Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

The ancient independent city of Tur-Avith rested amidst rolling hills and jagged mountains. A diverse, vibrant place, home both to the strange undead, the adaptable humans, and all else who deemed it fit to shelter them from the weather and the dangers outside its walls. Manors and castles stood out between the rows of houses that were haphazardly thrown around and built upon until the city had layers like an onion.

No one remembered when it had been founded or how long it had stood. The remains of times past were hidden beneath the dirt where tunnels stretched almost infinitely – a reminder of the city’s previous iterations. There were many stories about it – some true, some outright lies. All cities had a few of those.

Its many districts were roughly chopped shapes that flowed into one another in disarray. One could be scouring near the gutters or the pleasure district for a shady tavern, dealer of pale poppy, or a whorehouse, only to end up with hands filled with silk, and surrounded by loud voices demanding payment in the blink of an eye. Such happenings came often, and not once had great scumbags or crafty merchants fallen prey to each other due to the constant dance of alleyways and turns that made architects commit suicide. It was difficult to save oneself from both, once they had you pinned. A knife or a word, the job needed to be done.

The richer districts had done their best to stand out and put on a façade of greatness, however, ancient stone and dirt still found a way to peek through gilded streets and high fences, creating a strange dichotomy. In time, the nobles and the lofty mages had learned to treat it as something to be proud of, as if it was their grandparents who had laid the foundation the extravagant palaces were built upon.

The city, as it is with any, had its dark side. Quite a few shades of it. Lower than even those in the gutters who could still be considered professionals, even if they were mostly thieves, beggars, and failed whores, rested another part of the city. It housed those deemed unfit for civilized society who were hard-pressed to do the simplest of jobs or perform even ordinary robberies. Those who were thrown away by their own, the ill of mind, the truly deranged sick bastards that no one had gutted yet, and the ones who only thrived in the mud. It gave the regular gutters a bad name, so in time it had acquired its own. It rested between remains of one of the old versions of the city that still peeked through, where the homes of its previous masters lay torn down and left for the rain to wash away their memory, and near a jagged turn of the tallest, yet most damaged part of the inner walls.

The Corner, they called it. No lord or lordling or another privileged type would dirty his hands and reputation to clean this place of filth, rot, and lowest of morals. After all, each city needed such a place to breed the type of people that would do the unthinkable, so those in the light could remain clean.

In one of the Corner’s forgotten alleys, surrounded by broken walls and debris unfit for a mouse and which’s opening was narrow enough for a sickly orphan, wide enough for four horses in the middle, and closed at its end, stood a well. It was a dry well that had long lost its bucket and the rope that had held it. No one had walked this particular alley for a while, so no one knew of it or thought of it. It had been home to lowly sewer ghouls and lesser creatures of the night, but they were long gone by now. Down the well’s dark depths, however, beneath the Corner, was a place that was anything but ordinary.

Gazing at the sky from far beneath the forgotten well was a bed of black sand. Not any black sand. This one was special, despite looking less than so. Looks weren’t everything. It was ancient – more ancient than the city and the land that housed it. It was so ancient no one knew how ancient it was. Its name was also lost to history and time. Even the oldest of undead and the most powerful of humans who matched them in longevity would be hard-pressed to say that this sand was special.

Currently, a few hooded figures were surrounding the hall where the bed of black sand rested. Torches burned on the walls bathing the strange room in a dance of light and shadows. The hooded figures around it had patiently waited for about a week or so for the promised one to fall onto the very special black sand. However, no such thing had happened yet.

“You sure you got the timing right?” spoke one of the ominous figures.

“That I did,” grunted another figure. It was hunched over, sat on a stool, and the only feature that differed it from the others was the long, twisted beard held by a piece of twine that draped from beneath the hood.

“I’m just saying, we’ve been waiting for days now, yes? And no sign of the bastard.”

“Promised, Godkiller, Scourge,” Twist-Beard corrected.

“Bastard or Godkiller, I got a wife at home that will turn into a husband killer if this goes on any longer.”

