There were four figures standing at the brow of the hill. Their leader was a tall, pallid creature, dressed in the fine fashion of a noble or high-ranked official beneath the plate and mail armour that covered much of his frame. An iron longsword hung from his belt, its edge chipped and scratched, as of a blade that had seen long use and repeated regrinding. He stood at the fore of the group, arms folded over his chest and his head tilted back slightly as though to look down at them.
The others were rather more inscrutable. Each one wore a long cloak of rough-spun sable cloth that reached almost to the ankle, slit slightly along the side to allow for easier movement. Their armour was solid-looking, but visibly worn – scratches and dents and dried blood decorated the plates in equal measure, where it was not scabbed with rust or scraped away from repeated blows without repair. Their weapons were similarly ill-maintained, stained with old blood and rust; the blade of one in particular was so crusted with dried gore as to resemble a blunt instrument.
At one look toward the leader of the group, the blood fled Simo’s face to leave it a paper mask once more. Her expression was not so much one of terror or dread, so much as one of mortal sickness. The doctor’s hands dropped to the daggers at her belt, but there was no strength left in her arms to draw them.
“Gasin Crewcanyons.” Simo whispered.
“Who else?” The tall, pale man smiled, but it seemed strained and cold. “It has been long since we last met, Lady Cosmosclean; not since we last stood in the grounds of our master’s domain have we laid eyes on one another.”
“I expected someone else.” Simo tried to return the smile. It came out more like a skeletal rictus.
Sorus’s eyes flicked to her employer’s forehead. Sweat was beading upon her brow. The skin was furrowed sharply. Her teeth were indenting her lip hard enough that they were straining not to break. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
She’s afraid. Sorus realised, and with that came a sudden, sharp stab of cold dread into her own heart. The scholar had kept her composure throughout all their travels so far; only the threat of one of them falling to the Blight had been enough to shatter her stoicism, and even that for a mere few minutes.
What could this stranger’s presence mean, that it would unnerve even her?
Sorus swallowed her unease and refocused as her employer began to speak once again, her gaze never leaving the pallid figure of Gasin.
“I bore witness to her work not even a mere league from here, Gasin. Where is she?”
“A clever ruse, I am afraid, but no more than that. Her actions baited this trap, true, but she herself has long since departed for... greater things, shall we say.” Gasin laughed aloud, shaking his head with exaggerated solemnity. The masked figures at his sides rustled slowly, restlessly. “I would have expected you to expect that of –”
“Name her not!” Simo’s voice rose to a furious snarl. Her slender fingers went from wary restlessness to a tight-knuckled grip upon her daggers, her teeth baring themselves in a sudden flash of white. Gasin’s guards bristled with sudden wariness, hands dropping to their weapons and bodies tensing with the intent to do violence. “Name her not, the bitch!”
“Well, well… rather touchy, are we not?” Gasin’s mouth curled at the edge, caught between a smile and a sneer. But he nodded nonetheless, and almost idly gestured with the hand that did not rest upon his longsword’s handle. His guards settled again, almost reluctantly. “Very well. I was not sent to find you and exchange pleasantries, after all; and you did not come to seek my counsel.”
“So you’ve run me down; here I am, then.” Simo stood to her full height, expression defiant. While the effect was lessened by the stranger’s taller frame and the presence of his companions, the doctor did not let that deter her. “What was important enough for them to send
you of all people?”
“This is a matter of some delicacy, Lady Cosmosclean,” And here, his eyes flicked to Sorus and Degel, standing warily off to the side of the bizarre confrontation. “I would that we speak elsewhere - as fellows rather than strangers, if you please.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed to slits at his words, but after a long minute she slowly nodded. She stepped forward to meet Gasin, pausing for a moment to turn to Simo and Degel. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again, eyes flicking for an instant to the looming figures of Gasin and his strange guardians.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, flee. And do not – look back.”
With that ominous warning Simo followed Gasin and one of his guards down the side of the hill and into the treeline, the four of them quickly vanishing into the bush and trees. Two of the masked, silent figures remained atop the hill, still as statues and unbending despite the cold. Though their visors prevented any trace of emotion leaking through, Sorus could not shake the feeling that they were being glared at with barely-controlled rage; nor could Degel shrug off the way his instincts were screaming every time one of the guardians twitched.
Sorus’s eyes flickered over to Degel as the sound of chatter began to echo up from the trees; Degel’s serpentine head tilted to the side in a gesture she had come to associate with alarm. What was occurring behind the trees and bushes, they could not see; but the low chattering of the two slowly began to grow louder and higher, and soon the two could pick up individual snatches of conversation. Much of it made little sense to them, beyond the thunderous oaths and uncouth invective coming from Simo’s throat.
“No, no, no; and let that be an end of it!” Sorus heard Simo roar. And then again, coarser and fiercer than before: “If it must come to swinging, then swing all!”
And in the next moment there was a terrible explosion of oaths and other noises – the thud of an impact, the sharp clang of steel striking steel, and then a thin cry of pain; in the next instant Simo came barrelling through the treeline in full flight with blood streaming from the left shoulder, and the stranger in hot pursuit. He was limping heavily from a gash across the upper thigh, a freshly bloodied sword in hand and his noble features twisted with fury, broken lip and bleeding nose painting red over his bared teeth. The rest of his companions erupted from the treeline behind him with howls of unhinged fury, weapons swinging in every direction as they barrelled toward the trio.
