"Whoever you want found, it will find them. Whoever you want dead, it will kill them. Its leash is easy enough to hold with the right motivation."
He stands, silent and radiating anger as the drow speaks to some human man, ancient but not frail. No, he can see the power in the sharp look he's given, the glint of ambition.
"I could not send him alone," the old man says. "I would like to protect my asset, if yours is as unwieldy as you suggest."
His gaze drifts around his room, but soon becomes unfocused as he stares into the middle distance. His leash, they say. How often in the past decade has he heard that he must serve a great purpose? That he is special. If they knew, truly knew, surely they would have told him something. Anything. Or do they think this secret is so dangerous that it would change his circumstances? He has his doubts. And yet--he wants it. Whatever they know about him, he needs to know. He has nothing else. So he is their tool, and they are selling him.
Or lending him.
His gaze snaps back into focus as a hand grips his chin, forcing his head up. Steely blue eyes stare into his. He cannot speak, his mouth covered and filled, but he stares back without wavering, as if he could will this man to loose his bindings.
"There is something to him, isn't there," the old man says to the drow awaiting his decision. "I don't think you know what you have. But I will take him. If he isn't as rabid as I suspect, we may discuss further exchanges... Now, my friend. Let's see what you are capable of."
That was not the last time he saw Trent Ikithon, but there was only one following meeting before the mage sent him out into the world with a handful of Volstrucker agents. On the tip of his tongue - the one that drips poison and praise in equal measure - before they left was the promise that he would tell Asra things about himself that even the drow could not possibly know or appreciate.
It's in between cities that he takes his chance. He thinks, at first, to resist it as he has in the past. But when the urge creeps into his mind in the night, he cannot resist. He does not want to. He is free... or he will be. They underestimated him, thinking him placid or worse, mindless. Failing to understand what he is willing to do and how little he needs to do it. It begins with the sharp piece of slate he's been carrying for three days. Two sleep while another sits on watch. He kills the nearest with a decisive stab of the sharp stone. He can feel it cut into his palm and he keeps his hand over the Volstrucker's mouth so the sound of their choking. He slinks to the other agent, still asleep. The scent of blood lights something inside him alight and he is more reckless as he teleports to the one awake on watch. They cry out before he slits their throat, and the last agent puts up a fight, waking to the others dead.
Perhaps that is why the last death is the most brutal. Years of captivity, of half-memories, of nightmares and torture--they all come to bear on a loyal agent of the Empire until the body is barely recognizable.
He sleeps soundly after that. If the man called Bren Ermendrud is truly traveling this road, then Asra will deal with that in the morning. Especially if he should stumble across this camp.
After he finds it, Bren watches the camp for over an hour. The only movement is the flickering of a dying fire gradually burning down to embers. Blood soaks the ground. There are three--no, four corpses. Whomever or whatever is responsible for making them that way seems to have vacated the area. Still, when he gathers the wit to approach at last, he does so on light feet.
As he draws closer, he feels confident in drawing the conclusion that neither beast nor bandit committed this massacre. Nothing appears to have been taken, and apart from one, the corpses are too intact to have been shredded by tooth and claw. And that last--there is no mistaking that for the work of an animal, either. The sight should make him retch. He hates that it doesn't. But it is enough to make the unease, the sense of something being wrong prickling at the back of his neck, intensify. He's felt it since he came upon the camp. But he is in a sorry state, with nothing but the stolen clothes on his back. Presented with such an opportunity, he can't afford not to scavenge. He'll take what he can find quickly and push on through the night. No sleeping out here for him.
Kneeling, the first body he checks is a human woman, older--no, younger than him. (It has been eleven years. Eleven.) Her boots are too small, but she is wearing a finely made belt, and it would probably fit him without appearing too flashy. The purse attached is heavier than he expected. He stuffs it into a deep pocket on the inside of his stolen coat without opening it. No time for counting now. The pouch beside it is unmistakably for storing spell components. Feeling his heart beat harder with equal excitement and dread, he does peer into this one to confirm. This woman was indeed an arcanist; he can use all of these things. She must have a spellbook somewhere. Hurriedly, he begins to pat down her pockets. If he can find that, it will change everything for him, even if she only knew--
A silver chain around her neck catches his eye before a pendant slips free of her collar. He recognizes the shape, the emblem, the inscribed runes too well. The one he wears around his own neck is identical, ripped still bloody from the corpse of the agent who guarded the patients (the prisoners) in the basement block of Vergesson.
