, before charging forwards.
Sir Robert Wisser leaned on his backfoot calmly. He pulled out a thin, weak looking blade from the sheathe at his hip and began to twirl it ever so slightly, creating small circles in front of him.
It looks like a butter knife, Conrad thought, watching Wisser dodge his first blow with ease, letting his sabre glide off of the zweihander, the echoing scrape of metal on metal echoed in the chamber.
But it could still poke more than a few holes in me.
Wisser lunged forwards, stabbing towards Conrad with a swiftness the latter could have never expected. Conrad raised his sword just in time to stop the jab taking his eye out. The tip of the blade bounced off of the zweihander, shooting upwards, and slashing open Conrad's forehead with surgical precision.
Satisfied with his work, Wisser retreated a few paces, a fiendish grin adorning his face all the while. Conrad could feel a strange pulsing sensation in his forehead. He touched his fingers to the wound. They returned to his eyes covered in red. Not good. Strangely, Conrad felt no pain from the wound; at first, he didn't believe he'd been struck.
Again, Wisser lunged. He pushed himself from the floor, launching forwards like a human javelin, with his sabre as his tip. This time though, he didn't get close enough to Conrad to poke another hole in him. Instead, he was barged aside by the shoulder of a much smaller, much angrier man.
"Fuck's sake," Biter yelled as Wisser tumbled back a few steps. "Keep him at bay. If he gets close, you're dead."
As good as Biter's advice was, it didn't help much. It appeared nothing would stop Robert Wisser from getting in close enough to jab at his opponents. Even faced with two zweihanders, he weaved in and out of their long, heavy swings with ease. Blow after blow Conrad missed, and for each mistake he made, he earned a new wound to remember it by. Slashes along his arms and thighs, jabs into his back and chest, Conrad couldn't help but feel as if he and Biter were being toyed with, so sorely were they outmatched.
Who was this man? With his pompous hair and smug face, Conrad had expected all of his medals to be for show, all his praise nothing more than vapid boasting. Now, Conrad saw that the smugness, the ego, was at least in some part earned. Sir Robert Wisser made his swordplay as beautiful as a dance, he calculated his movements as if he had had an hour to prepare them. Cat-like agility and the eyes of a hawk let him seek out an opponent's weak points and exploit them with ease. He was a swordsman unlike Conrad had ever seen. That was, if he even was a man. With such speed and precision Conrad began to doubt Wisser truly was human.
Another gash along his waist brought Conrad out of his drooling. He clutched the wound; it wasn't too deep. Again, he felt little pain.
"Come on boys," Wisser panted. "A bit more effort, please. Aren't you supposed to be our finest infantry?"
That taunt seemed too much for Biter. He roared, pushing past Conrad and aiming a sweeping blow at Wisser's head. Wisser moved to dodge, easily avoiding what would've been a telegraphed strike. Except, it was merely a feint. Biter stopped his swing halfway, catching Wisser mid dodge with a thrusting stab. Wisser's speed allowed him to stop the attack being fatal, but not before Biter's blade had stabbed through a good inch of the pretty man's chest.
Wisser cried out, trying to retreat, but Biter gave him no such ground. With all his momentum, Biter spun and swung horizontally, hoping to split Wisser in two. Biter missed the knight's chest, but he put enough panic into Wisser to damn him all the same. In his fear, Wisser had raised his twig of a blade to parry the incoming blow, only to sacrifice it for nothing. Under the weight of Biter's strike, the sabre snapped in two, with most of the blade clattering along the floor, far out of Robert Wisser's reach.
"That good enough for ya?" Biter said. Bleeding from his chest, arms, and even a gash on his neck, Biter had earned nearly as many holes as Conrad in their short fight against Wisser. They were shallow wounds though, nothing to worry about if they were seen to soon enough.
Swift as ever, Wisser reached a hand into his belt and pulled out an odd contraption. By Conrad's eyes, it looked to be a rifle, though one small enough to fit neatly in Wisser's palm. He spun around Biter's outstretched sword, once again giving no advantage of distance, before pressing the small rifle to the side of Biter's head.
