"It depends one the fate. And the holder of the string." Aleris responded, continuing the conversation on philosophy as they reach the sewer. "I have smelled of worse. Tell me, have you ever had the displeasure of knowing what the gallbladder of a Hobgoblin smells of? I shudder at the memory."

He hugs the wall and moves closely behind Mikhail just as suggested. He had no issues following Mikhail's instruction, he is but a hired goon for this mission. There is no displeasure or contention from him in the slightest.

"To continue our conversation," He begins as they get deeper into the sewer. "One can never truly know whether their actions come from the twisting of their strand of reality's fabric. Or if instead, it is their own will that pulls themselves from the weave. The fate can be considered defied none the less, no? The perpetrator of the defiance does not quite determine whether it is or is not a defiant act." Aleris explains, quite enjoying the dissection of the topic with Mikhail.

The storm swallowed them whole the moment they left the last lantern behind.

Wind hammered the jetty with salt-heavy breath, and waves crashed so violently against the pilings that the whole dock trembled beneath their boots. Rain came down in sheets, turning the world into a smear of darkness punctuated only by the occasional lightning flash.

Mikhail’s spell-threaded notes pulsed ahead of the group like faint fireflies in the void —
a guiding star through a night meant to drown intruders.

The crooked jetty creaked beneath them as they moved toward the black silhouette of the Bastion’s seawall. The guard post was abandoned; its brazier cold, door hanging open like a mouth mid-scream. A boot print in the mud showed someone had fled, not walked.

The storm had emptied the docks better than any bribe could.

At the very end of the jetty, where the pilings sank into the churning surf, the entrance finally revealed itself during a strike of lightning.

A circular rusted grate, half-torn from its hinges, jutted from the stone wall like a rotten jaw. Black water surged in and out, sucking greedily at the edges. A stench of brine, rust, and rot blasted outward with every wave.

The stench hit first.

A rush of black water spilled past the group’s boots as they crowded into the gaping storm drain, the filth frothing with foam and floating debris. The tunnel swallowed them in one wet gulp, devouring the last of the storm’s light the moment they stepped inside.

Thunder boomed behind them, muted now — like distant drums echoing through a graveyard.

Inside, the air was thick and humid, clinging to the skin. Moss and fungal patches glowed faintly on the walls, sickly green veins winding over the stone. Somewhere in the dark, water dripped steadily in uneven rhythms. Rats skittered along the far edges, tails slapping against the brick.

The soundward bubble gave them silence…
But the silence inside the tunnel was worse.

Ahead, the old smugglers’ drainage artery slanted downward in a long curve, disappearing into blackness. Iron bars once meant to block entry now hung twisted and snapped aside — rust-eaten from years of tidewater and something stronger.

Far ahead, a faint vibration trembled underfoot.
Not footsteps.
Not machinery.

Something deeper.
A hum like the Bastion itself was breathing.

After several minutes of trudging through knee-high water, the tunnel opened into a larger intersection — a forgotten maintenance chamber beneath Carceris’ underbelly.

Three paths stretched before them:

The leftmost tunnel was narrow, the ceiling low, forcing taller members to duck. A cold wind blew from that direction, carrying the metallic tang of iron… and something else. Something sharp, clean, and freshly disturbed.

A splash echoed from its depths.

Then a hiss.

Something alive was down there.

Straight ahead, a wide tunnel sloped upward toward what looked like a sealed grate — but the grate was old, bolts rusted halfway through.

Symbols carved into the stones suggested this was once a contraband route. Someone had scratched marks into the wall as recently as a year ago.

And between those marks?
A faint scrap of rope — the kind smugglers used to pull crates silently through the dark.

The current tugged from this direction, gentle, steady.
Not threatening, but promising a long route.

The rightmost passage smelled less like rot and more like chemicals — alchemical runoff, sharp enough to sting the nostrils.

Something glowed faintly ahead.
Orange. Flickering.
Torchlight.

And voices.

Two guards, speaking out of sight around a corner:

“—Warden says the beasts hit the labs first. You seen what was left? Gods…”
“Shut it. I’m not goin’ down there alone again.”

Their shadows stretched like long fingers across the wet stone.

That route led directly toward the lower laboratory floors — the same floors now stripped of guards in the chaos.

A shortcut.
But a dangerous one.

The sewer chamber rumbled as another shockwave rolled through the stone above. Dust drifted from the ceiling. Chains could be heard rattling far overhead.

The Bastion was awake and uneasy.

Somewhere above, prisoners screamed.
And farther still, something roared — a guttural, monstrous sound that the pipes did little to muffle.

