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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 6349702" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>The wererats stared back at them, the unblinking reflection of their eyes as well as the reeking stench of their rag wrapped bodies serving as threats as equally unnerving as their weapons.</p><p></p><p>"We're not questioning that in the slightest," Corwin motioned with his hands, trying his best to defuse the situation, "But our mistress struck an agreement with your master."</p><p></p><p>"She may have," Trick shrugged. "But she is not here is she? We would have smelled the perfume and brimstone before you arrived."</p><p></p><p>Surefoot snickered, "I like you guys."</p><p></p><p>Ignoring the bariaur, the wererat continued, "Lord Tattershade requires respect and obedience from us, and for those not among his kingdom, a certain measure of contrition in the absence of fealty while within his domain."</p><p></p><p>Track extended one hand, his open palm streaked with grease and grime while his other hand rested comfortably upon the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Trick bowed and smiled politely, with a hand upon his own blade much the same.</p><p></p><p>"I think they're looking for a bribe." Malcolm rolled his eyes. "F*cking rats..."</p><p></p><p>"That's exactly what they're looking for." Ashlanaya whispered, "They're well spoken for wererats as well. They're no fools."</p><p></p><p>"Yeah, um..." Zenia chuckled politely, casting a nervous glance towards Tattershade's minions. "They can probably hear each and every word that you're whispering, so I wouldn't insult them."</p><p></p><p>Malcolm nodded in contrition at the genasi.</p><p></p><p>"Far be it from me to be the voice of sanity here." Zenia shook her head and blushed, sending a current of blue flames up her face and over her hair. "But if that's the case, we're pretty well and properly f*cked."</p><p></p><p>"We don't need you to be a voice of sanity, just able to hurl a fireball or two if it comes to it." Surefoot smiled at the Xaositect and then turned back to the aasimar. "They're greedy bastards yes, but if their master struck an agreement with our razorvine-crowned one, they'd be fools to buck the terms of it."</p><p></p><p>"I'll handle this." The paladin nodded at the bariaur and spread her hands, approaching the wererats. </p><p></p><p>"As you like..." Malcolm adjusted his cloak, hiding the fact that his hands were on a pair of daggers at his belt.</p><p></p><p>"I get to throw fireballs today?" Zenia's eyes glowed with tiny flickers of flame.</p><p></p><p>"Lord Tattershade may rule below the streets, but our employer Shemeska has an agreement with him." Ashlanaya smiled politely but sternly. "You were to escort us. There was nothing further spoken on the matter. If there was, Lord Tattershade would have made that a firm fact, unless you're disobeying both your master and ours?"</p><p></p><p>Zenia poked Corwin in the side, "Who do I set on fire first?"</p><p></p><p>Clearly overhearing the genasi, and likewise needing to address the paladin's ultimatum, the wererats turned and excitedly chattered amongst themselves.</p><p></p><p>"Hush!" Track slapped one of the others with the end of his long, hairless tail.</p><p></p><p>"Silence!" Trick likewise slapped the snout of another of his men before turning back to glower at Ashlanaya. Whatever he had prepared to say, and his hands had never left his sword, he never needed to vocalize.</p><p></p><p>"That being said," Ashlanaya's voice interrupted the wererat leaders', steady and almost supernaturally diplomatic, "We do appreciate your help above and beyond your obligation. We're following orders ourselves. After all, we're in just the same situation. Surefoot, if you would."</p><p></p><p>Grinning at her tone and words firmly disarming the wererats' hopes of bleeding them all dry, but still allowing them to save face in front of their lessers, Surefoot hefted a small bag of coins and tossed it to Trick. The wererat snatched it out of the air and pocketed it in one swift, well practiced motion.</p><p></p><p>"You're the journal... journal... the writer," Trick fumbled over the word as he looked at the bauriuar. Track nodded and made a stabbing motion, followed by a snicker.</p><p></p><p>"What?" Surefoot raised an eyebrow at their body language and the fact that they knew his profession.</p><p></p><p>"Oh, we've heard about you." Track snickered.</p><p></p><p>"Yes, heard all about you." Trick smirked. "Nothing good."