"Not quite," Wisser replied, a trickle of blood pouring over his fine uniform. "They're fine swords, those zweihanders, but not for me. Too brutish, too sluggish, not enough precision."
Conrad readied his sword. A thousand thoughts raced in his mind, trying to make him panic. He took a deep breath in, silencing them all.
"Really?" Wisser scoffed, his eyes focusing on Conrad. "You really want to keep going? It only takes a second for me to paint the walls red with your little friend's blood and whatever brains he might have."
Conrad took a step forward. Men like Wisser were always the type for idle threats. In truth, the pretty man was still on the backfoot; his sword was broken, and he had one shot to kill two men. Three, if Arten ever felt like fighting.
Before Conrad could test Wisser any further, echoing footsteps marched towards the chamber. Pale Boys flooded from both the left and right tunnels. Each of these men were armed and armoured, and without the strange, debilitating quirks of the naked fanatics. They were organised, this lot, likely drilled as any other Drevish soldier was.
"By order of the Pure Sons, drop your weapons!" shouted a man who diminished his own authority by itching himself with the edge of his mace.
"Thyrus," mused Wisser. "Good of you to finally catch up. As you can see, I've apprehended your intruders."
The Pale Boy ignored Wisser's words. Though his eyes were masked by his dark helm, from where his head was pointing, Conrad could see he was entirely focused on Arten. After a few moments of staring at the half-naked, vacant lad, the Pale Boy known as Thyrus planted his mace firmly to the ground, and began chanting to himself. His voice became low, throaty, as if a bear had learned to speak. It was a tone familiar to Conrad, one he hadn't heard since he was last in the Low Wood.
That can't be good.
"Thyrus?" Wisser said, confused.
Thyrus continued his chant. A pattern, or perhaps it was a word written in a language Conrad couldn't read, appeared in the centre of the chamber's floor, seemingly burning itself into the stone.
"Et veterum!" Thyrus cried. As he did so, the letters in the floor burned with a white light, and from them a golden glow pulsed around the chamber. Conrad felt an odd sensation fill his body. It was a strange feeling, something almost indescribable. It was as if a colony of bees had made their home within Conrad's bones, buzzing with miniscule vibrations throughout his body. There was a moment of fearful silence in the chamber, as the pulse filled every inch of it before disappearing entirely.
Conrad looked about himself cautiously. The buzzing sensation had died, and with it, there seemed to be no other effect. He looked to Arten, who seemed equally unaffected. The poor lad didn't notice anything happening around him; he was entirely content staring at the blank walls and ceiling, smiling all the while.
"Thyrus," Wisser hissed through gritted teeth. "What have you done?"
Conrad looked to where Biter and Wisser were. Both men were clenching their jaws, grunting with effort. Their bodies twitched in places but did not move; they appeared completely frozen in place.
"Apologies Sir Robert," said Thyrus. "You have made yourself a most unwelcome guest."
"How?" Wisser protested.
"By being here, I can only assume you have seen things you were not meant to. I should have been more on guard, it appears. It was all too easy for me to believe you were a coward."
The Pale Boy stepped closer to Wisser, unaffected by whatever magic had frozen the knight. He pulled Wisser's arm, so that the gun no longer pointed at Biter's head.
"Curious thing," Thyrus said. "This is one of your wife's inventions, I presume?"
Wisser said nothing. Conrad could practically see the machine of his mind whirring, looking for a way out, any way out.
Thyrus gestured at two of his men before pointing to Arten. "You, grab our new brother, won't you?"
For whatever reason, Conrad had assumed the Pale Boys would have known he was unaffected by their spell. Surprisingly enough, they had no idea he could move. They were caught entirely off guard as Conrad swung his blade across both Pale Boys, nearly splitting each of the men in two. An audible gasp escaped Thyrus as he watched Conrad move around the chamber with ease.
"You can move?" Biter asked, equally confused.
