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[b]//A7 - Where They Handle Death[/b]
Perhaps they would linger, that group of death-respecting individuals, when they descended into the Underpass. Their Divine Protection, one that warned of the encroachment of death upon the living, would trigger to an extent that was sickening, an extent that could not be experienced in greater intensity unless they had marched through a village in the grips of a plague, or a field at the end of a battle. Here too, were the dead. Did the corpse collectors visit these dank and dreary routes too, or were the abjectly miserable meant to rot and be devoured by vermin, broken down like compost?

What could six individuals do, when this was but one of nearly 20 routes that existed beneath the Royal Road, the final destination for those who could not even make it in the roughest quarters of the Outer Layer?

The Adventurer’s District offered no answers to that question, but at least, there was plenty to distract from what they had all experienced. A few cast curious gazes at the party that had neither arms nor armour, their dour-faced leader bearing but a shovel. A few others advertised their establishments, only to be asked directions to where the dead were kept. They travelled quietly compared to the rising rambunctiousness of the lively quarters, as adventurers returned from the Abyss to exchange their bounties for coin, their coin for pleasures, until gradually, the sounds of merriment dulled into the cluster of churches and facilities that handled the dead. It was easy to tell by the design of the exteriors which had gone into this as religious duty and which had done so for pragmatism. White plumes rose out from tall chimneys, while large stables housed horses and carriages that workers filled with corpses wrapped in linen bandages, some perhaps paired with a package of memorabilia. Parties of adventurers, shrunken by their loss, exited such buildings with a mixture of emotions: sorrow, rage, apathy, joy, relief.

Others left bearing small pots filled with ash; there were potters’ wares that lined this section of the district as well, for opportunity persisted regardless of how tasteful it was. And who could miss the minstrel, plucking at heartstrings just as steadily as their lute, offering a fair price to play a favourite song of the departed? Of the solemn priest, whether their faith was false or true, who offered a prayer to an uncertain afterlife for those who met a too-short end? Of the brewer, whose drinks were strong enough to numb or release raw feelings, for those who wanted to release their misery before they melded into the happy chaos of the district.

There was money to be made, of course.

But still, there was space to mourn.

[sub][@Thayr][/sub]
[hr][b]//A3 - The Adventurer's District[/b]
It was afternoon by the time that the remnants of the mining expedition returned, their packs bulging with loot. Monster blood seeped out from the coarse sacks, leaving trails of blood that mixed with the blood that they themselves bled, but this too was perhaps the first time that such [i]wealth[/i] was in their hands. It was worth it. Perhaps they would have lost some familiar faces, but those who survived had made much more than what they would have otherwise, even after the adventurers took their own cut.

Many of them scattered once their supervisor dismissed them, seeking to make the most of their spoils before a thief could steal it away. Greg lingered briefly, his hand tapping Theodore’s shoulder. [b]“Goodbye,”[/b] he said. [b]“Hope there won’t be a next time.”[/b]

Cold words, perhaps, for someone who had been so friendly.

Now, however, there remained three adventurers and Theodore’s own, and the situation was…certainly a tense one. The Ichor-Blessed of Blood had shared something that was utterly insane, after all. To claim Divinity in a time after God had been slain was the province of lunatics and conmen, but the evidence of Theodore’s utility remained: the ability to draw forth greater numbers of monsters, to focus all their attention on himself.

[b]“Now now,”[/b] the leader of the operation, Samuel said, [b]“No need to go off rushing so quickly. Just get those two out to fetch your friends, mate. Us leaders can discuss the terms properly on our own.”[/b] The pot-bellied man’s lips quirked. [b]“Let’s cleanse our palates with Oratorio’s finest. Depending on how far your ‘Divinity’ goes, this could be quite a profitable partnership for us.”[/b]

He rested a hand on Theodore’s shoulder. It was a weighty hand, and though there was no real force beneath it, it was clear that this wasn’t a suggestion either.