</p><p></p><p>"Lovely." Surefoot rolled his eyes. "Did the mutt with a hedge on her head talk about my wit and skill with a pen?”</p><p></p><p>"Oh, no, nothing like that." Trick stepped to the side and motioned their new guests forward. "We were just told to kill you first if anything went bad."</p><p></p><p>"But hopefully nothing goes bad." Ashlanaya forced out an overly polite smile and followed, keeping the others close at hand and noting that while Trick and Track remained in front of their group, their followers conveniently stayed a few steps to the rear, surrounding them and blocking off a retreat. She didn't trust the rats, but compared to the smiling, beautified and utterly amoral fiend that had sent them down into the tunnels, the lycanthropes were the absolute least of her fears. "Please, lead on."</p><p></p><p>The tunnel twisted and turned, and it seemed to the group that their wererat guides were often doubling back through looping side passages, intentionally exaggerating the complexity of the route in order to ensure that their charges would never be able to duplicate the route on their own, much less create a map. The walls were clearly excavated and enlarged by simple tools, likely by the wererats themselves, and the rock was the same brittle, wholly unnatural chalk-like Sigil rock. After a slow descent of some forty minutes though, that changed, with the walls transitioning to a bizarre amalgamation of different strata of hewn stone, a puzzle piece conglomeration of thousands of tunnels, forgotten basements, and speculative well-shafts moved and sorted over centuries or millennia by the same forces that slowly moved streets aboveground. Only here, those forces seemed to care little for the integrity of what moved.</p><p></p><p>“What the hell is that smell?” Malcolm covered his face as a warm, suffocating breeze rose up from somewhere further down the passage.</p><p></p><p>For their part the wererats seemed utterly unphased, even as the others winced and muttered.</p><p></p><p>“That smells like the trash heap behind the kitchens in the old Gatehouse.” Zenia waved a hand in front of her face, grimacing, making faces, and then waving her hand even faster with more and more theatrics as the smell grew in its intensity.</p><p></p><p>The tunnel experienced a sharp material discontinuity, abruptly changing direction and now composed of a solid, if heavily weathered, stratum of ancient, fired clay bricks. The ceiling of the new passage intruded two feet lower and a similar two foot drop in the floor presented at the point of their merger. To all appearances it seemed as if two tunnels had been sundered, dragged through the earth, and then hastily pasted together. At the point of merger, the new passage was flooded with greasy, debris-strewn water.</p><p></p><p>Corwin stared at the water for a moment, “It’s around two feet deep. It’ll be unpleasant but not dangerous; unless of course the bottom of the passage has any points of collapse that are flooded just the same.”</p><p></p><p>“As you can see, the tunnel opens up into a derelict length of old sewer.” Track gave an uncaring shrug. “No, it isn’t connected to anything still in use, but the water isn’t stagnant either. In any event though, this is where our guidance ends. Your map should lead you the rest of the way, wherever you’re going.”</p><p></p><p>Sigil’s sewers carried waste from the city above, with water from portals used to flush the system on occasion. But if the tunnel system wasn’t connected to those still in continual use…</p><p></p><p>Corwin looked askance, “So where is it getting its water and refuse from?”</p><p></p><p>“Who can say?” Track gave a second uncaring shrug in as many minutes. “It does tend to attract scavengers though.”</p><p></p><p>“Speaking of which…” Corwin pointed to the vague outline of what seemed to be a corpse floating some dozen yards down the passage.</p><p></p><p>“What the hell is that?” Malcolm squinted, unable to see in the dark to the same level as the others. “I can’t make it out.”</p><p></p><p>“It’s a corpse.” Ashlanaya frowned at a slight hint of movement, but she couldn’t be certain if it wasn’t exaggerated by the undulation of the water, or just an illusion borne of the shadows cast by their light sources.</p><p></p><p>“Just a corpse?” Malcolm eyed the paladin. “Or a corpse prone to standing up and trying to devour your face?”</p><p></p><p>“Just a corpse I think, but…” The aasimar paused as she more clearly saw the corpse’s head shudder and move.</p><p></p><p>“What was that?” Zenia held her hands up, preparing to cast if need be. “Why is its head moving?”