"Yeah," Conrad replied.
"Then why aren't you getting out of here wanker?"
"What?" Conrad asked.
"Get out of here!" Biter yelled. "Get Arten and fucking go!"
Conrad froze. The Pale Boys were beginning to swarm now, but he had the exit at his back. He could run, if he wanted, follow the sewers back out into the city.
Leaving Biter though, that was something Conrad couldn't do. The old bald man could be a right bastard, but he didn't deserve to be cut down like a dog.
You can't cut them all down, said a voice in Conrad's head. Doubt, he believed it was called. It had been quite some time since that voice had crept into his mind. Whatever happened to surviving? No matter what happens, stay alive.
"I'll come back for you," Conrad said.
"You better fucking not," Biter laughed.
"You're not getting away!" shouted Thyrus, ushering more of his white legion forth, letting them flood the chamber like ants around a piece of fruit.
"Oi, Thyrus," said Robert Wisser, his hand shaking fiercely. His finger twitched over the trigger of his strange gun. Thyrus had no time to dodge the shot.
A small snap of thunder echoed in the chamber. Thyrus flew back, a hole in his helmet gushing blood. Though arriving in a smaller package, Robert Wisser's pocket-sized rifle accomplished the same effect as the regular model.
On the floor, the engraving that had still been emanating a brilliant white light began to fade, the stone where strange letters had been marked cracked. Before Biter and Wisser realised they could move again, the floor beneath them and half a dozen Pale Boys fell out from under their feet. Their last moments of life were spent crying out as they tumbled into a dark abyss.
Conrad didn't stick around to watch the rest of the floor collapse, though from the rumbling under his feet he assumed it had. Grabbing Arten by the hand, he dragged the unresponsive lad rapidly through the catacombs, back towards the sewer entrance. Though a taller man, Arten weighed so little that Conrad moved him with ease.
He didn't look back, not for one second did Conrad look back, nor did he slow down. By the time he reached the sewers, he could already taste bile rising in his throat, he could feel exhaustion gripping his legs, and still he carried on. He couldn't get caught; he couldn't let it all be for nothing.
Hurrying Arten down the rusting ladder, they entered the grand stinking sewers of Quenasses. In the rush of everything that had been the last few minutes, Conrad had forgotten the smell of the sewers, just how foul it was. He jumped down into the water, splashing a good amount of human waste on his armour and skin. Not even a minute had passed before he vomited in the sewer, his fatigue forcing him to breathe through his mouth. Vomiting could not and did not stop Conrad's momentum though. With a less than gentlemanly manoeuvre, he threw up to his left as he ran, praying the vomit didn't hit Arten. It didn't, or if it did, Arten didn't seem to mind.
In the glance he got at his flying waste, Conrad saw that it was an odd mix of blood and an odd, viscous black substance that floated along the sewers as it passed. He didn't have a moment to think on it further though, they would exit to the streets soon, and from there, a new plan needed to be made.
A cold rush of air swept over Conrad as he stumbled back into the streets of Quenasses. He gulped in the fresh air, replacing the taste of vomit in his mouth and the smell of the sewers from his nose.
Dawn was in the sky. Sunlight hadn't yet decided to show its face, but from the glow of the atmosphere, the light grey of the clouds, it was easy to tell the night was nearing its end.
"Excushe me," said an odd voice from behind Conrad. With a swift turn, Conrad saw that the voice belonged to a Drevonish infantryman, dressed proudly in fresh greens, glimmering steel at his hip. Though tall, with a strong build, the soldier looked horridly awkward, with a sadness in his eyes likely built over years of being pushed around by others. The speech impediment couldn't have helped.
"Yes, comrade?" Conrad said, trying his best to act casual as a near-naked, starved Arten crawled out of the sewers behind him.