Bren begins to panic. Now he may retch. The sound of his own heart is too loud in his ears as he wrenches back the sleeve of the dead woman's jacket, then the shirt beneath, and his stomach sinks. Scars. Familiar raised marks, precisely placed incisions, cover her forearm in a pattern he knows intimately. Fear freezes Bren in place, makes his breath shallow. This woman was like him. This woman was hunting him. The rest must have been, too. They were so close, and he didn't even realize. Moreover, someone has killed four volstrucker and left them to rot. Who? Why? Is he next?
As Bren reels, suddenly light-headed, his eyes dart around the encampment again, too dark for his poor human vision even when his head was clearer. Four bodies, all covered in blood. It makes no sense. Except--
Except one of them is alive. An elven man's chest rises and falls slowly in slumber, or a convincing facsimile of it, impossible to notice from afar. The blood drying on his clothing and pale skin is not his own. He is alive, and Bren may already be fucked.
He wakes but doesn't move. He can hear someone else stirring, and if he were not so certain he'd killed the Volstruckers, he might be more concerned. He opens his eyes slowly, focusing on the figure frozen not far away. Asra rolls to his knees, his empty hand out, the other curled around the knife he's been cradling for--how long? Difficult to say, he hasn't finished a full trance.
"Stop," he says, his accent heavy and likely foreign to this man. It sounds less like a command, but not quite a plea. Asra glances quickly around the campsite, trying to be sure they are alone - that this man is alone. He looks too ragged on first glance to be reinforcements, but after what he has seen, he does not trust any of it. What must he look like with blood spattered across his face, his clothes, and covering his hands. He hadn't thought to wash, too relieved with his sense of freedom.
His mind races and all that comes is a headache, a sharp stab that tells him to take care of this in the most practical way, in the way that is most tempting: add to the body count. No, he hisses to himself, strained. It is not the violence that bothers him but the mindlessness of the urge. He will not become that.
Realizing he is gripping the knife still, Asra sits back, his empty hand still up. He is not willing to give up the knife, but he is attempting to seem--less immediately threatening.
Bren hasn't moved since he realized what likely happened here, and he certainly doesn't attempt to when the elf gets swiftly to his knees, brandishing a knife and giving a very clear instruction. He can't fight a man who killed three volstrucker. They stare at one another for too long, each seemingly as surprised as the other, before the elf relaxes marginally. That means nothing, of course. Bren remains still.
"I--" He has to break the silence first. His words are the only possible way out of this. He can hear the fear in his hoarse stammer. "I did not realize--" What? That one of them was alive? That one of them murdered the others and went to sleep straight after, still blood-soaked?
What he is here for is clear. He was looting. With any luck, that transgression might be enough to deflect from his identity, if this man too is hunting him.
"I will go, and forget what I have seen," he offers, a near-desperate croak. He won't, of course. But he can only hope he sounds convincing enough to be allowed to escape with his life, and without questioning whether he is anything more than he appears.
Maybe honesty will get him somewhere, or maybe it will land him in more trouble. Asra has nothing to lose other than his freedom, and wandering this place with no knowledge is far more likely to lead to that. Slowly, he slips the knife into his boot. It's still at hand, but it isn't an immediate threat, at the very least. He wouldn't need it to do damage if he has to, anyway.
Both hands bare in tentative supplication, he makes a vague gesture at the bodies. "Take what you want. I think we both need to disappear."
Something in him whispers to stay, but the corpses are going cold. There is nothing in them to hold his interest any longer.
To believe such a blatantly fabricated excuse would be incredibly foolish. Yet Bren finds himself, even terrified as he is, giving consideration where it perhaps shouldn't be warranted. Surely this man could have come up with a better lie. Surely he could have killed him already, if he cared to.
The knife goes away for now, and almost experimentally, Bren tears the veiler from the volstrucker's neck and slowly tucks it into his coat.