</p><p></p><p>The corpse’s head moved again, violently so, sending an echoing wet crunch of snapping gristle and shearing bone down the sewer passage. The head, now fully detached from the corpse looked up, spreading wings from where its ears should have been. It opened its mouth, displaying a row of glistening fangs and gave a piercing shriek.</p><p></p><p>“Oh son of a b*tch!” Surefoot stomped a hoof, “Not vargouilles…”</p><p></p><p>“More than one of them.” Ashlanaya held out her hand and conjured a globe of light between them and the corpse, illuminating it and three others hanging upon a broken arch above the flooded tunnel.</p><p></p><p>The first vargouille and the newly discovered ones collectively shrieked at the light and rose into the air.</p><p>Malcolm took a startled step back, shaking as the hypnotic force of their screams washed over him, “What the hell is a vargouille?!”</p><p></p><p>"Flying vampiric heads, more or less. They…" Surefoot ducked and covered his head as a burst of flaming bolts careened down the passage, coming dangerously close to striking him as they did, "Woah!"</p><p></p><p>"Look at them flap around on fire! Hah!" Zenia giggled as she hopped from foot to foot, clapping hands still leaking a shower of sparks. A few seconds passed and she calmed down, noticing Surefoot frowning at her. "Couldn't resist!"</p><p></p><p>Behind them, Trick and Track softly snickered as they and their followers began to retreat back along the passage.</p><p></p><p>"See!" Zenia motioned at their wererat guides with a flourish. "They thought it was amusing too!" The genasi stuck her tongue out.</p><p></p><p>"Maybe," Ashlanaya cast a wary eye at the lycanthropes and hefted her sword at the ready. "But then why are they backing up? No, they didn't want to follow us past this point not because of a few vargouilles, but something else back there."</p><p></p><p>A wet slithering noise grew in intensity and heavy footfalls and resulting sounds of suction in the muck resonated as something approached.</p><p></p><p>"Oh gods what's that stink?" Malcolm gagged. “It’s even worse than before.”</p><p></p><p>"Oh ick!" Zenia winced and pursed her lips while igniting the flames on her hands and arms, hoping somehow to burn away the rising stench.</p><p></p><p>Surefoot sighed and hefted his blade at the ready, "The wererats are officially now the second worst smelling things I've met all day..."</p><p></p><p>Down the passage, one of their guides squeaked with offense and the other replied with a crude gesture. "This is where our obligation ends puppets of the surface king! Live? Die? We care not berks!"</p><p></p><p>“On time and expected,” Ashlanaya shook her head. “At least they didn’t attack us.”</p><p></p><p>“Attack us? Actually do something?” Surefoot rolled his eyes, “You’re giving them too much credit. They’ll just loot our corpses.”</p><p></p><p>“Everyone get ready, whatever it is, it’s sizable.” Corwin began to whisper as his fingers touched the sprig of mistletoe at his neck.</p><p></p><p>The creature that emerged out of the darkness and into the circle of light cast by the paladin was a grayish brown monstrosity, shambling forward on three tree-like legs. Dripping with filth, its single gaping mouth was open, sloshing with waste from the sewer, and as it moved, its tongue seemed to be hungrily slurping up errant bits of reeking flotsam. A trio of tentacles rose up like a crippled octopus, the central one studded with a number of lazy, translucent eyes.</p><p></p><p>Surrounded by a cloud of screaming, burning vargouilles, the otyugh roared with territorial anger and charged forward.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">***</p><p></p><p></p><p>A tortured, gargling moan filled the chamber like hellish chamber music, providing an undertone accompaniment to the delicate chink of golden tableware on fine porcelain, the chime of rings on a fine crystal goblet, and flowing, articulate commentary on the meal.</p><p></p><p>"This is truly spectacular." The Marauder gently dabbed a napkin to her lips. "I genuinely did not expect to enjoy the taste of the sweetbreads as much as I have, nor to find the meat as tender as it is. My compliments to the chef... and to Mr. Malcolm."</p><p></p><p>Shemeska raised her wine glass in toast to the man being tortured and vivisected half a dozen feet away.