"Uhm," said the awkward soldier. His eyes darted back and forth between Conrad and Arten. He looked at Conrad's sword, then Arten's pale hands. Conrad's vomit-stained uniform; Arten's bedraggled hair. It all seemed too much for the soldier. After a moment of staring between the two, he glanced behind himself. With morning coming soon, a shift change would come with it. Conrad knew the lad was deliberating between his duties and his rest.
Come on, thought Conrad. Can you really be arsed with this?
He prepared to make an excuse as the awkward soldier opened his mouth once more, though no words escaped it.
Before any man could realise it, the ground beneath the awkward soldier rose, shifting into the shape of an open hand. More like a claw, really. It gripped the terrified young lad, surrounding him with huge, unbreakable fingers. A small whimper, like that of a crying hound, escaped the soldier's mouth before he was mercilessly crushed by the cruel stone and dragged to the soil below.
As quickly as it appeared, the stone hand shifted again back into the cobbled streets of Quenasses. It tucked itself in among the uneven stones as if they were a blanket.
"Bend me over and slap me awake," Conrad breathed. Given the events of the past half hour, there wasn't really much else he could say. He wasn't even sure he was surprised at all the mayhem anymore. It was just the new normal.
He turned to Arten, who hadn't even bothered to watch a man get crushed to death by animated stone. Arten was staring at something else, perched up atop a building, watching the pair with burning red eyes. A black cloak billowing around them, the creature had no conceivable shape.
"Conrad," said Bearskull, an unnerving glee in their tone. "How strange to bump into you."
"Did you do that?" Conrad asked, pointing to the portion of street where once an awkward young man had been. He made a mental note never to walk over that part of the street again.
"Did I make the street?" Bearskull teased. "No dear, I did not. I presume that was made even before my time, though you flatter me with the accusation."
Conrad took a step closer to Arten. Bearskull knew what he meant; they were just playing games; games Conrad was far too tired for.
The cloak floated down from the roof as lightly as a leaf. Conrad glanced at naked, dirt covered toes as they tapped the ground before the cloak could cover them. There was someone beneath that thing, Bearskull was someone, no matter how well they tried to hide it.
"If you'd both follow me," said Bearskull, pointing a thick finger at Arten. "I believe that one needs fixing."
The red eyes glowered over Arten, almost hungry in their stare. Conrad pictured drool coming from the mouth of the bear's skull.
"No," Conrad protested. "I'm in your game, sure, but Arten isn't. He needs help, not more magic stuffed into him."
Bearskull cocked their head like a confused dog. "Darling, magic is the only way to fix him. It was the way they broke him."
"He just needs rest," Conrad said.
"No, give him rest and he'll end up in a middle space. Somewhat what he was, yet mostly not. I'm familiar with the work of the Pure Sons. It's amateur enchantment, at best, something I can easily counter. Come, I've found a house not far from here. Abandoned, mind you, so it'll be perfectly safe for us to do as we please."
Conrad hesitated. He'd been too trusting with Bearskull, too willing to follow their way. It was the same with Biter. He'd been following others' paths, and watching them turn out poorly; a mere witness to their collapse.
Arten appeared to have no such hesitation. As soon as Bearskull outstretched their shadowy arm to him, he accepted, another dim smile stretching across his face.
"Come quickly," Bearskull said, ushering Arten along. "Else the morning guards are sure to find you."
"And what if they do?" Conrad said. "I'm still of Drevon's infantry, I still wear the uniform."
Bearskull cocked their head. Conrad knew what they were thinking, and after a moment he sighed and followed along. So what if the hag was right? He liked to entertain the idea that he could've stayed with the Drevonish.
It seemed a sheer miracle no one spotted the most obvious trio in all of Quenasses as they made their way through the streets. A vomit-stained, battered soldier, accompanied by a half-naked lunatic and a shapeless cloak with a bear's skull for a face and red eyes to match. Anyone, no matter the status of their sight, would have stared at these three. If vegetables had suddenly grown to human size and began to walk, it would have appeared less strange than the appearance of Conrad, Bearskull, and Arten trudging through the streets.