"Zemni Fields, north of Druvenlode," he says quietly, stiffly. Does he need to get more specific? This man must know he is in the Empire, at least? He is beginning to realize that the scene he stumbled upon is not what he assumed. Not exactly, at least. The evidence doesn't add up. Perhaps he's found not an inexplicable slaughter of fellow volstrucker by one of their own, but a prisoner escaping his captors.
He knows what it is like to not remember. Maybe that is why he grants a modicum of grace. Maybe it's the way the man says we.
Tension fades by painful degrees and Asra takes a slightly deeper breath. His mind races, trying to place the names on any map he's seen. He hasn't been given access to many, possibly for this reason. Possibly because knowing where he is hasn't mattered to anyone who's had him for a long time. He glances at the volstruckers again, as if now recalling that they are dead. The way his gaze moves might be familiar: he's looking for what he can take.
"Do you know somewhere else to go?" he asks, meeting the man's gaze for a moment before carefully rolling up one of the other bedrolls. It's better than the one he has. His clothes are decent, and so he sees no need to strip the bodies--though he does take a component pouch when he finds one.
He does not ask if there is anywhere safe to go, as he doubts that now. But somewhere else is a good start.
Somewhere to go. What a broad question. He doesn't hold eye contact for long. "That depends on what you are looking for." A place to hide, he assumes. Anonymity. But does he want a city, or more wilderness? Or does he want to flee the Empire entirely? "Rexxentrum is only a few days to the north." He won't be going that way for obvious reasons, but he's curious if this man would be hesitant to seek refuge in the capital or not.
As soon as the elf moves to gather things himself, Bren hurries to finish taking what he can, including the component pouch and a pair of boots from one of the men. Much better than what he has been wearing, even with the blood. He finds a spellbook, but many of the pages are either blank or written in a cipher. He takes it anyway.
"We should burn the bodies," he suggests, deliberate about that we. It will take longer for the agents who will inevitably follow to pick up a trail without corpses to use as a marker. Better for both of them that way.
"No," he says, perhaps too quickly at the mention of Rexxentrum. He does know that name, and he will not go back there until he is ready. "Somewhere else," he adds, more subdued.
He takes whatever other spell books and pouches he can find, slipping them into the pack he'd been using as his own. Asra considers the bodies at the suggestion they burn them and he nods. That is the better decision, it will mask the slaughter for what it is, at least to untrained eyes. This man says we, and it makes Asra wonder if they are to be accomplices in this.
When he is certain there is nothing of value left, save the other pendants (he only needs one, after all), he murmurs the arcane word to cast a firebolt: first into the dying fire to make it flare to life, then again at one of the bodies.
Bren considers, for a moment, doing nothing. He has been keeping what remains of his meager arcane abilities to himself as much as possible, knowing that his pursuers will be looking for a man with such talents. He doesn't especially want this man, whoever he is, to know more about him than he needs to reveal. Still, he crooks his fingers, whispers a word, and directs two firebolts to the remaining corpses. The smell nauseates him.
"Druvenlode, then," he says simply, gruffly, when all three bodies are burning. He turns away. He didn't kill them, but he can't watch. "A day south. It is a decently sized mining city. There are several casinos and gambling houses, so outsiders are not uncommon."
This man is clearly dangerous. There is a reason he reacted so quickly to the mention of Rexxentrum. He doesn't know his connection to the volstrucker, to Ikithon. But that is precisely why he must take this risk. He has to find out. Hunching his shoulders and slipping his hands into his pockets, Bren glances at the elf again sidelong. It is foolish to make this offer even tacitly, but he does. "That is where I am going."
"Druvenlode," he repeats, trying to place it on the map he's seen. He can't, but that could have everything to do with being addled. Asra slips on the pendant he took and tucks it beneath his clothes, effectively hiding it. He shoulders his pack and looks to his nameless companion.
"Then that is where I will go."
Before they get far from the campsite, Asra attempts to use prestidigitation to get the blood off of his hands. His clothes are dark enough that the stains are difficult to discern. He also pulls his cowl hood up, hiding his pointed ears. Whether or not elves are common doesn't matter. He doesn't need to draw further attention to himself when it's clear that they both wish to go unnoticed. He is a quiet enough companion as they walk, either lost in thought or simply content not to break the silence.