“You got a dozen wives and as many husbands, you prick,” Twist-Beard responded.

“Again with that. It’s not my fault you warmbloods can’t keep up with my sexual prowess. I reckon you’d make a fine undead. Why don’t we get out of here and –”

“It’s the fate of the world at stake and you’re on again about boning,” a lazy voice interrupted. It belonged to a third hooded figure. This one was propped on a small bench and sounded tired. It yawned.

“Yes, I know that much. All I’m saying is, we might’ve gotten the timing wrong! Maybe double check?”

“No,” Twist-Beard grunted again. “Even if we could. No.”

The silence stretched on once again as all stared at the black sand in the middle. It looked very even more ordinary than regular sand if one looked closer.

“I mean, why this well?” the complainer began again. “There are plenty of good wells around the city. Hell, Burin dug one three weeks ago in his backyard! Keeps some of his ‘babies’ there. I figure that’s as good as any.”

“Signs said so,” the lazy voice of the third figure replied again.

“Mhm,” Twist-Beard agreed.

“Yes, the signs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited as any that we’re to welcome one of the promised, however, these things tend to be uncertain at best. What if we need to stay longer? A few more weeks? A month!? We can’t stay here for a month! We could make a rotation, you know? One of us keeps an eye here while the rest go about their day.”

There was silence again, which this time lasted only for a few moments before the heavy breathing of a fourth figure sprawled on the floor broke it.

“I just think it’d be a bummer if we prepared all those soul forge arts and spells for nothing. We can just –”

“You complain lots for a bloodsucker. You got the most time of us all,” Twist-Beard grunted again and shuffled on his chair. His movements made noise as if he was wearing chainmail with bells on. He wasn’t.

“I’m a vampire! A noble, a pureblood, and an exquisite work of art, in both mind and body! And I’m just stating the obvious. Being undead doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do and a place to be!”

There was a loud knock on the wooden door at the end of the hall. All looked at it, and the self-proclaimed vampire tentatively moved closer. He slid a wooden piece to the side, revealing a small circular netted hole.

“Password?” he called.

There was a long pause. “The cat meows at dawn,” a voice responded.

The vampire hesitated. “That’s the old password.”

Another pause. “The cat purrs at dawn?” the voice tried again.

“I think it’s ‘the cat eats at dawn’ this week. Not sure, actually,” he turned toward the rest of those present, “Does the cat purr or eat this week?”

“I think it sleeps,” Lazy responded.

“Pretty sure it hisses,” Twist-Beard grunted and stared Lazy down.

“Fuck’s sake, just let the bugger in,” another hooded figure who had been silent until now said. The vampire obliged.

In walked a large man with a shaven head and a small barrel over one shoulder. His robes were tied around his waist and his upper body was bare, revealing a mass of muscles.

“Booze’s here!” he yelled, then his face dropped and his voice came low. “And I got news!”

That got everyone’s attention apart from that of the sleeping one.

“News?” the vampire raised an eyebrow below his hood – at least it sounded like he did.

“Out with it,” Twist-Beard spat.

“Pour me a tankard first, will you?” Lazy called.

“Put on ye robe, lad! You can’t be goin‘ round telling the news without the robe. It’s improper! Are we a secret society or what?” The new hooded figure spoke again. It was short and stout. “Got me somethin’ stronger ‘n that mortal stuff, ye?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Muscleman replied. He dropped the barrel on the ground and then unhooked a gourd from his belt. “Ms. Frent says it will burn the stones in your kidneys right out.”

“Ye, ye. I’ll be the judge of that, lad. If I still have kidneys to begin with.” The short figure stepped forward and took the gourd. He removed the stopper and sniffed deeply, before bending over in a fit of cough. “Strong stuff, ye. Strong. Well? Spit it out!”

Muscleman donned his robe to the best of his abilities. It only made him look even scarier as the thin cloth hugged his frame and accentuated the power it held.

“There’s talk in the west and east. The spells are restless and the hidden powers move. Enemies of the divine walk the earth – living, and dead.”