Bearskull – still holding Arten's hand – glided peacefully through Quenasses, apparently unaware that at any moment they could be spotted, arrested, and killed. If anything, it seemed only Conrad was looking out for potential trouble. Every footfall that wasn't his made him glance behind fearfully. Every distant cough caused him to stop right where he was, gripping his sword until the chance of danger passed. Given his paranoia, Conrad looked madder than either Bearskull or Arten. When they finally reached the hideout, Conrad practically threw himself into the opened door, slamming it behind him once Bearskull and Arten had entered. He looked out of the windows in the vestibule, and after a few minutes, calmed himself enough to believe he wasn't being followed.
"Ah, perfect," commented Bearskull, pointing to a wide stained-glass window. "Just before sunrise."
The gleam of the new sun burst through the window and right into Conrad's eyes. Stepping out of his spotlight, Conrad moved away from the windows to look around the rest of the house.
It was grand. Apart from the Bastille, it was the grandest interior Conrad had seen in Quenasses. Stretching out in front of him was a homely entryway. A few end tables: a rack for shoes and another for coats, though both were empty. Exiting the entryway Conrad stepped into a large, open living space. A long table of finely carved oak sat in its centre, surrounded by chairs of ornate design. In the arms and legs, all sorts of animals were carved: bears, boars, hounds, though the most common decoration was a stag, as was customary of Vovequia. Stags littered the living space, from tapestries hung upon the walls, to the smallest engravings on goblets.
To the left of the table was a magnificent fireplace; at least the size of Conrad in both length and width, it could have turned this house as hot as the deserts of the Arch when lit. To Conrad's right, a short, narrow corridor led to a kitchen that appeared to be at least as large as the living area. Conrad only peeked at the kitchen. He'd never been able to appreciate the magnificence of a well-made kitchen in the way he adored designs of houses, armour, and the like. A kitchen needed certain requirements to function, whereas a living space, bedroom, or any other part of a house could be made with minimalism and still be beautiful.
Bearskull slid past Conrad as he admired the house, ushering Arten towards the back of the living space, where there were two sets of simple stairs; one led up, and the other down, no doubt to more displays of this house's opulence.
"It is to your liking?" Bearskull said, their reverberating, animalistic tones a grim contrast to the beautiful house.
"Yes," Conrad admitted. It was a house he could have only ever dreamed of stepping inside. Not as a guard or a messenger, but as a person. Yet, the splendour of the house was so much that it put Conrad on edge once more. There was such a thing as too nice, especially given the circumstances.
"This was abandoned, you say?" Conrad asked.
"Alright dear," Bearskull whispered to Arten. "First door on your right, I'll be right up." They turned their daunting, red eyes back to Conrad. "Abandoned, yes."
"Hmm," Conrad pondered. He'd noticed a distinct lack of dust for a house that was abandoned. That, and many things were still in immaculate condition.
"You don't believe me?" Bearskull asked.
"Would you?" Conrad replied.
Bearskull did their best impression of a chuckle. "Perhaps not. May I remind you darling, that less than a month ago this city was besieged? Some of the wealthier lot knew this was coming, and so they left everything behind to spare their lives from the Drevish onslaught. This house is splendid, yes, but it is also abandoned. Whatever rich family owned it has long since ran away, taking their funds with them to no doubt purchase a house in the north just like this one."
"Alright," Conrad said in the least convincing way he had said anything. "And where have you sent Arten off to?"
Bearskull sighed. "Follow me if you will, I'm about to begin."
In what was the smallest room Conrad had seen in the grand house, Arten was spread out flat on top what looked like a child's bed. His legs hung from the foot of the bed, resting more on the floor than the bed itself, and even with folded arms they hung off too. Still, he looked comfortable enough. Were it not for his open eyes, Conrad might have assumed Arten was asleep. He watched the ceiling with an intense stare, as if he could see something in the plain, wooden planks that no one else could. In Arten's arms, he was clutching a book. It was thick, old, covered with so much dust that Conrad couldn't see a title.
