6th Day of Ash, 122nd Year of the Age of Steel
The nature of the Compound was a tight knit community. They were unwelcome in all other places, so mostly they kept to themselves here. Being long lived meant the day to day blended together and the mundane was, for some, a source of insanity. Many ghouls would band together and conduct long term projects or dive into hobbies with the single-minded determination only present in those to whom sleep is an afterthought. All of this fostered an aware and social community. Because of this, it was notoriously difficult to sneak away.
Luckily for Masagh the recent arrival of a new family that was not only from outside the circle of Creth, but young even by human standards, was just the distraction he needed to slip away. Emerande, overjoyed by the arrival of two youths and the promise of a third baby born into their midst, had taken to hosting a family feast each night to socialize the newcomers. Sabrione had been lost in a glum self-reflection since their disastrous attempt to bloody the nose of the Grims. It was easy for Masagh to slip away in the crowd of the Grand Hall.
He slipped out the main entrance into the Entrance Hall, hood back on his head and still chewing meat from a forearm. He flashed a guilty look at the statue of Quetharax as he turned towards the warehouse and dungeon. Quetharax’s skeletal face stared over his head, unmoving. Masagh had always got the impression from the statue that the ancient and revered lich was concerned with eldritch secrets far beyond their mortal concerns. That was probably intended.
His foot stepped were the only sound as he walked along the low tunnel towards the well exit. He went alone because it was a fools errand that he went on. He had known it the moment the idea crept treacherously into his head. But, alas, he was a son of Creth before he was anything. Duty called him to snuff out any loose ends that may lead to his House. Although this had been Sabrione’s messy idea, he carried her grudge for her today.
Masagh walked the familiar way to the well exit and Triforge Square, intent to return to the Mad Goat Saloon. His only company was his own misgivings and trepidation.
The square above was dark and cold. Ash was settling in and the storm had yet to pass completely from Gel’Grandal. Masagh glanced briefly about, ensuring his solitude. The plan was relatively simple, he would return to the Mad Goat and observe until he saw the Siltori, or until he learned something else. While it had been raining heavily and the Ork had died in the battle, the Siltori must have recognized what they were. Even if none of the other bar patrons had, that elf had been dangerous enough to be a threat.
From within a belt pouch, Masagh pulled out the pterincus totem encased in the orb of amber. He tossed it idly in one pale grey hand as he stepped over to the corner of the square. It became easier every time he attempted the new form. Invoking the rune had brought about the familiar popping in his bones, the stretching and twisting of his skin. His insides shuffled about in nauseating internal adjustments.
After a span of minutes Masagh the ghoul had vanished. In his place was the winged pterincus. He spread his wings and shuffled out into the center of the square. With an awkward beating of wings he felt the stout legs of the anvilbeak form lift from the cobbles. A series of gut-wrenching drops and chaotic lifts propelled the hapless flyer above the abandoned forges around him. He turned vaguely in the direction of the dark smudge across the landscape before him. The Gash loomed ahead, dark and uninviting.
The sky was dark and heavy with grey clouds. Lights dotted the ground below and he could make out the Gash simply by the lack of them. The only light across it was the thin, long bridge that connected Gel’Grandal with Northside. The lanterns on the bridge lined the sides with wide dispersion. Wind danced below his wings and suddenly they stretched with a stable front. He was propelled forward, finding he could glide across the front. Eventually though, the front was carrying him too far and he was forced to twist his wing and angle down and to the right.
He didn’t to soar over the actual Gash. If he fell there, worse fates than death might be in store. Instead, he made a haphazard zig zagging trail across the bridge. Once across and into Northside, he was more comfortable. He couldn’t yet fly long distances so he landed on a rooftop with a skidding halt.
Flying, he found, was like swimming. Endurance and form were vital. If one didn’t master form you would have to compensate with effort and energy. If one didn’t have endurance, you could not fly for the long distances a bird born to it could manage. Masagh had neither endurance or good form yet. So he managed flying halfway across the city, then proceeded to glide down one street at a time or so.
Eventually he came to the familiar winding street that was home to the Mad Goat Saloon, where he had ended an Orkhan’s life and the only known location for the Siltori. Skidding to a clumsy landing on the broken shutter across the way from the Saloon, the pterincus perched and observed the tavern.
The street had been cleared of the body and the only signs of a fight was a patch of more chaotic footprints in the street in front of the tavern. There was no one in the street outside the tavern but there was the familiar glow of activity inside.
Masagh thought he would have to settle into a long night of watching, but something happened before he had even found a comfortable perch on the broken shutter.
The tavern door creaked open and three men walked out. Two wore the uniform of Inquisition officials, the third was the man Masagh had knocked into the mud. He was clean now and his face somber as he wrung his hands around a bar cloth. He stopped in the doorframe and leaned against it as the other tow turned back, clearly continuing a conversation from inside.
“Well, Oli, do come by headquarters if you remember anything else.” One of the Inquisition folk was saying.
“Aye, will do.” Oli said, nodding. “I ain’t crazy neither, they was pale and cold. Serat’ll tell you same!” He wagged a meaty finger at the pair. “Corpses they were. Never seen anything like it.”
