1.10 Cerberus
Gaura stalked through the bustling marketplace of Smoke, keeping an eye on the two men in front of her. Both were tall, one quite a bit rounder than the other. They were dressed in common merchant attire, gray and brown fabrics layered loosely on top of one another, and one of them carried a blacksmith hammer on his belt. She knew that the rounder one went by Boris, while the leaner called himself Dagmar. They were new to Smoke only arriving a few weeks before. They had taken a liking to the marketplace and decided to open up shop for the time being, Boris a blacksmith by trade, and Dagmar an artificer of sorts, crafting all manner of odd pieces. The Velaurch with their many eyes and ears, learned shortly after that the two had a violent past in the city of Barrinheim escalating to a bloody crescendo in the city streets. The Jailor of Barrinheim was left shredded and lifeless on the steps of the city cathedral as a final farewell from the brutes. Gaura had tracked them ever since she learned of what they had done, waiting for the slightest show of aggression. The crowded streets allowed her to press even closer to them, picking up on their conversation.
“These deep pockets can’t surrender their coins quick enough,” Dagmar said with a chuckle. “We’ve settled on a ripe harvest, now all we have to do is swing the scythe and gather the gold as it falls.”
Boris snorted in a deep piggish voice, turning his head to spit. “Bah, they don’t buy enough weapons. The peacemongers.”
“You’ve gotta know how to talk to them. They don’t take well to vulgarity and you, my friend, are dripping with it,” Dagmar said, looking Boris up and down. “It’s time for us to unwind a bit. Have anybody in mind?”
“Aye. There’s a Pick o’er that way. Every morning he sits on his hands like a limp dog,” Boris said. He cracked his knuckles and picked up his pace a bit, knocking a few patrons aside. “I’ll drive his spine through his teeth I will.”
“Hold up there boy,” Dagmar said as he pulled the blacksmith back a bit. “We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves. That’s what got us in trouble in the first place. You’ll get your fistful, just let me take the lead.”
Smoke was an old town nestled at the fork of River Osis, where one side ran savagely towards the eastern coast about fifty miles off, and the other dallied lazily southwest like a sunbaked snake slithering home after a heavy meal. It was by no means an aristocratic place, but wealth felt at home in its red stone streets. The caretaker of Smoke facilitated a healthy trade relationship with all of Illusia, implementing small trading vessels called Riverrunners captained by Acsari. They carried all manner of goods, the most desirable of which were the perfect glass vials crafted by the city’s elders. The Acsari were simple-minded but strong of heart, with an innocence often lacking in Illusia, a land of deceit and anger and betrayal. The word “Pick” was a hostile term for the gentle Acsari, born from a phrase long forgotten. The word remained, however, carrying the hate with it.
Gaura caught the scent of Boris and stepped back a bit, pulling her azure mask further up her nose. He smelled of rotting skin and iron, a sharp contrast to the faint scent of rosemary that wafted through the city center. Across the marketplace, she spotted their target, a young Acsari named Roon. His tongue was curled around his upper lip in concentration as he tracked a moth fluttering around his head. A patchy mane of silvery brown hair clung awkwardly to his head, not quite concealing the thumb-sized seashell horns protruding from his forehead. He wore an oversized tunic the color of tree bark, simple black trousers stained from the splash of the river, and heavy fisherman’s boots with tarnished gold laces. Pulling a hand out from under him, he waved it around the bug. He wasn’t swatting at it, in fact, he made an effort to avoid it. He seemed more curious as to how the moth would respond. He smiled wide at the quick reaction of the little creature, then held his open palm out as a gesture of friendship.
“There’s the Pick right there,” Boris said. “Let’s bloody up that brainless head of his.”
Dagmar put a hand on Boris’ shoulder and pulled him to a halt just as they reached the square opposite of Roon.
“Listen to me,” Dagmar said, grabbing the blacksmith by the long, oily beard. “I won’t go back to a prison cell, fighting off rats for a slice of bread. Watch your fat mouth. We don’t call Acsari “picks” when we’re in mixed company, and we never get violent in front of anyone we don’t plan on killing. I swear to you, I will bleed you out before I let you spoil our hard-earned freedom.”