</p><p></p><p>"The seared liver was remarkably rich, the Carpaccio dish with bitter Minethys truffle, lemon, garlic, and flesh taken from the psoas major was clean and true to expectations and..." She paused as Malcom's lung's regenerated to the point where he could finally begin to scream again. As if listening to an operatic aria of sublime artistry, she closed her eyes and listened to each note of agony, trembling and biting her lower lip after a minute when her victim's lungs collapsed again, silencing the pitch back to a ruined moan.</p><p></p><p>"I'm so rarely this true to myself Malcolm." Opening her eyes again, she licked her lips and smiled, displaying a dichotomy of painted purple lips and bloody jackal's fangs. "Public appearances being what they are, I can only indulge myself in this way so very rarely. The meal has been excellent, and even more so, your suffering."</p><p></p><p>The fiend smiled and motioned casually with the hand not grasping her wine glass. The torturers nodded and the chef shuffled the pots currently on the flame for others, preparing for the next array of dishes.</p><p></p><p>"Would Her Fiendish Majesty be ready for the next round?" The chef's voice was disturbingly upbeat and anticipatory, reflecting a genuine desire to show off his skills for an appreciative patron. Whether by pride and ethics dulled by experience, or by genuine sociopathy, the chef ignored the hellish nature of the scene in its entirety, from the moaning, bleeding man, the smiling, well dressed torturers, and the freshly cut slices of human cheek and tongue braising on his stove-top.</p><p></p><p>The next twenty minutes proceeded just as before, with the Marauder's servants vivisecting their victim and her chef preparing the highest of haute cuisine from the extracted organs and meat, producing and naming each with a flourish.</p><p></p><p>"Flash fried, thinly sliced ear dressed with white truffle infused honey."</p><p></p><p>The Marauder inhaled, savoring the smell before tasting with a pair of golden chopsticks.</p><p></p><p>"Crisp baguette with a topping of liver pate with dried cherries and pistachios, dressed with mustard, sorghum, and arugula."</p><p></p><p>"Spectacular." The fiend cooed as she took the first bite, and then motioned towards Malcolm's ruined form with the plate in her hand. "I would be truly remiss if I didn't offer to share. Seriously mortal, this is sublime. You simply must try once your tongue regenerates to the point that you can taste."</p><p></p><p>The bloodied mortal turned his head away, wincing in disgust, blinded by pain, and gagging on copious amount of swallowed blood and fluid accumulated in his lungs.</p><p></p><p>"I insist," The Marauder approached and stroked his bloodied cheek with her claws before wrenching his jaw open with a revolting sound of breaking bone and cartilage. "Focus on the taste Malcolm. Trust me when I say that it will help for what the chef has planned for the next course."</p><p></p><p>She chuckled and resumed her seat, sipping at an alcoholic aperitif to cleanse her palate before crossing her legs and stretching with a contented sigh. "Tell us chef, what bit of genius is next?"</p><p></p><p>"If it would so please you Madam," He bowed and nodded to the tieflings flanking Malcolm. "A preparation of marrow served within the extracted femur with the ends still fresh, the center excavated and carved prior to its use as a container for the cooked yellow stroma."</p><p></p><p>Shemeska smiled and tapped her painted claws upon the arms of her chair. "That sounds truly delectable chef. But I have an additional request."</p><p></p><p>The tieflings paused in the midst of sawing open Malcolm's pelvis to expose the acetabulum and the glistening ball of the femur.</p><p></p><p>"I hate to be a glutton, I really do." The Marauder's voice was honeyed with false sympathy. "But I really do want a second preparation of the poached sweetbreads."</p><p></p><p>"... whhhy?” Malcolm seized and choked on the blood filling his lungs, alive only on account of the ring that caused his flesh to slowly regenerate and a second ring belatedly placed upon his other hand relieving him of the necessity to breath. “Whhy al you doinnng his? Pllees...pleees…"</p><p></p><p>"Malcolm... Malcolm..." Shemeska chided, placing the fingers of her right hand upon his tongue, pinching its tip between her thumb and index fingers. "You'll understand eventually, but for the moment, the meal is hardly over, and honestly, you haven't screamed nearly enough to my tastes."</p><p></p><p>The arcanaloth's eyes glowed with a lurid flicker of purple flame and with a soft, barely perceptible chuckle she pinched her fingers together, planted her left foot against the mortal's chest and pulled.