Masagh felt a shiver run down his pterincus spine. So the innkeeper had seen, and remembered. What had the Siltori remembered, he wondered. If two people corroborated a story of undead walking the streets of Northside at night, even the Inquisition would take notice.
“Yea, sure Oli. This address you give us good?” The other Inquisitor asked, waving a leather-bound notepad. “He’s the only other one you claim got a good look at the killers.”
“Aye. And you’ll see truth of it. Got cut deep in the shoulder, he did.”
“Right, well, if we need anything we’ll be in touch.” The first said, giving a perfunctory wave.
Oli shut the door to the Mad Goat Saloon and the pair turned to stroll down the road. A moment of indecision struck Masagh. Did he stay and wait for the Siltori to show himself again, or did he follow the Inquisitors? They had already been told of undead and were actively investigating. What’s more, it sounded like Serat was the elf. He decided to glide to the next rooftop and follow the pair. As Masagh followed them by hopping from roof to roof he caught more of their conversation.
“… think it’s bullshit?” One was saying. This one was older and clean shaven.
The other, more youthful and with a tight goatee, shrugged. “It was raining hard, they were drunk.”
“Doesn’t matter, that Ork was run through deep.” The first said after a moment.
“Yea, through the heart and under the ribs, expert stuff.”
“Dangerous blokes to be running about the city, undead boogeymen or not.”
They fell silent for a few minutes as they navigated the neighborhood. Then the older one slapped the other across the chest to stop him, bending over his notepad. He gestured at a house down a side street.
“That’s the guy. What do you think?” The older said.
“Survived a fight with two assassins with great swords? Must be tough.” The younger said, rubbing at his chin. Both looked more tired than anything else. “That Ork was definitely criminal affiliate. All sorts of ink linking to south coast smugglers.”
“You expect the same for the elf?”
“I mean, we should be ready for it.” They stepped up to the house after a brief look and the older one knocked on the door. A long moment passed as Masagh settled on the roof across the street. Waddling up to the edge he saw the door open.
The Siltori, now bandaged around the shoulder, opened the door a crack.
“What the hell do you want?” His familiar voice asked gruffly.
“I’m Inquisitor Jessle. This is Inquisitor Mycomb. We were hoping we could talk about what happened last night outside the Mad Goat Saloon?” The older said, tapping his notepad against his palm softly.
The Siltori, Serat, eyed them both briefly. “Nah, nothing more to say. Drollock’s dead and those that did it have it coming.” He began to shut the door but Inquisitor Jessle kicked his leg out to keep it ajar.
“Yea, just seems like the story’s a bit muddied.” Jessle said conversationally. “Innkeeper swears these assailants were corpses of some kind… We’d love to get a real description from you, since you saw them more closely.” Jessle flipped the notepad open in his hand with a practiced flick of his thumb.
“Oli aint crazy, corpse walkers is what they were.” Serat said, opening the door again a fraction. “I saw it with my own eyes and I’ve got eyes for the dark and the rain. They were rotten and walking and talking and killing. Straight from any kid’s nightmare. Carved up my shoulder and gutted Drollock in the street.”
“You’re sure?”
Serat scoffed and made to close the door again. “You here to call me a liar or do your job?” He said snidely as he half closed the door.
“Hey, hey!” Jessle stuck his foot out again. “Alright, they were undead. Can we get some descriptions?” He conceded.
“Rotten, pale, disgusting looking. What more do you want?” Serat asked, tone thick with attitude. “I doubt it will be hard to pick them out of a crowd.”
“Fair enough, humor me though. We’re trying to do our jobs and you aren’t in trouble… this time. So what’s the harm?” Jessle said agreeably. The Siltori opened the door again and crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe.
“Two of them. Looked like they had the same black cloths and old dark armor, leather. It looked like it was from decades ago, style-wise you know?” He began and Masagh felt his gut churn. It had been a long time since such a concrete account of House Creth had crept up in public knowledge.”Both carried massive swords. One was a woman, or used to be. The other was a guy. He was the one that killed Drollock. They fought like professionals.”
“What makes you say that?” Jessle asked.
“Good movement, they were fast and didn’t fuck around with flashy stuff.” Serat said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “Dangerous.”
“Why do you think they targeted you and your friend Drollock?” Mycomb asked.
Serat shifted his gaze between the two. “Who said they targeted us?”
Mycomb shrugged. “Seems targeted, two undead with professional training show up in Northside and confront you and your friend while you are out smoking, what else could it be?”
“It must have been a mugging or something, Northside is dangerous.” Serat said dismissively, but he shifted his weight uneasily.
“Hmm, muggers in my experience don’t carry claymores.” Jessle said flatly.
“Have you any dealings with necromancers?” Jessle asked unprompted after a moment.
“What? No, of course not!” Serat said, surprised and indignant.
“Did they take anything from you?”
“No, just killed my friend. Can we be done?” Serat asked icily, gripping the door.
“Yes, alright. If you think of anything else do head by headquarters.” Jessle said in the cadence of an often repeated line. “Also, we’ll come find you if we have any more questions.”
“Make sure we’re able to.” Mycomb said coldly. “Find you I mean.”
Serat frowned at them for a long moment. Then he nodded and shut the door. Masagh stared down at the pair as they turned about and shared a look.
They already knew too much, he would have to end this investigation before they learned anything more…