As they depart, he tries not to regret his commitment to this course. At least the other man isn't talkative. Bren doesn't offer a name, and neither does the stranger. They walk southward in silence for some time, and Bren is grateful that the moons are bright enough overheard for his human eyes to see by. Catha bathes the low hills and wide fields in silver, and Ruidus emits its deep red aura, a glow some find ominous.
Still, it is hard to be sure. The light is strange, and the elf's hood is pulled up, and Bren's memory was not so reliable, while he was in Vergesson. Apparently it wasn't so reliable before then either, he reminds himself bitterly. He has forgotten much, and of what he does remember from the last eleven years, it is hard to know what is real. But the more glances he steals, the more he thinks he has seen this man before. In Vergesson--it must have been. If it was before that, he would recall it better.
Was he also abandoned in that place by Trent Ikithon, a failure meant to be forgotten? Is he a fugitive, too?
The glow of the red moon only puts him in mind of how the volstruckers looked when he finished with them. His mind drifts back to those moments, rushed and efficient, but also brutal. He cannot remember their names, or if they ever shared them with him.
As the silence builds between them, Asra becomes aware that the man he is traveling with is looking at him. Not staring, more cautious than that. Sneaking glances. Does he know something? Recognize something? It's night, they are unlikely to run into others. Asra pushes his hood back in what seems like an absent gesture, revealing himself again. His pale skin reflects the tint of the moon and there are a few flecks of blood on his neck that he has not cleaned away. He pulls his long hair back, securing it in a knot at the back of his head for now. He dislikes having it hanging loose, all he can think is that it would be too easy to grab or get caught somewhere.
"Is there somewhere I can bathe in this place we're going?" he asks at last. Maybe that would help his state of mind.
If the other man has noticed the way he has been looking at him, he doesn't seem to mind. After a little longer, he takes his hood down again--perhaps to invite his glance, perhaps just to pull his hair back. Either way, Bren gets a better look at him. This only makes him more certain. He has seen this man before. It must have been years ago (though time also escaped him in that place), but he still looks just the same, as an elf would. He can't recall the circumstances, but his handsome features in that pale face, the dark hair--he remembers.
At least he thinks he does.
"I have only been there in passing before, but I imagine you will have your pick of bathhouses with the coin we have now," he answers, taking the excuse of conversation to look more openly at his strange, still lightly blood-splattered, new companion. "I will be finding a cheap inn, myself."
The question on the tip of his tongue feels pathetic and Asra bites it back. He nods in answer, carrying that silence for another few steps before the question, treacherous, breaks free.
"Let me stay with you." It's worse than a question: it's a plea. The act of asking leaves him exposed and the warning crawls up his back. He does not need companionship. But you want it, a softer voice whispers. One that is right in ways he doesn't want to admit. "A cheap inn is more so splitting it."
Maybe that isn't reason enough, but it is reasonable. The coin both of them have walked away with will go further if they share that expense, small though it is. This man looks at him with recognition and Asra wants to know why. He must know. And he doesn't think it is a discussion that can or would happen in a public bath.
Bren is more than a little startled by the stranger's desperate insistence, this entreaty to stay together. Like a drowning man grasping at anything he can to try to break the surface. He doesn't know where he is, and perhaps he is terrified of being left alone in a strange land. Who wouldn't be?
Why was he at Vergesson? He needs to know.
"Okay," Bren agrees quietly, after a beat or two of silent thought. "You are clearly far from home. I have no particular destination, but you are welcome to remain with me until you decide where you want to go." Then, a careful probe: "I will need something to call you, though."
A handful of names pass through his mind, though none of them are his. He has his name. Sometimes it feels like that is the last thing he has. He knows that it is connected to something, to a person and a place that existed before the red haze of violence and savagery.
"Asra," he answers. "That is my name."
It's an affirmation as much as an answer. He will take back who he is, and this is the first step. Well... perhaps murdering the volstruckers was the first step. But even that felt in service to the dark urges inside him. He cannot undo it now.
Asra. He sounds more certain of that than anything he's said yet. Bren almost regrets giving him a false name in return.
"Jakob Völkner," he lies smoothly, and offers his hand. Like the rest of him, it's dirty, and also flecked with blood from divesting the volstrucker of their valuables. Dingy bandages loop around his thumb and disappear up the sleeve of his tattered coat. "I will not pretend to know what has happened to you, Asra, but I am grateful that you did not mind my snooping."
