The Abyss Stares Back - 01
A man drenched in sweat stumbled through the dark city streets of Hilden. His elegant suit was torn and splattered with blood. His hand pressed firmly against his side as rivers of crimson cascaded from between his fingers. His eyes were wild and his breath was ragged. His legs barely held him up, and yet he stumbled on.
Behind him a figure dressed in black attire followed with blade in hand. They walked through light and darkness unbothered, their carmine eyes locked on their prey.
The man tried desperately to hail a stagecoach but the carriage wheeled on by, leaving him stranded. The man next rushed passed two imperial watchers, begging them to lend him their aid. But as they approached the figure it pulled out a badge wrapped in a leather wallet and the watchers held off at the sight of it. The dark figure walked past them unassailed. The man, in a final desperate bit for escape, descended a flight of stairs and attempted to hide amongst the crates and barrels of the riverfront. But soon the dark figured followed and approached the man where he hid. He was out of options.
“Please! Please spare me! I beg you!” he shouted as he burst out from his hiding place, stumbling and falling upon the stone walkway.
“Alexander Curnow.” The figure said in a feminine voice. “You have been found guilty of necromancy and abyssal rituals.”
The noble-born man raised his bloodied hand to protect him. “Please! I have money! I have connections with the royal family!”
“The kaiser can’t protect you.” Said the figure before they sliced off the man’s hand at the wrist.
His screams of pain echoed across the waterfront, the agony changing the tune of his plea.
“Nobles deal in resurrections all the time! Who are you to forbid me from being reunited with my love!”
The memory of his late wife filling his mind as he spoke, trying desperately to overwhelm the remembrance of the abomination he had brought back.
“Not the way you did it.” Said the figure.
“I just wanted to…” was all the man managed to say before the figure’s blade sliced his throat. His final words now drowned in blood.
Debriefing with the local authorities took time, as they always did. Confirmations of identities and evidence, but it always went the same way. After a few hours the dark figure returned to their temporary abode where they prepared for their departure.
It was then that they received a call.
“We have suspected activity. In Kirkholm.”
The figure sighed. “What sort of activity?”
“Abyssal.” The person on the other end of the line said. “Demonic.”
The figure nodded. As it turned out, they were not headed home after all. Duty called and she would answer.
The last train to Lexingrad screeched into Kirkholm Transit, stopping only to release its cargo before continuing westward. This relatively small city nestled in the bosom of the Empire’s Heartlands was no major trading hub but had retained its significance for being the birthplace of many imperial noble families. And it was exactly here that she needed to go.
Dismounting off the train with the other humans and half-elves was a dark figure. She was draped in a black coat with a tarnished wide brimmed hat, tinted shades and a high collar to hide her features. Wearing high leather boots and ornate bracers attached over their gloved hands, this figure looked intimating enough to catch the attention of the other passengers and soon the imperial watchers. Aside from a small leather satchel that hung from a strap over their shoulder, they only carried a tightly locked suitcase and a large bag on their back.
However, the feature that caught most people’s attention, wasn’t the figures jet black hair, pale skin or towering height…what little they could see of it. Such complexions were not uncommon among the hyperians or lorians for that matter. No, what compelled onlookers was the sight of the figure’s carmine eyes.
The figure waited calmly in line at customs, ignoring the other passengers stealing glances at them. However, when they finally reached the customs agent they weren’t too surprised to find an increased number of watchers suddenly securing the checkpoint.
“Papers, please.” Said the customs agent, trying his best to hide the quiver in his voice.
The agent was a short and stocky dwarven man who still bore a faint Karami accent. Not too commonly found here in the Empire. His shoulders were broad, his nose was round and he seemed to be locked in an eternal struggle to keep his face cleanly shaven. He was wearing dark trousers held up by suspenders that were slung over his white, striped shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hands and fingers were mildly stained with ink.
The figure pulled a passport out of their pocket and handed it to the agent along with a leather wallet of sorts.
“Please remove the apparel obscuring your face.”
The figure nodded and removed their hat, their shades and pulled down the collar to reveal their ghostly appearance. As the figure expected, the agent’s small eyes grew wide at the sight.
Before him stood a woman with skin so pale that it was almost paper white and her hair was black as midnight. Her ears and facial structure bore hallmarks of a mixed human and elven lineage but clearly she had been altered by some otherworldly force. For her eyes were as jet black marbles in her sockets, with fiery red pupils.
