As the last remnants of his friends' belongings turned to ash, Amukelo sat silently, lost in memories of better times. He recalled the days filled with laughter, challenges overcome together, and dreams shared under starlit skies. Each memory flickered like the flames before him, warming his heart momentarily against the chill of loss.
After the fire died down, leaving only glowing embers and a heavy silence, Amukelo knew sleep would elude him this night. His mind was too fraught with grief and a growing determination for vengeance. He left the inn, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty hall, and headed towards the pub where he was supposed to meet his informant.
The pub was moderately busy, a soft buzz of conversations filling the space. Amukelo spotted his contact in a dimly lit corner, nursing a drink. "Do you have any news?" Amukelo's voice was low, heavy with urgency.
"Nothing new," the informant replied, scanning the room with cautious eyes. "If they come back, I'll inform you. But for now, you should prepare."
"Prepare what?" Amukelo's brow furrowed in confusion.
The informant leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You should get a tracking artifact. But be careful," he warned, his eyes serious. " If anyone finds out that you are using this tool you will get in a lot of trouble. A kind of trouble that you won't be able to recover from. This tool is powerful and dangerous. It's been used to track and assassinate significant figures."
Amukelo's interest peaked, despite the dangers. "How do I get it?"
The informant smiled thinly. "Follow me," he said, standing up. "But you must give me your word to not tell anyone about this or use it carelessly."
Amukelo nodded, a silent promise sealing his commitment.
They left the pub together, the night air crisp against their faces. The streets of Llyn were lively, with people enjoying the night. But as they ventured further, the vibrant life of the city faded into darker, quieter alleys. Amukelo was struck by the stark contrast to the Llyn he knew—an open, cheerful place. Now, walking through these forbidding streets, he felt like he was seeing the true face of the world, one that had been hidden from him before.
Finally, they reached a lonely street shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from a dim torch above a nondescript door at the end. The informer stopped and turned to Amukelo, his expression grim.
"This is where you learn the true nature of this fucked up world," he said, his voice low. "But I warn you, this will not be a pleasant experience. This is your last chance to back out. You forget about this place and never see me again if you choose to leave."
Amukelo's face was set, his eyes cold with resolve. "Let's go," he said, stepping towards the door, ready to face whatever lay beyond, driven by the need for vengeance and justice for his friends.
The informer knocked on the doors in a weird pattern, and a slid window opened. Seeing the informer, a Big man opened the doors. The informer walked in, Amukelo right after him, but as he was about to enter the big man stopped him. The informer told the big guy, "He is will me, let him in." The big guy looked at Amukelo skeptically, but then let him in.
They walked into a long corridor, at the end of which were stairs descending steeply, curving into the earth as if spiraling into another, darker world. Each step seemed to take Amukelo deeper into the bowels of a hidden society that thrived on the grotesque and forbidden. The dimly lit corridor terminated in a large, cavernous hall that stretched far beyond the initial field of vision, its ceiling lost in shadows.
As they stepped into the expansive underground market, the informer kept a brisk pace, leading Amukelo through the crowded lanes. The air was thick and heavy with the smell of decay and chemicals, a pungent mix that made Amukelo's stomach churn. He tried not to look too closely at the stalls they passed, but the horrifying sights were impossible to ignore.
To his left, a stall was crudely set up with glass jars containing human organs floating in some preserving liquid; hearts, brains, and eyes stared back at him with a lifeless gaze. Another stall displayed rows of headless human bodies hanging from hooks, their blood drained and flesh pale in the dim light. The sight was macabre, a stark reminder of the kind of place he had entered.
Amukelo's steps faltered when he noticed a cage crammed with children. Their eyes were wide with fear, and some pressed themselves against the bars, reaching out, silently pleading for help or perhaps just a touch of kindness. The sight sent a cold shiver down his spine, and he quickly looked away, feeling helpless and enraged.
The 'street' itself was no less disturbing. People lay on the ground in their own filth, some twitching or moaning in a drug-induced haze. Others shuffled around like zombies, their eyes hollow, faces gaunt with addiction and despair.
One particularly chilling stall featured a woman bound to a wooden frame, her body bruised and bloodied. A bucket of knives was set in front of the stall, inviting patrons to throw them at her for sport. The casual cruelty displayed was a shock to Amukelo's system, pushing his emotions to the brink.
While some stalls offered mundane items like rare books or artifacts, the darkness of their origins was palpable. Everything here had a story, likely a tragic one, and Amukelo could almost feel the weight of sorrow and pain that permeated the place.
Despite the horror, Amukelo pushed forward, following the informer who seemed unaffected by the surrounding atrocities. His guide's indifference was a stark contrast to Amukelo's own horror and disgust. The deeper they walked into the market, the more Amukelo realized how far he was willing to go for revenge and justice. This path was dark, and every step took him further away from the person he had been before tragedy struck his life.
Then they entered a narrow, oppressive corridor that seemed to compress the very air around them as they delved deeper into the underbelly of the black market. Each step was a descent further from the light of the surface world, into the depths of human depravity and secrecy. As they turned into the shadowy alcove, even the sparse flickering lights from the main hall seemed to fear venturing. The walls here were slick with moisture and an unidentifiable grime that glistened ominously in the dim light.
Amukelo's voice was steady, though inwardly he felt the grip of trepidation tighten around his heart. "Are you sure this is the right place?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly off the close, damp walls.
The informer, a silhouette ahead of him, paused and looked back, his face a mask of grim certainty. "This part of the market trades in goods so dark, they make the horrors we passed look mundane. Be ready for anything, and remember, these people play by no rules but their own," he cautioned, his tone serious.
They approached a stout, reinforced door that looked like it could withstand a siege. The informer knocked in a complex pattern, a rhythmic series of taps that seemed almost coded. After a tense moment, a small sliding window at head height snapped open, and a pair of suspicious eyes scrutinized them.
"What?" growled a voice from behind the door.
"I bring a client," replied the informer succinctly.
The door opened with a heavy creak, revealing a large man, his presence exuding an aura of lethal intent. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked over Amukelo with thinly veiled disdain before stepping aside to let them enter.
The room beyond was starkly utilitarian, the air thick with a tension that was almost tangible. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with a myriad of oddities and artifacts, each emitting an aura of power and secrecy. At the center of the room, a woman with a band over one eye sat cross-legged beside a low table. Her presence commanded attention, her one visible eye sharp and assessing. A greatsword lay within arm's reach, its blade catching the dim light in a menacing gleam.
Beside her sat a wiry man, his features sharp and his eyes shrewd. They paused their conversation as Amukelo and the informer entered, turning their full attention to the newcomers.
The informer cleared his throat. "Ivish, I bring a client," he announced, his voice steady despite the oppressive atmosphere.
Ivish's gaze shifted from the informer to Amukelo, sizing him up with a critical eye. "This had better not be a joke," she stated flatly, her voice carrying a weight that filled the room.
"It's not," the informer assured her quickly. "He's here for the tracking artifact."
The mention of the tracking artifact caused a palpable shift in the room's atmosphere. Ivish's expression hardened, and the tension in the room thickened, the silence stretching out uncomfortably as all eyes fixed on Amukelo, waiting for his next move.