Stepping back… Natalak dared not look back into the room. The brutality of what it holds, the sickening, still burns in his gut.
Wiping the leftover vomit that lingered in his mouth. He needed to act fast; he needed to hide the body. The only thing he could think of was the underside of the surgical table. He didn't need to cover the blood since most of the floor was drenched in gore. He couldn't bear to see the person on the table; a blanket was all he could give her.
The light was intense enough to fill the shadowy corners, making no room to hide. Then and there, he thought of a place, the collapsed walls, the space gaps of the corridors.
From here, Natalak had enough… the frightful, sickening smell that pollutes the atmosphere. Part ways, Natalak, move steadily. Causing an alarm would mean death to him… so stiff Natalak held the sound in silence while he cradled with the dark. When there's no shadow to squabble, cautiously did he move from one place to another, avoiding any encounters.
Arriving back at where the tunnels divided into four. Natalak quickly hides in the dark the moment he hears footsteps slowly approaching. Already, he can tell that the sound of the steps tells him there are many.
"Should this be enough, Master Korveth Vaal?" Tharan implores the masked man. "We have already evacuated most of our faithful, and only twelve of us remain."
"That's already enough of us; it would be more troublesome to call them back while monitoring their mistakes. We have already leaked much of our location."
"I have placed a curse from the remaining faithful that disabled their magic. It should give us no worries."
"And what about that noble lord? Should we end him since our plans for him are now ascertained?" Veneren said.
"No… I have other plans for him, one that even the priestess cannot see, not even the high followers of Adra can perceive. He had more to offer than being a dead noble lord."
Natalak peered through and saw they were three; he saw Tharan now in the image of Lord Ariendal. Yet the one that intimidates him the most was the man in the mask. His voice is calm, eerie and holds weight.
Lucky for Natalak, they didn't approach from his direction; instead, they entered from the farthest side of the corner. He wanted to follow them; be that as it may, he was reminded by the two cultists who went out. And patience did he wait… admittedly, the two followers of the Agum return still in their bloodied clothes.
They were muttering, probably irritated from going back to that surgeon's unpleasant laboratory. In their hand were buckets of surgical tools and a strange, rosy vial. Natalak didn't emerge from his hiding place; he watched them pass through, heading towards the room where the experiment was held.
"Where is that man?" Scoffs the man, the moment there was no sight of the surgeon
"Maybe he went to the other side?" His partner placed the bucket full of tools and potions on the ground.
"Bahh…" His partner rolled his eyes. "Let's get this over with. I wouldn't mind being scolded by that man again."
The door creaks—sudden by the sound, the two swivel and see Natalak already on the brink of disregarding their life.
Cursed and unable to cast magic, the two followers of Agum draw their quillon daggers. Nonetheless, Natalak managed to decapitate one person's head; the enhancement of the Endurance vial was enough to deliver a clean execution. Kicking the beheaded faithful cultist, Natalak now eyes his partner.
"H-HEEL—" The cultist tried to call for help, except that his face was punched, sending him tumbling to the ground.
Loosening his only weapon, the cultist scrambles his way in hopes of seizing his dagger. That, however, was snatched by his hand as Natalak dives in, punching his throat.
The man again tried to scream, but all that came out was blood and a gurgling sound.
"Wait…" The man raised his arms, his voice now mixed with a crowing sound. "Don't kill me, I-I don't want my soul to be taken by him." He continues, unable to look at Natalak.
Finding it hard to breathe, the cultist closed his eyes, awaiting Natalak to end his life. This time, the traveller had mercy left in him. The only reason was that he saw not a fanatic but someone who was forced into such a sect.
Grabbing both of the two daggers. "Tell me all, everything you know… this place, the people here, your motives, everything." Natalak's voice was low but holds anger.
"I can't… for if I do, the abyssal curse will trigger, and my soul will be taken. Please, I beg of you."
Natalak relinquished his desire to end his life, and closely did he look… There are strange writings etched all over the man's body, reaching even to his face. He got a good look Natalak ponder. It was such a waste that he was on the side of something darker.
"Fine, I won't kill you." Natalak looks around, seeking an item that benefits his idea.
Natalak smiled, using the rope that was hanging behind the wooden door. He then used it to bind the cultist tightly, both his hands and his feet, before tying him to a fixed piece of furniture.
"What is your name?" Natalak implores just as he was tying the man.
"Noxar, names Noxar." The man replied, trying his best to make his voice as clear as possible.
"Okay, Noxar, I won't be soft for you, but this is also for my own survival." Natalak then stuffed clothes into his mouth, preventing him from generating a distress call. Additionally, he would then gag Noxar, fully sealing his mouth.
Even at the height of such peril, there's always that one desire that itches his soul. With that said… silently, Natalak quickly despoiled the beheaded man. Unbothered, unhinged—in the end, all he gained was nothing more than fifteen coppers—enough only to buy himself a drink at a bar.