There was a gasp from one of the figures and all stood frozen, silent. The gasp turned out to be a precursor to a loud snore coming from the sleeper. No one bothered with them.

“Is that certain?”

Muscleman nodded. “A man with a stone sword and hand has appeared in one of the clans. He’s hailed as their scion despite being only of the first rank. He only appeared in the light a few days ago, and he’s already slain a great beast,” he said while pouring a tankard for Lazy and one for himself.

“There’s also talk,” he continued, “About a giant that fell from the sky. It took him three days to unite four tribes after single-handedly killing their chiefs who were all of ranks two and three. Even the wild goliath obey him.”

“Hells,” the short figure said and coughed harder after a swig from the gourd. “Good stuff, good stuff. Not the news, the drink. Anything else?”

“There’s talk everywhere. Strange happenings. Spoiled rotten sons and daughters of large clans are waking up with incredible talents and changed characters. Some of them speak of other worlds, of cities in the mists, and of gifts and curses. As if they have become new people overnight. Most hide though, building up their strengths and learning of our world.”

“I’ve got a cousin that went through that. Drank tainted blood and now hears whispers of… well, you know. Got him locked up tightly, but we might have to burn him,” the vampire muttered.

“This one mage says he got mauled by the – and I’m not making this up – night. It became a wolf that appeared as he kept guard and left him barely alive. Thankfully the guy had some strong spells for a rank one and managed to save himself sans a leg and half his face, but he lost the plot soon after. Soul damage. He was protecting a child. The wolf made of night was after that child. It didn’t survive.”

“The night turned into a wolf? How the fu–”

“Always’ with the wolves being the bad guys… Are they really capable of slaying the Divines?” Lazy spoke. He had sat up and hugged his newly obtained and already half-empty tankard close to his chest.

“Doubtful,” Twist-Beard said.

“The volumes speak of olden times when Godkillers first came from the stars, carrying gifts long lost or thought impossible. Strange talents without limit. They tamed mighty spells and roamed the lands slaying the corrupted and cleansing the world. Or so it is told in the tales. Other volumes state that they were just stronger mages who ended up fighting one another and even turning sides,” the vampire added. “Can we fully trust the hearsay?”

“You know its source.”

“Right, sorry. Then what we’re looking at is some restructuring at the very least. Political bullshit.”

“They will be strong, yes, and they will bring about change,” the short one nodded and burped, “However, a divine cannot be killed if ye ask me. It can only be forgotten until the day someone digs up its old bones and speaks its name again. Godkillers or scourges or theophages… it doesn’t matter what we call them. They’re important for the future of this city!”

Everyone agreed on that front. The snoring stopped and the sleeping figure rose like a mummy making everyone else quiet down. Its hood slid to reveal skin that was too white for comfort, almost transparent, fully black eyes accentuated by thick smudged make-up, and a long mane of abyssal hair in a state of utter disarray. A piece of drool hung on one side of the woman’s mouth, which she slowly removed with her sleeve.

“It is certain then,” she spoke as if she had been present for the whole conversation, despite sleeping and snoring. Her voice was eerie. “Times are changing, and the signs spoke true. Souls from the outside worlds have come to us once again ready to wreak havoc and disrupt the stalemate. They walk our streets whispering of change. Strangers from the outside meant to do what we of the united races have failed for millennia.”

“Or die a gruesome death and screw things up,” the vampire muttered earning himself a scowl.

“We are of the chosen few who know of this, and we did everything right, yet I see no godkiller or even a sickly mage here. And there have been appearances elsewhere...” The woman’s black eyes stopped on each figure and slowly bore holes in them. Her look was that of a displeased mother and despite her youthful appearance and how old or powerful the gathered in the room were, all looked away.

Her face twisted in a horrific visage as she stood up in a blur of movement and took the gourd from the short figure, who weakly tried to protest. She emptied it easily and threw it toward a corner filled with other similarly empty containers, “So the question, my dear idiots, is one… where the FUCK is ours?”