He takes the name at face value - it doesn't matter if it's real or not, does it? He accepts the dirty hand, his own still stained despite the best attempts of prestidigitation. Asra's clothes are of good quality, though clearly he's been traveling in them for a little while. The bandages peeking out from under Jakob's sleeve do not go unnoticed.
"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
Bren--or Jakob, for now--ducks his head and lifts his shoulders in a shrug that betrays a little discomfort. Intentionally so. A man who doesn't seem at least somewhat rattled by what he's experienced tonight would be far more suspicious. It isn't even false, really. He has a lot of reasons to be on edge.
"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
"You could have slit mine." Maybe the chance was slim, but it was still possible the moment Jakob knew he was awake. Or perhaps before. "So we're working towards even."
Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
They keep going, and until the sun touches the horizon, there is little conversation between them. Even after, discussions are short, almost casual. Just after sunrise, they take a short rest, but the scene they've left behind them as much as the nearness of the city compels them to push on. They keep to the edge of the road, and the few riders and occasional cart that passes by doesn't pay them any mind.
Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
As they near the city, Asra pulls his hood up again. Even with his head down, anyone who cares to look might notice that he is paying attention to everything, gaze darting here and there, marking anything useful.
The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
Bren has never been especially self-conscious, but he steels himself against that very feeling as he strips in the antechamber now. Since his escape, he hasn't had many chances to bathe, and certainly not in front of others. He doesn't look like he used to, and he is still unused to how his body has changed. Dressed in his ill-fitting clothes, he appeared lean. But without them, it's clear that he's not merely slim, nor even the sort of gauntly thin that would indicate he's missed a few meals, but plainly emaciated. He is lanky and angular, and his skin hugs his bones unsettlingly tight. What muscle remains is wiry, only apparent due to an unhealthy lack of fat. He hasn't had the chance to eat well since his escape, either.
Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
There is blood in his mouth. A wet cough helps him to spit it out, but does nothing for the pain in his head or the rest of his body. Only a small movement reveals heavy shackles on his hands, keeping them apart. His fingers are broken. When he opens his eyes, he can see the barest light beyond a door. Pulling at the chain--he hears nothing. Magic? He screams and hears nothing; he only knows he must be making the effort because his throat is raw. His head lolls forward; his hair has come loose, hanging limply around his face. He has not had the chance to bathe and clearly has not been subject to it since arriving here. He cannot hear the voice outside of his cell.
"Inform the Watch. It is awake."
How did he get here? He remembers confinement, but what before that? Only blood. What he cannot remember is being found in a city called Bazzoxan after walking out of the black temple, covered in the gore of demons he left in his wake and badly injured in turn. He only barely recalls that he did not attempt to fight his arrest then, save for one or two reactionary spells. Perhaps that is why his hands are kept apart now and he is left in silence, unable to hear himself or anything else. The light outside moves. With pain radiating through him, he manages to get up from where he's been left kneeling. If he's going to face something, he'll do it standing.
He struggles to hold onto thoughts he--needs. His name is Asra. He was imprisoned, then free, and now apparently imprisoned again. The pain is not a faint memory, nor is the rage. But he cannot remember the target anymore. Someone did this to him. He must find his way out. He must remember who.
But first... he needs to deal with whatever will come through that door.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Empire
He stands, silent and radiating anger as the drow speaks to some human man, ancient but not frail. No, he can see the power in the sharp look he's given, the glint of ambition.
"I could not send him alone," the old man says. "I would like to protect my asset, if yours is as unwieldy as you suggest."
His gaze drifts around his room, but soon becomes unfocused as he stares into the middle distance. His leash, they say. How often in the past decade has he heard that he must serve a great purpose? That he is special. If they knew, truly knew, surely they would have told him something. Anything. Or do they think this secret is so dangerous that it would change his circumstances? He has his doubts. And yet--he wants it. Whatever they know about him, he needs to know. He has nothing else. So he is their tool, and they are selling him.
Or lending him.
His gaze snaps back into focus as a hand grips his chin, forcing his head up. Steely blue eyes stare into his. He cannot speak, his mouth covered and filled, but he stares back without wavering, as if he could will this man to loose his bindings.