Where Elys was, however, all that was clear was the presence of another Ichor-Blessed. Though she had no sight, her Divine Protection itself seemed to have sharpened in response to the proximity of those who were similar, yet different, to her. Indeed, within a world of sensed masses, only one in that cluster of individuals emanated an otherworldly weight, one stained with that crimson scent.

There were others in Oratorio. Other Ichor-Blessed, who had found themselves acclimating to this cursed city faster than herself. And the heat of the sun against her robes, the festive conversations of monsters slain, adventures concluded, and coin made, all indicated that for many present, their day in the Abyss had ended, whereas she had not yet begun.

Night did not affect her as it did others, but what was night like in the Abyss, if those who delved into it preferred to leave early? Nay, perhaps it was simply the lesser adventurers who had done so, when snatches of conversations spoke of those who travelled further, stayed longer, lasting weeks within the labyrinthian nightmares that were the lower Layers. Still, those people had supplies, had gear, while Elys herself had but the sword that she had used for far too many years.

The Abyss called to her still, called to her like a hunter called the birds.

And if she thought about it further…had she not come originally in search of [i]work[/i]? For what coin could be earned by a monster slayer? In the process, she had been buffeted by the corruption of the city, pulled left and right by individual desires, time gradually slipping away, until, until, until…

She was in the Adventurer’s District, but she was no adventurer.

Would she delve to slay? Or was there coin to make?
[sub][@SilverPaw][@Estylwen][/sub]
[hr][b]//O4 - Underpass Marketplace[/b]
There was silence in the wake of Meisa’s words.

Or, at least, there wasn’t any willingness to respond to her. Who was this shrimp of an elf, to proclaim such things? Her guard had slain five, but they had the advantage of surprise to begin with. In a proper battle though? Against the numbers that the Blackhand Butchers had? There was no doubt in those people’s minds that in two weeks time, their bodies would be crowsfeed or bloated in a ditch.

But what if they did accomplish all that? Look at the way that the taller one sliced up those men like nothing, look at the ease in which those forest-dwelling savages devolved into looting? Look at the way they cowed the merchant lady they ‘saved’, exerting enough effort that she could do nothing but blubber and offer up what paltry wares she had. No doubt they’d collected on more of that life-debt. Violence was just violence; if the Blackhand Butchers were replaced, were they all that much better at the mercy of these women, who were clearly just as accustomed to death and bloodshed as those blade-bearing thugs?

It was a rock and a hard place, between two beasts hungering for the prey upon a single mountain.

Meisa could see the effects that her words had. Some of the merchants decided that they wanted nothing to do with a gang war and were already packing up their stall, trying to calculate just how much money they would need in order to relocate and gain a new ‘license’ to operate elsewhere. Others looked upon her, baffled at her arrogance, and wondered whether or not it’d be better to side more heavily with the Blackhand Butchers, so that they didn’t fall on the wrong side of this conflict. Still more were uncertain, hemming and hawing, a bunch of fence-sitters with no morals and convictions, who were guided only by their desire to make money.

Notably, there were none who had risen up and applauded her for her speech, nor any who had immediately swore themselves as her allies. For, no matter how impressive Firenze was, she was but one woman.

Plenty of adventurers had delusions of righteousness and grandeur. There were even those who gathered together in hopes of making a place for themselves, one that was a sanctuary amidst callousness and crime. But the Outer Layer remained the dominion of criminals, of syndicates with roots that spread as deep as the Abyss’s shadows ran long.

[b]“I don’t even know who you are!”[/b]

Did it mean something, that the angriest one was the only one who would maintain conversation with these lunatic elves?

[b]“And no one here [i]want[/i] to fight. You think we’d have paid up if we were fighters? You think we’d be merchants if we could beat back those criminals?! If you didn’t even know who those men were half a minute ago, how could you [i]claim[/i] that you’re capable of chasing them out, huh?”[/b] A snarl, a challenge. [b]“Do you have a plan? Or are you just gonna run off to the other side of the city after placing us on the frontlines?”[/b]
[sub][@Click This][/sub]