Despite Boris being quite a bit larger than Dagmar, he shrunk down before the man, holding his hands up.
“I...I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” he said. “We’ve been on the run for so long, I feel all tangled up inside. Once we...well once we pay that Acsari a visit, I know I’ll be just fine. I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Dagmar released Boris’ beard and slapped the stout man on the chest.
“That’s a good lad. Never play the hyena when you should play the cub. We’ve all got our place,” he said, as he turned to face Groon. “Speaking of cubs, let’s get back to business.”
Boris let out a low growl in agreement, and the two began to weave their way towards their unsuspecting target. Gaura reached into a small leather pouch on her belt and withdrew a silver flask. Pulling her mask down around her neck, she popped the lid and the pungent scent of grease, ore, and years of mold filled her nostrils. It was never easy to stomach a Virdier Tonic, but this one would be particularly rough. Inhaling deeply, she brought the flask to her lips and sucked it down. It took everything in her not to wretch, as her stomach churned and her head burned with two histories that weren’t her own. She watched a boy cry at his mother’s feet in a crowded tavern. She saw a wilder, flat-faced boy lift a stone above his head and bring it down on a robin’s nest. She saw the first boy, a bit older now, pull the legs off a salamander while it squirmed in his hands. The flat-faced boy, now a barrel-chested young man drove a stake through a man’s head, laughing as he did it. The other boy, now a lean adult, cut the wrists of a woman in a golden bedroom. The two men together, dragging a father through hot coals in front of his screaming child, reveling in their malice. Without warning, the visions ceased and Gaura was back in the square behind Dagmar and Boris. Her fingernails were dipped in blood from digging them into her palms, and the tonic clung to the back of her throat like hot metal.
“Hello there young man,” Dagmar said, clapping Roon on the arm cordially. Roon instinctively recoiled at the sudden uninvited interaction and slid away from the man. His yellow-green eyes rapidly bounced back and forth between the two intruders and the red stone at his feet. “Ahh, come on now. There’s no reason to be afraid. We hear that you’re the man in charge of these parts. The mayor of the market! That’s what they call you, you know.”
Roon cracked a small smile and nodded to Dagmar.
“I’m here always,” he said. “Everybody knows me. I didn’t know they call me the mayor though.”
He laughed an anxious, nasally laugh and scratched at his wild mane.
“Yes, yes, you’re quite the attraction,” Dagmar said. “Now, I happened to notice your fascination with this curious little moth. You see, I fancy myself a bit of a naturalist. A man of the woods if you will. I happen to know that a moth twice this size is, as we speak, fluttering about in an alley not thirty paces from where I’m standing. Would you like to see it? It will take but a minute of your time, my liege!”
He theatrically swept his hand out in a wide semicircle around him, bowing low before the Acsari. Roon let out another nervous laugh.
“Okay,” he said, hopping up to his feet. “But we better hurry! I have important matters to attend to.”
Dagmar threw his arm around Roon, causing another flinch from the young Acsari, curling his shoulders in on himself away from the contact.
“You’ll never forget this, my boy,” Dagmar said. Boris let out a deep gravelly laugh to himself.
Gaura crept closer and closer to the three as they headed for the alley, free from prying eyes. Boris excitedly fiddled with the stone club at his side, gripping the handle and releasing it over and over. Dagmar glanced behind them, looking for prying eyes as they stepped into the alley. Gaura anticipated the move and shifted to the side of the entranceway before the man could fully turn his head. Confident that they were alone, he grabbed Roon’s shoulders and threw him to the ground, his face colliding with the red stone. Crying out, he looked up at the two, blood streaming from his nose.
“Go ahead, my boy,” Dagmar said, motioning to Boris. “Do what you do best.”
Boris laughed heartily and pulled the club from his belt.
“I needed this,” He said. “I’m gonna break every Pick bone in your body.”