</p><p></p><p>The sound of tearing, ripping flesh was drowned out by Malcolm’s apoplectic shriek.</p><p></p><p>"I don't think that I'll be wanting more of this," Spattered in blood, she dropped the two feet of tongue into the chef's hands with a careless shrug before retaking her seat. "But back to what I was saying before, if you would, once you've removed the femur, if you could crack open the chest cavity again to harvest the thymus a second time. Oh, and additionally, one of the kidneys for a pie later would be lovely."</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">***</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 6349702, member: 11697"] [center]****[/center] The wererats stared back at them, the unblinking reflection of their eyes as well as the reeking stench of their rag wrapped bodies serving as threats as equally unnerving as their weapons. "We're not questioning that in the slightest," Corwin motioned with his hands, trying his best to defuse the situation, "But our mistress struck an agreement with your master." "She may have," Trick shrugged. "But she is not here is she? We would have smelled the perfume and brimstone before you arrived." Surefoot snickered, "I like you guys." Ignoring the bariaur, the wererat continued, "Lord Tattershade requires respect and obedience from us, and for those not among his kingdom, a certain measure of contrition in the absence of fealty while within his domain." Track extended one hand, his open palm streaked with grease and grime while his other hand rested comfortably upon the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Trick bowed and smiled politely, with a hand upon his own blade much the same. "I think they're looking for a bribe." Malcolm rolled his eyes. "F*cking rats..." "That's exactly what they're looking for." Ashlanaya whispered, "They're well spoken for wererats as well. They're no fools." "Yeah, um..." Zenia chuckled politely, casting a nervous glance towards Tattershade's minions. "They can probably hear each and every word that you're whispering, so I wouldn't insult them." Malcolm nodded in contrition at the genasi. "Far be it from me to be the voice of sanity here." Zenia shook her head and blushed, sending a current of blue flames up her face and over her hair. "But if that's the case, we're pretty well and properly f*cked." "We don't need you to be a voice of sanity, just able to hurl a fireball or two if it comes to it." Surefoot smiled at the Xaositect and then turned back to the aasimar. "They're greedy bastards yes, but if their master struck an agreement with our razorvine-crowned one, they'd be fools to buck the terms of it." "I'll handle this." The paladin nodded at the bariaur and spread her hands, approaching the wererats. "As you like..." Malcolm adjusted his cloak, hiding the fact that his hands were on a pair of daggers at his belt. "I get to throw fireballs today?" Zenia's eyes glowed with tiny flickers of flame. "Lord Tattershade may rule below the streets, but our employer Shemeska has an agreement with him." Ashlanaya smiled politely but sternly. "You were to escort us. There was nothing further spoken on the matter. If there was, Lord Tattershade would have made that a firm fact, unless you're disobeying both your master and ours?" Zenia poked Corwin in the side, "Who do I set on fire first?" Clearly overhearing the genasi, and likewise needing to address the paladin's ultimatum, the wererats turned and excitedly chattered amongst themselves. "Hush!" Track slapped one of the others with the end of his long, hairless tail. "Silence!" Trick likewise slapped the snout of another of his men before turning back to glower at Ashlanaya. Whatever he had prepared to say, and his hands had never left his sword, he never needed to vocalize. "That being said," Ashlanaya's voice interrupted the wererat leaders', steady and almost supernaturally diplomatic, "We do appreciate your help above and beyond your obligation. We're following orders ourselves. After all, we're in just the same situation. Surefoot, if you would." Grinning at her tone and words firmly disarming the wererats' hopes of bleeding them all dry, but still allowing them to save face in front of their lessers, Surefoot hefted a small bag of coins and tossed it to Trick. The wererat snatched it out of the air and pocketed it in one swift, well practiced motion. "You're the journal... journal... the writer," Trick fumbled over the word as he looked at the bauriuar. Track nodded and made a stabbing motion, followed by a snicker. "What?" Surefoot raised