"There is something to him, isn't there," the old man says to the drow awaiting his decision. "I don't think you know what you have. But I will take him. If he isn't as rabid as I suspect, we may discuss further exchanges... Now, my friend. Let's see what you are capable of."
That was not the last time he saw Trent Ikithon, but there was only one following meeting before the mage sent him out into the world with a handful of Volstrucker agents. On the tip of his tongue - the one that drips poison and praise in equal measure - before they left was the promise that he would tell Asra things about himself that even the drow could not possibly know or appreciate.
It's in between cities that he takes his chance. He thinks, at first, to resist it as he has in the past. But when the urge creeps into his mind in the night, he cannot resist. He does not want to. He is free... or he will be. They underestimated him, thinking him placid or worse, mindless. Failing to understand what he is willing to do and how little he needs to do it. It begins with the sharp piece of slate he's been carrying for three days. Two sleep while another sits on watch. He kills the nearest with a decisive stab of the sharp stone. He can feel it cut into his palm and he keeps his hand over the Volstrucker's mouth so the sound of their choking. He slinks to the other agent, still asleep. The scent of blood lights something inside him alight and he is more reckless as he teleports to the one awake on watch. They cry out before he slits their throat, and the last agent puts up a fight, waking to the others dead.
Perhaps that is why the last death is the most brutal. Years of captivity, of half-memories, of nightmares and torture--they all come to bear on a loyal agent of the Empire until the body is barely recognizable.
He sleeps soundly after that. If the man called Bren Ermendrud is truly traveling this road, then Asra will deal with that in the morning. Especially if he should stumble across this camp.
no subject
As he draws closer, he feels confident in drawing the conclusion that neither beast nor bandit committed this massacre. Nothing appears to have been taken, and apart from one, the corpses are too intact to have been shredded by tooth and claw. And that last--there is no mistaking that for the work of an animal, either. The sight should make him retch. He hates that it doesn't. But it is enough to make the unease, the sense of something being wrong prickling at the back of his neck, intensify. He's felt it since he came upon the camp. But he is in a sorry state, with nothing but the stolen clothes on his back. Presented with such an opportunity, he can't afford not to scavenge. He'll take what he can find quickly and push on through the night. No sleeping out here for him.
Kneeling, the first body he checks is a human woman, older--no, younger than him. (It has been eleven years. Eleven.) Her boots are too small, but she is wearing a finely made belt, and it would probably fit him without appearing too flashy. The purse attached is heavier than he expected. He stuffs it into a deep pocket on the inside of his stolen coat without opening it. No time for counting now. The pouch beside it is unmistakably for storing spell components. Feeling his heart beat harder with equal excitement and dread, he does peer into this one to confirm. This woman was indeed an arcanist; he can use all of these things. She must have a spellbook somewhere. Hurriedly, he begins to pat down her pockets. If he can find that, it will change everything for him, even if she only knew--
A silver chain around her neck catches his eye before a pendant slips free of her collar. He recognizes the shape, the emblem, the inscribed runes too well. The one he wears around his own neck is identical, ripped still bloody from the corpse of the agent who guarded the patients (the prisoners) in the basement block of Vergesson.
Bren begins to panic. Now he may retch. The sound of his own heart is too loud in his ears as he wrenches back the sleeve of the dead woman's jacket, then the shirt beneath, and his stomach sinks. Scars. Familiar raised marks, precisely placed incisions, cover her forearm in a pattern he knows intimately. Fear freezes Bren in place, makes his breath shallow. This woman was like him. This woman was hunting him. The rest must have been, too. They were so close, and he didn't even realize. Moreover, someone has killed four volstrucker and left them to rot. Who? Why? Is he next?
As Bren reels, suddenly light-headed, his eyes dart around the encampment again, too dark for his poor human vision even when his head was clearer. Four bodies, all covered in blood. It makes no sense. Except--
Except one of them is alive. An elven man's chest rises and falls slowly in slumber, or a convincing facsimile of it, impossible to notice from afar. The blood drying on his clothing and pale skin is not his own. He is alive, and Bren may already be fucked.