“Boris,” Gaura said, stepping into the alley behind them.
The two turned to face the voice, surprised by the unimposing figure before them. An elf stood before them, shorter than both men, her crimson red hair wound in tight braids around her head, a silver ring was pierced through her lip and her pockmarked skin was haphazardly covered with damaged leather armor and a torn cloak.
“Boris, can you believe it?” Dagmar said. “You’ve got an admirer. Sit against the wall, pup. We’ll get to you next.”
“Boris,” She said once more, unmoving.
“Once I finish with this Pick, I’ll rip those ears clean off that wretched face of yours,” he said. “Now sit!”
“You are a robin,” she said. “Squawking in the nest.”
“What?” he said, lowering the club from above his head.
“Your mother flew off only minutes ago, but your stomach churns for food. Your malleable beak arcs towards the sky, gasping at the air.”
Boris’ face contorted in confusion, his club clattering to the stone beneath him as he wretched, then opened his mouth and tilted his head back, staring straight up at the midday sun.
“Boris! Crush the Pick. What’s wrong with you?” Dagmar said.
“A large form moves towards you, but your developing eyes struggle to adjust. It’s just a shadow to you. A cloud beneath the sky,” Gaura said. “The shadow raises something above its head. Your vision begins to clear. You see a stone in the air, held aloft by a human. A round face peers down, spiteful, disgusted, aimless.”
Boris closed his mouth and began to shake, a squeak echoing from his throat as he fell to his knees.
“The stone comes down.”
Boris fell flat on the ground, shrieking out in pain.
“Once more.”
Another shriek escaped his lips as he writhed on the stone.
“Again, it comes down. You see your brothers and sisters crumple under the weight of it.”
Boris slammed his fists into the stone around him, cracking the bones as tears streamed down his soot-covered face.
“Finally, as you cling to the breath of life left in your crushed lungs, the stone lifts once more. The round face laughs above you, spewing spit and bits of food from its cavernous mouth. You feel the stone come down one last time and darkness takes you.”
Boris cried out and twisted unnaturally until coming to a halt, his thick chest pumping back and forth with his heavy gasps.
“What did you do?” Dagmar shouted. “I’ll skin you alive and hang you from the docks for this! The fish will pick you clean, you witch.”
“Dagmar,” Gaura said. “You are a boy in your ninth winter. Your mother towers above you, slamming a mug of ale down upon the bar.”
Dagmar stopped and a look of childlike fear smoothed away the anger on his face. He dropped to all fours and clawed at the air.
“She ignores you as you reach for her, kicking your hand away. Another man steps on your leg as he passes, chuckling to himself.”
Dagmar howled in pain and grabbed at his leg.
“Your mother tips her mug over, splashing ale on your head. She scowls down at you, compassionless. Her lips move, but you don’t hear anything. The din of the tavern and the ringing in your ears drown it out.”
Dagmar shakes his head back and forth in displeasure, coughing and sputtering from the splash of the ale.
“Her lips move once more, still scowling down at you. You hear her now, as loud as a bell. You will never be mine, she barks at you. You are no child of mine. You are a stable child and I will resent you until the day I die.”
Dagmar cried in agony on the warm redstone of Smoke, curling his body into a tight ball. The cries gave way to a quiet whimper. Roon sat motionless in the alley eyes wide and full of terror, his assailants reduced to quivering piles before him.
“They won’t bother you again,” Gaura said, stepping towards him.
“No! Leave me alone! Don’t curse me!” he gasped. He scrambled to his feet and ran further back into the alley.
Gaura stood for a moment contemplating the Acsari’s response. He should have run off immediately, not waited and watched. The two incapacitated forms mumbled incoherently at her feet. They would spend the next few hours shaking the visions loose from their heads, but the fear was in them now. Hopefully. She had seen these types come back even worse when the fear doesn’t take. It all could have gone better. Pulling her hood a bit tighter around her head she turned and melted away into the marketplace, headed for Kennet’s shop.