an eyebrow at their body language and the fact that they knew his profession. "Oh, we've heard about you." Track snickered. "Yes, heard all about you." Trick smirked. "Nothing good." "Lovely." Surefoot rolled his eyes. "Did the mutt with a hedge on her head talk about my wit and skill with a pen?” "Oh, no, nothing like that." Trick stepped to the side and motioned their new guests forward. "We were just told to kill you first if anything went bad." "But hopefully nothing goes bad." Ashlanaya forced out an overly polite smile and followed, keeping the others close at hand and noting that while Trick and Track remained in front of their group, their followers conveniently stayed a few steps to the rear, surrounding them and blocking off a retreat. She didn't trust the rats, but compared to the smiling, beautified and utterly amoral fiend that had sent them down into the tunnels, the lycanthropes were the absolute least of her fears. "Please, lead on." The tunnel twisted and turned, and it seemed to the group that their wererat guides were often doubling back through looping side passages, intentionally exaggerating the complexity of the route in order to ensure that their charges would never be able to duplicate the route on their own, much less create a map. The walls were clearly excavated and enlarged by simple tools, likely by the wererats themselves, and the rock was the same brittle, wholly unnatural chalk-like Sigil rock. After a slow descent of some forty minutes though, that changed, with the walls transitioning to a bizarre amalgamation of different strata of hewn stone, a puzzle piece conglomeration of thousands of tunnels, forgotten basements, and speculative well-shafts moved and sorted over centuries or millennia by the same forces that slowly moved streets aboveground. Only here, those forces seemed to care little for the integrity of what moved. “What the hell is that smell?” Malcolm covered his face as a warm, suffocating breeze rose up from somewhere further down the passage. For their part the wererats seemed utterly unphased, even as the others winced and muttered. “That smells like the trash heap behind the kitchens in the old Gatehouse.” Zenia waved a hand in front of her face, grimacing, making faces, and then waving her hand even faster with more and more theatrics as the smell grew in its intensity. The tunnel experienced a sharp material discontinuity, abruptly changing direction and now composed of a solid, if heavily weathered, stratum of ancient, fired clay bricks. The ceiling of the new passage intruded two feet lower and a similar two foot drop in the floor presented at the point of their merger. To all appearances it seemed as if two tunnels had been sundered, dragged through the earth, and then hastily pasted together. At the point of merger, the new passage was flooded with greasy, debris-strewn water. Corwin stared at the water for a moment, “It’s around two feet deep. It’ll be unpleasant but not dangerous; unless of course the bottom of the passage has any points of collapse that are flooded just the same.” “As you can see, the tunnel opens up into a derelict length of old sewer.” Track gave an uncaring shrug. “No, it isn’t connected to anything still in use, but the water isn’t stagnant either. In any event though, this is where our guidance ends. Your map should lead you the rest of the way, wherever you’re going.” Sigil’s sewers carried waste from the city above, with water from portals used to flush the system on occasion. But if the tunnel system wasn’t connected to those still in continual use… Corwin looked askance, “So where is it getting its water and refuse from?” “Who can say?” Track gave a second uncaring shrug in as many minutes. “It does tend to attract scavengers though.” “Speaking of which…” Corwin pointed to the vague outline of what seemed to be a corpse floating some dozen yards down the passage. “What the hell is that?” Malcolm squinted, unable to see in the dark to the same level as the others. “I can’t make it out.” “It’s a corpse.” Ashlanaya frowned at a slight hint of movement, but she couldn’t be certain if it wasn’t exaggerated by the undulation of the water, or just an illusion borne of the shadows cast by their light sources. “Just a corpse?” Malcolm eyed the paladin. “Or a corpse prone to standing up and trying to devour your face?” “Just a corpse I think, but…” The aasimar paused as she more clearly saw the corpse’s head shudder and move. “What was that?” Zenia held her hands up, preparing to cast if need be. “Why is its head moving?” The corpse’s