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"Stop," he says, his accent heavy and likely foreign to this man. It sounds less like a command, but not quite a plea. Asra glances quickly around the campsite, trying to be sure they are alone - that this man is alone. He looks too ragged on first glance to be reinforcements, but after what he has seen, he does not trust any of it. What must he look like with blood spattered across his face, his clothes, and covering his hands. He hadn't thought to wash, too relieved with his sense of freedom.
His mind races and all that comes is a headache, a sharp stab that tells him to take care of this in the most practical way, in the way that is most tempting: add to the body count. No, he hisses to himself, strained. It is not the violence that bothers him but the mindlessness of the urge. He will not become that.
Realizing he is gripping the knife still, Asra sits back, his empty hand still up. He is not willing to give up the knife, but he is attempting to seem--less immediately threatening.
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"I--" He has to break the silence first. His words are the only possible way out of this. He can hear the fear in his hoarse stammer. "I did not realize--" What? That one of them was alive? That one of them murdered the others and went to sleep straight after, still blood-soaked?
What he is here for is clear. He was looting. With any luck, that transgression might be enough to deflect from his identity, if this man too is hunting him.
"I will go, and forget what I have seen," he offers, a near-desperate croak. He won't, of course. But he can only hope he sounds convincing enough to be allowed to escape with his life, and without questioning whether he is anything more than he appears.
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Maybe honesty will get him somewhere, or maybe it will land him in more trouble. Asra has nothing to lose other than his freedom, and wandering this place with no knowledge is far more likely to lead to that. Slowly, he slips the knife into his boot. It's still at hand, but it isn't an immediate threat, at the very least. He wouldn't need it to do damage if he has to, anyway.
Both hands bare in tentative supplication, he makes a vague gesture at the bodies. "Take what you want. I think we both need to disappear."
Something in him whispers to stay, but the corpses are going cold. There is nothing in them to hold his interest any longer.
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The knife goes away for now, and almost experimentally, Bren tears the veiler from the volstrucker's neck and slowly tucks it into his coat.
"Zemni Fields, north of Druvenlode," he says quietly, stiffly. Does he need to get more specific? This man must know he is in the Empire, at least? He is beginning to realize that the scene he stumbled upon is not what he assumed. Not exactly, at least. The evidence doesn't add up. Perhaps he's found not an inexplicable slaughter of fellow volstrucker by one of their own, but a prisoner escaping his captors.
He knows what it is like to not remember. Maybe that is why he grants a modicum of grace. Maybe it's the way the man says we.
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"Do you know somewhere else to go?" he asks, meeting the man's gaze for a moment before carefully rolling up one of the other bedrolls. It's better than the one he has. His clothes are decent, and so he sees no need to strip the bodies--though he does take a component pouch when he finds one.
He does not ask if there is anywhere safe to go, as he doubts that now. But somewhere else is a good start.
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As soon as the elf moves to gather things himself, Bren hurries to finish taking what he can, including the component pouch and a pair of boots from one of the men. Much better than what he has been wearing, even with the blood. He finds a spellbook, but many of the pages are either blank or written in a cipher. He takes it anyway.
"We should burn the bodies," he suggests, deliberate about that we. It will take longer for the agents who will inevitably follow to pick up a trail without corpses to use as a marker. Better for both of them that way.
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He takes whatever other spell books and pouches he can find, slipping them into the pack he'd been using as his own. Asra considers the bodies at the suggestion they burn them and he nods. That is the better decision, it will mask the slaughter for what it is, at least to untrained eyes. This man says we, and it makes Asra wonder if they are to be accomplices in this.
When he is certain there is nothing of value left, save the other pendants (he only needs one, after all), he murmurs the arcane word to cast a firebolt: first into the dying fire to make it flare to life, then again at one of the bodies.
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"Druvenlode, then," he says simply, gruffly, when all three bodies are burning. He turns away. He didn't kill them, but he can't watch. "A day south. It is a decently sized mining city. There are several casinos and gambling houses, so outsiders are not uncommon."
This man is clearly dangerous. There is a reason he reacted so quickly to the mention of Rexxentrum. He doesn't know his connection to the volstrucker, to Ikithon. But that is precisely why he must take this risk. He has to find out. Hunching his shoulders and slipping his hands into his pockets, Bren glances at the elf again sidelong. It is foolish to make this offer even tacitly, but he does. "That is where I am going."