The half a dozen imperial watchers that had taken up station around the checkpoint now exchanged nervous glances at the sight of her. Their hands inexplicably finding themselves resting on their holstered weapons.
The customs agent looked upon her passport, as if to verify her information.
“Y-y-your name is Sloan?”
“Yes.” Nodded the pale woman who stood so tall she had lean down a little to look into the agent’s booth.
“No last name?”
“Never had one.”
It wasn’t entirely true but it was an easier explanation than the truth.
His eyes rapidly read through the information on her passport.
“It says here you are…half-elven?”
“Yes. Born on the Bladehold Steppe. My mother was human but my father was of lorian descent.”
“Ah, is your condition because of the deadlands of the Steppe?”
“No.” Said Sloan, now grinning.
As she smiled her sharp teeth were bared, making the customs agent even more fearful. His eyes finally found the leather wallet she had handed him and quickly opened it up. Strangely, if her appearance made him fearful, the contents of the wallet had made him petrified.
“You’re…you’re a blackguard. You’re a monster hunter.”
His eyes were locked on the symbol emblazoned within the wallet.
“Yes.” Sloan nodded.
“I’ve never met a blackguard…only heard the tales.” Said the customs agent. “Are you permitted to operate in the Duhain Empire?”
“In keeping with the Kingsfall Accords I am permitted to operate within Karam, Valghast, the Golden Coast Principalities and, indeed, the Duhain Empire. Not Aurand, though. They let their paladins deal with things there.”
The man’s eyes looked up as he searched his mind for anything that might contradict this claim but he found nothing.
“And do you carry weapons with you?” he asked at last.
Sloan raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer.
“Of course. I’m a blackguard.”
The dwarven man averted his eyes as he attempted to think of what to ask next. “Oh! What is your business here?”
Sloan smiled. “It would seem you have something of an infestation in your fine city, I’m here to help…deal with it.”
The man gazed upon the suitcase and the large bag that she carried upon her back, not daring to ask what it meant for a blackguard to ‘deal’ with something.
“I suppose you will be in need of a liaison during your stay?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Said Sloan with a toothy grin.
The customs agent leaned out of his booth and reared his head towards the group of imperial watchers standing by, staring at the pale woman.
“You! Come here!” the dwarven man commanded.
A young human man with light brown hair and blue eyes jumped as if startled before timidly approaching.
“Watcher, please escort Miss Sloan to the Kirkholm watchtower. You are to assist her with anything she needs.”
The man looked at Sloan with fear in his eyes. The tag fastened to the breast of his blue and gold uniform bore the name ‘Watcher Petersen’. He then gulped before nodding.
“Good.” Said Sloan before handing him her suitcase. “Be careful with that.”
Sloan then turned her crimson gaze upon the customs agent. “May I have that back?”
The dwarven man suddenly realized he was still holding her blackguard badge and then threw it back to her as if it were on fire.
“Thank you.” Said Sloan before making her way past him. She could hear the other watchers laughing and before being silenced by the customs agent.
Sloan and Watcher Petersen continued through the terminal in silence before stepping out into the late evening air. Heavy clouds continued to obscure the sky and the heavy rain threatened to drown the city entirely. A number of horse drawn carriages awaited and the imperial watcher hurried ahead, leading the way to the first one in line.
“Imperial watchtower, please.” He told the driver as he carefully placed the blackguard’s suitcase in the compartment in the back.
Sloan placed her large arsenal bag in as well.
“Shall we?”
Petersen nodded but as Sloan turned to enter the carriage he couldn’t help but ask. “Are you here because of the murders?”
Sloan stopped for a moment before turning to gaze back at him, like some vampire lurking in the darkness, her red eyes piercing the shadows to look back at him.
“The murders? What do you know of them?”
The watcher shrugged. “Not much. The inspectors don’t share details with us lowly watchers but I know some of those who worked the scenes. They say…they say the murders were vicious. Like no normal person could do something like that.”
Sloan smiled faintly. “What’s your name?”
The watcher seemed suspicious at first, as if she was some hilder of old trying ensnare him in a fey trap. “Petersen. Wulfgang Petersen.”
Sloan nodded. “Well Wulf, that’s why I need you to take me to the watchtower.”
“To read the reports?”
Sloan shook her head. “Because you have someone in custody that might have something to do with it. Someone who seems…rather possessed.”
