A Blade Too Many
In the beginning the Gods convened in Holy Council and they said: Let there be a speck of dust in the Emptiness”, and it was so. Later, Anu saw the spirits looming over their frail creation and divided the void into light and darkness, and it was so. Then Genna poured of her milk which formed the waters and the skies, and it was so. But it was Ebb that compelled the Fabric, out of jealousy and spite so that the edges of the world would forever be engulfed in shadow, and it was so. ~excerpt from Magnum Codex: Genesis 1-4.
The walls of New Avalon, city jewel of the southeast, towers atop its granite perch high above the oily black waters of a sea that folk unironically call The Lurk. To its north, nestled below the worn stone battlements, sprawls the Outskirts - a cacophony of mud and squalor that decent folk need but avoid, while others of a more questionable morality, gladly partake in its debauchery. Here one is always just a few crowns short of one’s deepest desires of both flesh and mind as above and below the flimsy adobe hovels permeates a miasma most foul – that if Addle, a substance so vile most fear it and with good reason.
Beyond the Outskirts, further north, along Sovereign’s Road and past Witch’s Hill lies what folks would later call The Warrens – an intricate, dank network of granite passes and ravines that connect New Avalon to the rest of the continent. It is along this natural edifice that the natives have carved rancid catacombs to house their nameless ancestors, and at times, the ravaged corpses of those that dared to raise blasphemous voice against their antique traditions. Such contempt for ancient habits has no place in the savage eyes of this folk and to turn them away from their vaunted traditions would require the singular method by which one could impose one’s will upon the many — the edge of a keen blade.
One such blade, the Kaldr, are those few that nefariously haunt the shadows of stone and wooden halls alike, clinging to every whisper uttered by the lips of the unfortunate upon which that they prey with such terrible fervor. Over the years, the rabble have come to know them simply as Red Cloaks by their distinct ceremonial cloaks which denotes their blood allegiance to the land’s Voivode. They are unscrupulous men, wholly dedicated to their craft of spinning lies and half-truths benefiting none other but themselves and their dreaded officialdom - a true testament to the phrase: The end justifies the means. One such man is John Willian Crow, lowborn Proxi of the Kaldr brotherhood, though the litany of corpses strewn about the horrid battlements are a testament to the efficacy with which Crow carries out his, so called, rigorous investigations.
Such an investigation was to be decided inside the damp cellars of K1, a conspiratorial mansion at the edge of town, where the usual guests were entertained before every such terrible occasion. The hardened expressions huddled around a musty old slab of wood did nothing to impress Crow as he had been a part of many such dark gatherings. This time however, he couldn’t help but frown at the parchment held in front of him by none other than the Red Baron himself. A man known for his short temper and vicious ire, he seemed nothing more than a rancid amalgamation of blubber and flesh, visibly touched by the sickening influence of Addle. Yet to question him or his motives would be a folly so terrible very few had attempted and lived shortly thereafter, let alone survive to tell the tale.
And so, it began, shrouded in the blackness of night, a wicked testament to the greed of man, or maybe an overwhelming fear of the unknown? Who could say? But orders with such gravity could not be ignored, not even by the most impious of men. Men such as John Willian Crow…
The human mind is akin to the fragile wings of a feeble swallow. So easily broken by the will of lesser men, thought Crow, as the misshapen contorted body of what he could only guess was a woman about thirty winters in age, half naked, howling profanities, clawed at the rusted cage that held her prisoner so high above the muddied ground. It was a common sight in the Outskirts - the work of men, much like himself, in service to the Voivode, ever so willing to dispense “justice” wherever and however they could for just the slightest glint of gold. He looked away, there was no need to trouble himself with the suffering of others. There were bigger fish to fry, fish that could finally appease the Red Baron’s insatiable appetite.
Most in the Outskirts would find their way here, inside this wooden hovel, drowning in cheap ale and the smell of urine. This rickety excuse for an inn, the Belladonna as it was known, offered among other things, a highly priced and sought-after commodity. It was rumored that the owner and barkeep, a man by the name of Sebastian Shaw, was the sole purveyor of such services in the area. Crow could only guess at the ties the man held with distinct individuals in the local hierarchy, the wheels that were greased over time with both coin and flesh, just to secure a position of semi-importance - that of an information broker. Many a secret has been spilled over a flagon of wine or in a lover’s embrace. Clever, thought Crow, although he knew of better ways to make men talk.
Each evening he would visit the Belladonna with the sole purpose of easing everyone’s eyes at his sight, much like one would lure a dove with bread crumbs just before snapping its frail neck. Each night he would study the groups of men gathering at the shadowy tables: rowdy sailors, local peasants, or the odd guard. He would then study the girls that approached the tables, looking to sell their services and at the back he would catch a glimpse of Shaw with a glint in his eye, a grin at the base of his cheek, almost always in the company of this one particular woman. She is their matron, their keeper of secrets. He concluded then that she was to be his gateway into the stygian underbelly of the Outskirts and the Warrens combined – the solution to the Red Baron’s need for answers.
It was on crowded evenings, no doubt at Shaw’s behest, that the matron would sometimes offer services herself and each evening Crow would play the part he had written for himself – that of a patient fisherman angling for that big catch. He would wait for one of the girls to approach and offer her services for the night and he would lure her to the guestroom and spend the night. He would wait for hours on end catching whispers as they came, or the hushed whimpers coming from the guestrooms, welcoming it all as these were the tools of his trade.
Patience has its own rewards. Thought Crow as one crowded evening he caught a glimpse of her cautiously approaching his table, instinctively fearing that which does not seem or look familiar. He had been eagerly awaiting this very moment and began to slurp his porridge with renewed gluttony all the while watching with the corner of his eyes as she drew nearer.
“Care for a wee bit o’ fornication?” She rasped bluntly, her voice was uneven with suspicion as she sat next to him. Crow glanced at her as if he had never noticed her approach and immediately coated his expression with a greedy drunken grin.
“Depends how much?” He asked while grabbing her by the thigh.
“Five crowns an hour.” She chirped not realizing that she had sprung his trap.
He entertained her with his drunken act, lurching up the stairs - luring his prey in the intimacy of the guestroom. While behind closed doors she began to unbutton her bodice as Crow crept behind her with a predatory precision. He plunged the needles deep in her neck, catching her as she fell, eagerly looking to begin his work.
Author's note: This is based on my previous work which I have cut and revised to better contextualize in the Universe I'm trying to pen. This is an ongoing project with future releases planned as soon as I can get to writing them.
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Table of Contents:
One - A Blade Too Many
Two - Hanged Man's Tree
Three - At Death's Door
Four - Stigmata
Five - A Glass Half Empty
Six - Beneath the Silver Eye