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"Then that is where I will go."
Before they get far from the campsite, Asra attempts to use prestidigitation to get the blood off of his hands. His clothes are dark enough that the stains are difficult to discern. He also pulls his cowl hood up, hiding his pointed ears. Whether or not elves are common doesn't matter. He doesn't need to draw further attention to himself when it's clear that they both wish to go unnoticed. He is a quiet enough companion as they walk, either lost in thought or simply content not to break the silence.
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Still, it is hard to be sure. The light is strange, and the elf's hood is pulled up, and Bren's memory was not so reliable, while he was in Vergesson. Apparently it wasn't so reliable before then either, he reminds himself bitterly. He has forgotten much, and of what he does remember from the last eleven years, it is hard to know what is real. But the more glances he steals, the more he thinks he has seen this man before. In Vergesson--it must have been. If it was before that, he would recall it better.
Was he also abandoned in that place by Trent Ikithon, a failure meant to be forgotten? Is he a fugitive, too?
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As the silence builds between them, Asra becomes aware that the man he is traveling with is looking at him. Not staring, more cautious than that. Sneaking glances. Does he know something? Recognize something? It's night, they are unlikely to run into others. Asra pushes his hood back in what seems like an absent gesture, revealing himself again. His pale skin reflects the tint of the moon and there are a few flecks of blood on his neck that he has not cleaned away. He pulls his long hair back, securing it in a knot at the back of his head for now. He dislikes having it hanging loose, all he can think is that it would be too easy to grab or get caught somewhere.
"Is there somewhere I can bathe in this place we're going?" he asks at last. Maybe that would help his state of mind.
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At least he thinks he does.
"I have only been there in passing before, but I imagine you will have your pick of bathhouses with the coin we have now," he answers, taking the excuse of conversation to look more openly at his strange, still lightly blood-splattered, new companion. "I will be finding a cheap inn, myself."
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"Let me stay with you." It's worse than a question: it's a plea. The act of asking leaves him exposed and the warning crawls up his back. He does not need companionship. But you want it, a softer voice whispers. One that is right in ways he doesn't want to admit. "A cheap inn is more so splitting it."
Maybe that isn't reason enough, but it is reasonable. The coin both of them have walked away with will go further if they share that expense, small though it is. This man looks at him with recognition and Asra wants to know why. He must know. And he doesn't think it is a discussion that can or would happen in a public bath.
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Why was he at Vergesson? He needs to know.
"Okay," Bren agrees quietly, after a beat or two of silent thought. "You are clearly far from home. I have no particular destination, but you are welcome to remain with me until you decide where you want to go." Then, a careful probe: "I will need something to call you, though."
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"Asra," he answers. "That is my name."
It's an affirmation as much as an answer. He will take back who he is, and this is the first step. Well... perhaps murdering the volstruckers was the first step. But even that felt in service to the dark urges inside him. He cannot undo it now.
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"Jakob Völkner," he lies smoothly, and offers his hand. Like the rest of him, it's dirty, and also flecked with blood from divesting the volstrucker of their valuables. Dingy bandages loop around his thumb and disappear up the sleeve of his tattered coat. "I will not pretend to know what has happened to you, Asra, but I am grateful that you did not mind my snooping."
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"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
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"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
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Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
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Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
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The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
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Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
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Rosohna
"Inform the Watch. It is awake."
How did he get here? He remembers confinement, but what before that? Only blood. What he cannot remember is being found in a city called Bazzoxan after walking out of the black temple, covered in the gore of demons he left in his wake and badly injured in turn. He only barely recalls that he did not attempt to fight his arrest then, save for one or two reactionary spells. Perhaps that is why his hands are kept apart now and he is left in silence, unable to hear himself or anything else. The light outside moves. With pain radiating through him, he manages to get up from where he's been left kneeling. If he's going to face something, he'll do it standing.
He struggles to hold onto thoughts he--needs. His name is Asra. He was imprisoned, then free, and now apparently imprisoned again. The pain is not a faint memory, nor is the rage. But he cannot remember the target anymore. Someone did this to him. He must find his way out. He must remember who.
But first... he needs to deal with whatever will come through that door.