"Any reason why he's holding a book?" Bearskull asked. They floated over to Arten's side and stroked a lock of thin hair from his face.
"No," Conrad said. "Isn't that part of whatever you're going to do?"
Bearskull shook their head.
"Hmm," Conrad observed. "Strange. He's always been the type to read."
"That's good. Means he's still holding on to parts of himself. Perhaps there won't be much screaming."
"Screaming?"
"I," Bearskull said, painting Arten's face, wrists, and the floor around him with an odorous poultice. "Am about to plunge into this man's mind and remove what the Pure Sons tried to put in there, fix what they broke, and then manage to keep him in one piece. It is an arduous, painful process for the victim, one that they may even not survive."
"Right," Conrad huffed. "Okay."
He realised only now that his sword was still gripped firmly in his hands. Conrad felt a sudden pang of guilt. He'd carried it throughout this fine house, dripping blood, all over. No doubt he'd been banging it into walls and scraping the floor too.
With a careful movement, he leaned his sword up against a nearby wall. It looked as if it would fall, so he let it lean into a corner. As he did so, Conrad felt a sharp pain in his ribs, on his right side. He tapped the source of pain, and hissed as he realised the soreness in his torso. It felt as if he'd been danced on by a horse, the looseness near his chest letting him know at least a few ribs were broken.
At the sound of Conrad's hiss, Bearskull rushed over. Fumes were emanating from the poultice around Arten's wrist and hands, as if it were on fire. This wasn't smoke though, it was thinner, darker, as though a shadow had become tangible. The black fumes rose to the ceiling, then began to flood the bedroom, though they were thickest around the bed.
"A wound?" Bearskull asked, gesturing to Conrad's chest.
Conrad nodded.
Bearskull threw Conrad's breastplate to the floor with overwhelming strength. They then ripped open his uniform, recoiling with a whistle as they saw Conrad's chest. Conrad too, was shocked to see the swollen, purple, and red mess his torso had become.
"What in the gleaming shit?" He asked, wondering how he had walked from the Bastille with wounds like that. Must've been a Pale Boy, but how hadn't he noticed getting walloped like this?
Bearskull pressed a finger to Conrad's lips. It was cold, rough. "Hush, this will only be a moment."
From somewhere in that vast billowing cloak Bearskull retrieved some berries. They were a greenish blue, not unlike the colour of the ocean. Pressing the berries to Conrad's chest until they popped and muttering some unknown words, Conrad felt the same buzzing he had in the catacombs. A spell had been cast.
The purple swellings in his chest returned to their original colour and shape. The blood disappeared, as did the pain. Conrad sucked in a breath of air, watching his healing with eyes wide and mouth open.
"There," Bearskull said. "Better?"
"Yes. But that wound…I shouldn't have been able to walk."
"Yes you should've. Well, now you should've. Wounds like that won't stop you anymore, Conrad."
"What do you mean?"
"So long as you're not decapitated, I suppose, you won't die."
Conrad choked on air. He rubbed his forehead furiously, throwing himself into the closest chair. Bearskull watched him for what wasn't even a moment, before they returned to Arten.
"We'll talk of this more soon," they said. "Get some rest now, there's work to be done."
Conrad almost laughed at the thought of getting rest. After the night he'd just had, he wondered if he'd ever sleep again. Not that he needed to. If he couldn't die, he supposed he didn't need much of anything.
With flicking wrists, Bearskull began to call the shadows around Arten to her will, forcing them to wrap around themselves. They whipped the smoking tendrils into a frenzy of dancing black mist. Arching their back into an unnatural position, Bearskull leaned as far as they could, somehow able to remain on their feet, as their hollow skull pointed towards the dying night's sky.
A push, one that seemed to take all Bearskull's effort, sent the corralled mist towards Arten, surrounding him in a thick black cloud. Bearskull kept their strange position, though their head began to move. In unnatural, violent twitches Bearskull's head jerked. There were no mutters, no chanting, just movement let Conrad know something magical was taking place. That, and an odd, pungent odour, the likes of which he couldn't describe.