The items and the strange vial were all pocketed in his relic bag. Then a thought came to him—
Stripping the dead man's clothing, Natalak then layered the cultist's robe.
Regarding Noxar, he already knows that he wasn't carrying anything, no money to spoil, only the flamboyant dagger was all he could offer.
As for the two weapons—
"Do these have any enchantment?" Natalak shows the two daggers.
Noxar shakes his head, a gesture that the daggers didn't have any embedded magic.
Natalak nods. "Now then… I might have alerted the adventurers' guild; they might know about breaking your curse. But I cannot guarantee what they will do to you… Is that understood?"
Once Noxar nods, Natalak then withdraws, closing the door and hoping no cultist will come to check their situation. It was there that he decided to follow the three cult leaders. Unearthing what may be hidden through this atrocious place.
The daggers that he acquired were far better than the now old and chipped short sword. Sharp and a tip that can pierce an ordinary Platemail.
Following Riya's arrival, her companions were startled by her sudden arrival.
"Take a deep breath, Riya… and where's Natalak?" Sheila initiates.
"There's something you need to hear," Riya answered.
Thereafter, Riya had explained what they'd encounter. Already, Chifya and Sheila didn't believe Natalak's promises. Moreover, the two agreed that Natalak had already marched into the dungeon all alone.
"Shall we inform the guild?" Riya suggests. "Two men entering a secret passage isn't something you see every day."
Sheila mumbles. "I'll send a message to Reith and Sei… what location did those men cross the threshold?"
"At the old northeast cemetery."
Sheila exhaled slowly. "Alright, but we should prepare first; we don't know what kind of enemy we will encounter... we move carefully."
No one argued, not even the half-elf.
The room fell into a quiet rhythm, not of rest nor a ponder of the mind… but of preparation. Sheila reached back, gathering her hair, twisting it into a tight knot before securing it with a slender pin. The remaining loose strands were tucked away with adept precision.
Her robes followed, pulling the fabric closer, tightened at the waist, and sleeves adjusted so they would not hinder her casting. And across from her, Chifya worked in silence but more quickly and more sophisticated than her.
A strip of cloth drawn through her fingers, binding her hair back into a firm tail. Chifya's bracers were tightened next, leather creaking softly as she secured them.
Boots secure and blades adjusted at her side, just within reach. Every motion was measured, efficient, and without wasted movement. It is to be said that Chifya's actions were mastered from years of adventuring in the world and the other realms of Vashkeil.
Riya watched for a moment… then followed her own armour, fastening her own gear, her bow… though less practised and slower than the others.
Once all of their preparation is finished. There were no more words needed, and when Sheila glanced once toward the door—
"Are you all ready?" Sheila implores.
Chifya gave a small nod.
And just like that, they were ready.
In the open city, the warm air rushed past them as they broke into a run. Boots struck stone in quick rhythm, no hesitation, no slowing.
Without breaking stride, Sheila reached into her satchel and pulled out a folded slip of paper that was already marked, already containing the message.
In her other hand, a small object rested on her palm; the item was no larger than her toe. A carved totem, its surface etched with the crest of the Adventurers' Guild.
She pressed the two together, combining, and with it, a faint glow flickered, then flared. The totem shifted in her palm, unfolding and stretching until feathers and flesh replaced the wood, and finally a small bird took form. A quick look and there, the guild's crest remained upon the bird's breast.
Sheila did not slow. "Go." She whispers through the bird before she releases it.
The bird beat its wings once, then twice, before shooting into the air, vanishing above the rooftops, into the adventurer's guild it goes.
"Message sent, I hope they arrive sooner," Sheila continues.
And with it, they kept running.
Deeper through the sentiment of the dungeon—
Lord Ariendal de Shilvia, chained not by iron but by roots of an unknown plant, it is the very thing that keeps him alive. In front of him were the three overseers of the dungeon.
They didn't speak a word; they only waited for Master Korveth Vaal to begins his ritual.
Master Korveth opens his right palm, and with it, an orb slowly uproots itself from his flesh. Transparent and glows in golden, inside was something, it was alive, a larva-like creature that had razor claws. Not made of flesh, but soul.
To the unconscious prisoner, Master Korveth Vaal raised his left hand. Slowly, his fingers began to tremble. Not with strain… but with something pulling from within. And within, something emerged, and what emerged was a fragment of his soul.
It peeled itself from his hand like a second flesh, yet it was not flesh at all but his own soul. It moved as Korveth moves his flesh hand, alive and visible to the naked eye.
Once both his hands, made of flesh and soul, touched Lord Ariendal, the soul part plunged through the nobleman's flesh. When he pulls his arms, the hand made of soul drags Ariendal's spirit. Not fully, but half… enough that his arms and the lower part still cling to his flesh.
A larval shape, coiled and writhing, Korveth then placed it with Ariendal's soul. Merging it, before placing his soul back in his body.
"It is done… once his soul and the larva will merge, no one can tell, not even that wretched priestess." Korveth sneered.