head moved again, violently so, sending an echoing wet crunch of snapping gristle and shearing bone down the sewer passage. The head, now fully detached from the corpse looked up, spreading wings from where its ears should have been. It opened its mouth, displaying a row of glistening fangs and gave a piercing shriek. “Oh son of a b*tch!” Surefoot stomped a hoof, “Not vargouilles…” “More than one of them.” Ashlanaya held out her hand and conjured a globe of light between them and the corpse, illuminating it and three others hanging upon a broken arch above the flooded tunnel. The first vargouille and the newly discovered ones collectively shrieked at the light and rose into the air. Malcolm took a startled step back, shaking as the hypnotic force of their screams washed over him, “What the hell is a vargouille?!” "Flying vampiric heads, more or less. They…" Surefoot ducked and covered his head as a burst of flaming bolts careened down the passage, coming dangerously close to striking him as they did, "Woah!" "Look at them flap around on fire! Hah!" Zenia giggled as she hopped from foot to foot, clapping hands still leaking a shower of sparks. A few seconds passed and she calmed down, noticing Surefoot frowning at her. "Couldn't resist!" Behind them, Trick and Track softly snickered as they and their followers began to retreat back along the passage. "See!" Zenia motioned at their wererat guides with a flourish. "They thought it was amusing too!" The genasi stuck her tongue out. "Maybe," Ashlanaya cast a wary eye at the lycanthropes and hefted her sword at the ready. "But then why are they backing up? No, they didn't want to follow us past this point not because of a few vargouilles, but something else back there." A wet slithering noise grew in intensity and heavy footfalls and resulting sounds of suction in the muck resonated as something approached. "Oh gods what's that stink?" Malcolm gagged. “It’s even worse than before.” "Oh ick!" Zenia winced and pursed her lips while igniting the flames on her hands and arms, hoping somehow to burn away the rising stench. Surefoot sighed and hefted his blade at the ready, "The wererats are officially now the second worst smelling things I've met all day..." Down the passage, one of their guides squeaked with offense and the other replied with a crude gesture. "This is where our obligation ends puppets of the surface king! Live? Die? We care not berks!" “On time and expected,” Ashlanaya shook her head. “At least they didn’t attack us.” “Attack us? Actually do something?” Surefoot rolled his eyes, “You’re giving them too much credit. They’ll just loot our corpses.” “Everyone get ready, whatever it is, it’s sizable.” Corwin began to whisper as his fingers touched the sprig of mistletoe at his neck. The creature that emerged out of the darkness and into the circle of light cast by the paladin was a grayish brown monstrosity, shambling forward on three tree-like legs. Dripping with filth, its single gaping mouth was open, sloshing with waste from the sewer, and as it moved, its tongue seemed to be hungrily slurping up errant bits of reeking flotsam. A trio of tentacles rose up like a crippled octopus, the central one studded with a number of lazy, translucent eyes. Surrounded by a cloud of screaming, burning vargouilles, the otyugh roared with territorial anger and charged forward. [center]***[/center] A tortured, gargling moan filled the chamber like hellish chamber music, providing an undertone accompaniment to the delicate chink of golden tableware on fine porcelain, the chime of rings on a fine crystal goblet, and flowing, articulate commentary on the meal. "This is truly spectacular." The Marauder gently dabbed a napkin to her lips. "I genuinely did not expect to enjoy the taste of the sweetbreads as much as I have, nor to find the meat as tender as it is. My compliments to the chef... and to Mr. Malcolm." Shemeska raised her wine glass in toast to the man being tortured and vivisected half a dozen feet away. "The seared liver was remarkably rich, the Carpaccio dish with bitter Minethys truffle, lemon, garlic, and flesh taken from the psoas major was clean and true to expectations and..." She paused as Malcom's lung's regenerated to the point where he could finally begin to scream again. As if listening to an operatic aria of sublime artistry, she closed her eyes and listened to each note of agony, trembling and biting her lower lip after a minute when her victim's lungs collapsed again, silencing the pitch back to a ruined moan. "I'm so rarely this true to myself