13th Trial of Cylus -720
Dank and despoiled, the Underground was the same hive of danger in Cylus as it was any other trial. The passageways were lit y the same torches and the corners and curves held the same unknown menace. It was familiar, and it was comforting in its own way. Neronin tugged the rough homespun cowl down over his face even further. If it was familiar to him, he was familiar to it.
People knowing the old Al’Angyryl necromancer was alive and back in town was not particularly healthy for him. As he walked alone down the passage in his grimy laborer disguise he was acutely aware of his lack of assets. He had no corpses, no bones, not even a few dead dogs to use. The growth of his necrotic spark meant he was used to a buffer of undead to protect himself with. He would have to find suitable candidates soon if he meant to reestablish himself here.
Of course, he was never truly alone. His shadow stirred as he walked, the dual haunts clawing at its edges, ready to maim. It was part of the reason he had decided to visit one of the seedier Underground taverns. Less questions, less light, more knowledge of the real goings on in Etzos. He was careful to choose the Dogged Limb, a small sewer tavern outside Hessia’s domain. He did not know if she was still a player down here, but her people would recognize him sooner than someone in another territory of the Underground.
Neronin pushed aside the dank curtain that served as a front door to the Dogged Limb and stepped through. He nodded silently to the lean, leather clad man who slouched just inside the doorway. A smattering of ratty tables, stools, and benches crowded the storage room-turned tavern. Neronin surveyed the room as he stepped carefully.
He found a table of what looked like drunken soldiers and moved away from them. Instead he sat in a shadowy corner beside a pair of men bent over their liquor. The costumed Necromancer set a nel down on the table and settled back in his chair. To the casual observer it was the set of a man ready to focus on his drinking. He had seen his father settle that same way countless times. The server brought a wooden tankard and deftly swiped the coin.
Neronin sipped and listened.
“Oh yea, pulled the whole company off the Muster march. We’re doubling up on patrols here in the city.” One of the soldiers said.
There was a bark of laughter. “She does make the drinking more convenient.” The soldier raised his cup in mock salute. “Seems pretty concerned with watching the people. But I’m not complaining, the whores are better here than Muster.” Muster, Neronin knew, was one of the townships with the strongest Etzori army presence. Army movements there were common. What was happening in Etzos that would cause a change in the regular changing of the guard and more presence here in the city?
“Aye, better whores. Don’t like the officers breathing down our necks though.” Another older soldier muttered. His deep and rough voice was full of malcontent. There was a pregnant silence at the table and Neronin saw the two men from the other table stiffen and turn slightly. Tension charged the air, but the man who was speaking had his back to the pair. “Of course, all you need for a commission nowadays is a stinking Sintra spider hanging around your neck.”
The two men slammed back their chairs, standing up and staring over at the soldiers. The man on the left leaned forward and the brass spider fell out of its folds. The table of soldiers seemed to fixate on it. “Got a problem, boys?” The gruff soldier who had made the comment asked, shifting his weight forward on to his feet, though he remained seated. Neronin stilled in his seat.
“Boys? We’re Defiers in Sinatra’s Black Guard. I think you ought to change your tone, soldier.” The other man said. He made a gesture and the dirt and grime of his coat coalesced into a stone orb in his hand. Neronin felt his skin prickle. These were mages.
The necromancer quickly invoked the vibrating ether of his Abrogative spark. The power seeped through his body and out of his pores, creating a layer of ether around him that he focused on briefly. The there changed it’s frequency subtly and he finished the Muting spell, hiding his own magical signature as best he could. Perhaps it was too late, he should have done it from the beginning. The two mages, however, did not seem to be paying him any attention as they squared off against the group of soldiers.
Neronin sat between the two groups, but against the wall. This might be exactly what he had been looking for. Tensions were clearly high between the zealous Sintra followers and the ordinary man, but what did it mean? Was that why Sintra was keeping extra soldiers in the city?
Dank and despoiled, the Underground was the same hive of danger in Cylus as it was any other trial. The passageways were lit y the same torches and the corners and curves held the same unknown menace. It was familiar, and it was comforting in its own way. Neronin tugged the rough homespun cowl down over his face even further. If it was familiar to him, he was familiar to it.
People knowing the old Al’Angyryl necromancer was alive and back in town was not particularly healthy for him. As he walked alone down the passage in his grimy laborer disguise he was acutely aware of his lack of assets. He had no corpses, no bones, not even a few dead dogs to use. The growth of his necrotic spark meant he was used to a buffer of undead to protect himself with. He would have to find suitable candidates soon if he meant to reestablish himself here.
Of course, he was never truly alone. His shadow stirred as he walked, the dual haunts clawing at its edges, ready to maim. It was part of the reason he had decided to visit one of the seedier Underground taverns. Less questions, less light, more knowledge of the real goings on in Etzos. He was careful to choose the Dogged Limb, a small sewer tavern outside Hessia’s domain. He did not know if she was still a player down here, but her people would recognize him sooner than someone in another territory of the Underground.
Neronin pushed aside the dank curtain that served as a front door to the Dogged Limb and stepped through. He nodded silently to the lean, leather clad man who slouched just inside the doorway. A smattering of ratty tables, stools, and benches crowded the storage room-turned tavern. Neronin surveyed the room as he stepped carefully.
He found a table of what looked like drunken soldiers and moved away from them. Instead he sat in a shadowy corner beside a pair of men bent over their liquor. The costumed Necromancer set a nel down on the table and settled back in his chair. To the casual observer it was the set of a man ready to focus on his drinking. He had seen his father settle that same way countless times. The server brought a wooden tankard and deftly swiped the coin.
Neronin sipped and listened.
“Oh yea, pulled the whole company off the Muster march. We’re doubling up on patrols here in the city.” One of the soldiers said.
There was a bark of laughter. “She does make the drinking more convenient.” The soldier raised his cup in mock salute. “Seems pretty concerned with watching the people. But I’m not complaining, the whores are better here than Muster.” Muster, Neronin knew, was one of the townships with the strongest Etzori army presence. Army movements there were common. What was happening in Etzos that would cause a change in the regular changing of the guard and more presence here in the city?
“Aye, better whores. Don’t like the officers breathing down our necks though.” Another older soldier muttered. His deep and rough voice was full of malcontent. There was a pregnant silence at the table and Neronin saw the two men from the other table stiffen and turn slightly. Tension charged the air, but the man who was speaking had his back to the pair. “Of course, all you need for a commission nowadays is a stinking Sintra spider hanging around your neck.”
The two men slammed back their chairs, standing up and staring over at the soldiers. The man on the left leaned forward and the brass spider fell out of its folds. The table of soldiers seemed to fixate on it. “Got a problem, boys?” The gruff soldier who had made the comment asked, shifting his weight forward on to his feet, though he remained seated. Neronin stilled in his seat.
“Boys? We’re Defiers in Sinatra’s Black Guard. I think you ought to change your tone, soldier.” The other man said. He made a gesture and the dirt and grime of his coat coalesced into a stone orb in his hand. Neronin felt his skin prickle. These were mages.
The necromancer quickly invoked the vibrating ether of his Abrogative spark. The power seeped through his body and out of his pores, creating a layer of ether around him that he focused on briefly. The there changed it’s frequency subtly and he finished the Muting spell, hiding his own magical signature as best he could. Perhaps it was too late, he should have done it from the beginning. The two mages, however, did not seem to be paying him any attention as they squared off against the group of soldiers.
Neronin sat between the two groups, but against the wall. This might be exactly what he had been looking for. Tensions were clearly high between the zealous Sintra followers and the ordinary man, but what did it mean? Was that why Sintra was keeping extra soldiers in the city?