After a minute of watching silently, Conrad saw the poultice on Arten begin to glow. It shone with a dark, blood-red colouring, sinister in its radiance. It was not long after that the cries started. Not screams, not anything close, just quiet, incoherent cries. Arten didn't sound as if he was in any major pain. It was as if someone was poking him with a needle. More irritating than anything else.
Soon, the glow was all that Conrad could see. The dark mist engulfed Arten, the bed, and Bearskull. It swallowed them, growing denser as moments passed into minutes. Bearskull stepped out after a while. The red glare of their eyes had dulled.
Laying a stiff palm on Conrad's shoulder, they said. "My work is done."
Conrad didn't look at Bearskull. He could not take his eyes away from the swirling red and black mass. Somewhere in there, Arten was lying. No doubt still clinging to that book, for whatever reason.
"What happens now?" Conrad asked.
Bearskull sighed. "That's up to him. He should return to us in the coming days. "This," they gestured to the mist. "Should be gone long before then."
"I'll wait," Conrad stated.
"No."
"No?"
"I've an errand to run," Bearskull said. "One that needs accompaniment. In the city."
Conrad looked at the billowing, shapeless cloak that was Bearskull. He stared into the red, evil eyes of whatever was behind the skull, hoping to say with a look how ridiculous an idea it was that a thing like Bearskull should walk the streets, as if they didn't look and likely smell like the most obvious source of magic one could ever conceive.
Bearskull tilted their head, seemingly unaware of their own appearance.
"Really?" Conrad asked. "You want to go out, looking like that?"
"I don't know," Bearskull said, inspecting the sleeves of their robe. "It's got a lot of coverage. Keeps my modesty. No pockets though, that is unfortunate."
Conrad wiped his face, smearing dirt all over himself.
"I'm no fool, Conrad. I can change my clothes."
He hadn't known what he expected, but it certainly wasn't as simple as this. No spell, no ritual was required to remove Bearskull's coverings. The skull clattered to the floor; the robe was pulled over Bearskull's head. It was unceremoniously disregarded like an old tunic.
Underneath, Bearskull was entirely naked. Conrad considered covering his eyes, though it seemed the witch didn't care. She was of average height, terribly slim, with a nest of knotted white hair. She, indeed, Bearskull could now be identified as she. At least, at the sight of two features, and the distinct lack of one, Conrad assumed Bearskull as she.
Much like Arten, Bearskull looked emaciated. Her ribs were poking through her skin, almost every vein was visible along her hands and forearms. A dehydrated dryness decorated her eyes, lips, and skin. In her skin was perhaps Bearskull's most peculiar feature. Conrad wasn't sure what he had expected, but he certainly didn't think this witch from the Low Wood would share the grey, ashy skin of a woman of Uttoll.
"Don't stare too long," Bearskull said, her lips cracking into a grin.
"Trust me," Conrad replied. "And don't take offense, but I am very much not interested."
"Your loss."
"So, you've replaced a monstrous form with nudity. I'm not sure which will attract more eyes."
"I've clothes," Bearskull said. Her voice was different now. No longer did it sound unnatural, filled with vibrations. Now, it was quiet, rasping, though still full of slight mockery. "Well, the house has clothes. Ones which I intend to take."
"Would you not take a bath first?" Conrad asked.
Bearskull shot a glare at Conrad. Though her eyes were grey now instead of red, they could still hold a certain evilness.
"Well," Conrad coughed. "With living in the Low Wood."
"You assumed I wouldn't bathe?" spat Bearskull. "There are plenty of ponds, plenty of sources of water, you base child."
She moved towards the door, lingering by it before escaping to anywhere else in the house. "Tomorrow. Probably around midday now, you and I are heading out."
Conrad buried his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to scream, to throw the chair into the wall. Another part wished to cry. He did neither, instead he lay back in the chair and shut his eyes. Too much had happened tonight. Far too much, and he needed sleep before he could attend to any of it.