Malcolm." Opening her eyes again, she licked her lips and smiled, displaying a dichotomy of painted purple lips and bloody jackal's fangs. "Public appearances being what they are, I can only indulge myself in this way so very rarely. The meal has been excellent, and even more so, your suffering." The fiend smiled and motioned casually with the hand not grasping her wine glass. The torturers nodded and the chef shuffled the pots currently on the flame for others, preparing for the next array of dishes. "Would Her Fiendish Majesty be ready for the next round?" The chef's voice was disturbingly upbeat and anticipatory, reflecting a genuine desire to show off his skills for an appreciative patron. Whether by pride and ethics dulled by experience, or by genuine sociopathy, the chef ignored the hellish nature of the scene in its entirety, from the moaning, bleeding man, the smiling, well dressed torturers, and the freshly cut slices of human cheek and tongue braising on his stove-top. The next twenty minutes proceeded just as before, with the Marauder's servants vivisecting their victim and her chef preparing the highest of haute cuisine from the extracted organs and meat, producing and naming each with a flourish. "Flash fried, thinly sliced ear dressed with white truffle infused honey." The Marauder inhaled, savoring the smell before tasting with a pair of golden chopsticks. "Crisp baguette with a topping of liver pate with dried cherries and pistachios, dressed with mustard, sorghum, and arugula." "Spectacular." The fiend cooed as she took the first bite, and then motioned towards Malcolm's ruined form with the plate in her hand. "I would be truly remiss if I didn't offer to share. Seriously mortal, this is sublime. You simply must try once your tongue regenerates to the point that you can taste." The bloodied mortal turned his head away, wincing in disgust, blinded by pain, and gagging on copious amount of swallowed blood and fluid accumulated in his lungs. "I insist," The Marauder approached and stroked his bloodied cheek with her claws before wrenching his jaw open with a revolting sound of breaking bone and cartilage. "Focus on the taste Malcolm. Trust me when I say that it will help for what the chef has planned for the next course." She chuckled and resumed her seat, sipping at an alcoholic aperitif to cleanse her palate before crossing her legs and stretching with a contented sigh. "Tell us chef, what bit of genius is next?" "If it would so please you Madam," He bowed and nodded to the tieflings flanking Malcolm. "A preparation of marrow served within the extracted femur with the ends still fresh, the center excavated and carved prior to its use as a container for the cooked yellow stroma." Shemeska smiled and tapped her painted claws upon the arms of her chair. "That sounds truly delectable chef. But I have an additional request." The tieflings paused in the midst of sawing open Malcolm's pelvis to expose the acetabulum and the glistening ball of the femur. "I hate to be a glutton, I really do." The Marauder's voice was honeyed with false sympathy. "But I really do want a second preparation of the poached sweetbreads." "... whhhy?” Malcolm seized and choked on the blood filling his lungs, alive only on account of the ring that caused his flesh to slowly regenerate and a second ring belatedly placed upon his other hand relieving him of the necessity to breath. “Whhy al you doinnng his? Pllees...pleees…" "Malcolm... Malcolm..." Shemeska chided, placing the fingers of her right hand upon his tongue, pinching its tip between her thumb and index fingers. "You'll understand eventually, but for the moment, the meal is hardly over, and honestly, you haven't screamed nearly enough to my tastes." The arcanaloth's eyes glowed with a lurid flicker of purple flame and with a soft, barely perceptible chuckle she pinched her fingers together, planted her left foot against the mortal's chest and pulled. The sound of tearing, ripping flesh was drowned out by Malcolm’s apoplectic shriek. "I don't think that I'll be wanting more of this," Spattered in blood, she dropped the two feet of tongue into the chef's hands with a careless shrug before retaking her seat. "But back to what I was saying before, if you would, once you've removed the femur, if you could crack open the chest cavity again to harvest the thymus a second time. Oh, and additionally, one of the kidneys for a pie later would be lovely." [center]***[/center] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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