Aleris hushes himself when he hears the guards speaking. No matter how riveting the conversation may be, it is not worth being discovered. A fruitless endeavor though. The soundward bubble served to protect them. But Aleris is every careful. Especially so early in this endeavor. He has reason to be silent beyond the guards' presence. He must consider. Three options ahead of them to traverse. None of the three look particularly promising. Two of them feeling like very likely paths towards a brawl. And one being sub optimal for their goal of getting to the cells as quickly as they can. He weights the options, carefully contemplating each.

The sounds or roars and screams making the contemplation harder. Both due to the added horrors and challenges that such things present, and also because the noise is simply difficult to drown out. He finally comes to a conclusion though. One that he knows that will be a difficult sell. And while he can deceive people fairly easily, he isn't quite as versed in persuasion. He will need to make his suggestion sound.

He hefts his large rusty hook on his shoulder to make holding it more comfortable as he turns to Mikhail. He whispers to the Elf, "Are you a risk taker?" He asked. Not waiting long for an answer, he continues on by explaining the purpose of his question. "I would venture to suggest that if we follow the sounds of screaming and monstrous rage, that there will be very minimal resistance left behind. And that creature may not be inclined to back track. Behind it, might be the safest path forward, as paradoxical as that may sound."

Sand crunched beneath Izzy’s bare boots as she was shoved forward into the Pit.

For a moment, the noise was overwhelming. Prisoners shouting. Chains clattering. Guards barking orders that dissolved into panic the instant shackles were struck free. Torches flared and smoked, their light painting the arena in harsh gold and shadow. The air tasted of iron and sweat and something older, something that had soaked into the stone long before she ever arrived.

Izzy stood still.

Her prison tunic clung damply to her dark skin, streaked with sand and grime. Brown curls hung loose around her face, heavy with sweat and salt. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists still burned where the shackles had been. And for the first time in a long while, there was no comforting blur of rum softening the edges of the world.

She was painfully sober.

Her golden eyes swept the arena, sharp and searching, tracking movement instead of fear. Weapons lay scattered across the sand. Rusted blades. Broken spears. Clubs hammered together from scraps. Prisoners scrambled for them like starving animals, some tripping, some screaming, some already turning on one another.

Jane vanished into the chaos.

Not deliberately. Not with intention. Just swallowed by the press of bodies as the crowd broke apart, every soul suddenly alone. Izzy caught only a glimpse of motion before the sea of prisoners shifted, and then Jane was gone.

Izzy exhaled slowly through her nose.

Stay alive, she told herself. That was the first rule. Everything else came after.

The iron gate across the arena groaned.

The sound cut through the Pit like a blade.

Sand trembled beneath Izzy’s feet as something massive moved on the other side of the bars. A deep, wet breath rolled out, followed by the scrape of claws against iron. Prisoners screamed. Some bolted. Others froze.

Izzy did neither.

She bent, fingers closing around the nearest solid thing she could reach, a short club studded with rusted nails. It was ugly. Unbalanced. Barely worthy of the name weapon. She lifted it anyway, testing its weight, adjusting her grip with the practiced instinct of someone who had fought with worse.

The gate began to rise.

Torchlight spilled forward, revealing a towering shape forcing its way into the arena. Muscle and scarred hide. Broken chains hanging from its body, clinking softly as it stepped onto the sand. Its breath steamed in the air, hot and foul, eyes locking forward with brutal focus.

Straight on Izzy.

The rest of the Pit seemed to fall away. The crowd. The guards. The Warden above, leaning forward in quiet delight.

There was only the beast and the space between them.

Izzy planted her feet in the sand, shoulders squared, grip tightening around the club.

If this was where she stood, then she would stand properly.

Far above and far away, the Bastion made its other judgment.

The sewer tunnels beneath Carceris Bastion convulsed as the storm finally found its way inside. What had begun as a steady rise became a violent surge. Black water thundered through the passages, tearing loose rusted chains and snapping old supports with brutal ease.

The tunnels filled in seconds.

The current did not negotiate.

It slammed into stone and flesh alike, wrenching footing away, dragging bodies backward through filth and debris. Crates shattered. Moss tore free from walls. Any careful silence was swallowed by the roar of water and collapsing masonry.

The Bastion rejected its intruders.

The flood forced retreat whether they willed it or not, casting the would-be rescuers back toward the open sea in a churning, merciless rush. By the time the surge receded, the path inward was gone. Collapsed stone and rushing water sealed the way as surely as iron gates.

Carceris Bastion stood unbreached.

The storm raged on above, indifferent.

Below, in the heart of the fortress, the Pit echoed with the sound of battle beginning.

Izzy stood alone in the sand, facing a monster meant to break her.

And the Bastion waited to see if it finally would.