What Gasin’s companions lacked in finesse or control, they made up for with brutality and wild ferocity. Caught by surprise, the two mercenaries were driven away from their master in a blur of flashing iron and shouted curses, scrambling back across the hill’s flattened brow to evade the strikes aimed at them. Blows missed them by feet, but landed with enough force that the mercenaries could feel the shock rush up their legs.
Sorus engaged two of Gasin’s companions at once: a towering, axe-wielding brute and a smaller, lithe figure wielding a sword. The smaller of the two hurtled left and right like wildfire, howling in rage with every swing Sorus parried or blocked; the larger of the two moved with a slow, lumbering gait, limping as if from an old wound.
“Sorus!” Degel bellowed, kicking the spear-wielder full in the chest as he spoke. “Trade you!”
“Aye!” She swung around as the Hand of Planegifts charged at her, stepping into the space Degel had occupied a moment before just as he did the same.
The spear-bearer Degel had knocked back scarcely a moment ago met her with a shout of rage and a stream of wild thrusts, jarring her arms with each parry. She retorted with a dozen thrusts of her own, ripping through sable cloth and into the flesh beneath. Bright scarlet blood spat from the wound. They snarled and hissed behind the mask, driving Sorus back with another heavy stab that clipped the armour of her right shoulder and sent her staggering back. No sooner than that had happened, they came rushing on again with their spear raised high, putting their whole weight behind the charge.
Baring her teeth and breathing deep, Sorus raised her sword and rushed forward to meet it.
To the side of the raging battle, Gasin and Simo circled each other like wolves, barely breathing, never blinking, both combatants watchful for even the slightest of changes in stance that might signal an attack. They were all but oblivious to their subordinates’ furious brawl, lost in their own deadly dance – the walking corpse and the healer, both ready to make their stands.
“I will not return to your masters.” Simo spat. “Not now. Not ever!”
“You do not have a choice, lady Cosmosclean.” Gasin retorted. His fingers twitched on the handle of his sword. “Just as I have none in this. I would not have come if I did.”
“There is always a choice, Crewcanyons.” Simo’s grip on her blades tightened to white-knuckled. “You made yours. You can claim otherwise until the stars burn out, but it will not change the truth. You could have stood up, fought back, proclaimed you would not serve. You chose otherwise, and damned yourself because of it.”
“Strong words, Cosmosclean.” Gasin curled his free hand into a fist, tight enough that he could feel the bones grind together. A hot throbbing flared down his jaw and neck. “Such a pity that they lack the
bite they might otherwise have. You are hardly blameless in that regard; I remember what you did back before you turned on your former masters, and how you never raised an objection. Not until M-”
“Don’t you bloody dare sully his name, you cowardly –!”
Simo surged forward with a snarl, gripping her daggers tight. She caught herself just in time, heart thundering in her ears as she choked back her rage. But Gasin had gotten what he wanted, at least in part. She could see the savage enjoyment flare in his eyes at the pain he had caused her; see the look of near-triumph at how she had almost fallen into his trap. Three steps further, and she’d be within arm’s length. His sword was longer than her daggers, and almost certainly capable of cutting clear through her armour. One thrust, and he would have won.
Instead, she forced herself to breathe, in, out; in, out; crushing that furious, blistering rage back down into the dark corners of her mind. She could feel blood welling up from her bitten-down nails, so tight was her grip on the daggers. Simo and Gasin did not circle each other once more, too wary to risk such an action. The air itself pulsed with the force of their building tension, neither daring to say more lest the other exploit it as an opening. The clamour of their duelling subordinates might as well have been the whistling of the wind, Gasin might have been a statue, and Simo might have been dead, such was the stillness that had fallen upon the two.
What felt like a small eternity passed in the space of a couple moments. A shout of pain echoed from the direction of the broil between thralls and mercenaries. Simo’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly toward it. Gasin turned minutely, his foot barely leaving the ground.
And in the next moment, the tension broke.
Dead flesh healed slowly. Broken bones and damaged joints, even more so. Though it had healed in the time since the initial wound, Gasin’s ankle would never regain its original strength. And so, as he put his foot back down upon the ground, his ankle bent awkwardly to the side. No longer properly supporting the rest of his weight, it imbalanced him badly, sending him staggering. He gave a surprised curse, thrusting his free hand out on instinct to try and stop himself falling.
Simo crossed the space between them in three quick strides, thrusting her daggers down toward the crooks of his elbows.
Gasin threw himself into the fall, tucking his arms back in against his breastplate in the moment before he struck the ground. He rolled as he fell, head jarring against the inside of his helmet as he went over; he tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue. Simo’s daggers whisked past him as he moved, splitting the air where he had been scarcely a moment before. Unbalanced by the missed thrust, she was an open target as he scrambled back to his feet and charged at her, sword raised high for a downward strike.
Their blades met with the shriek of metal on metal, sparks flying as Simo twisted herself about with impressive flexibility, meeting Gasin’s longsword with the long blades of her own daggers. She pushed back against the pallid man’s weapon with her own, her teeth bared.
“I’ll make sure you don’t come back this time, Crewcanyons.” Simo snarled, breathing hard. Her blades were quick, but Gasin’s sword was heavier, and he had brute strength on his side compared to Simo’s slight build.
“I doubt that, lady Cosmosclean.” Gasin retorted, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know as well as I do how difficult it is to escape, you know what it feels like to be trapped under her hand. She and her cursed witches ensured I would last until my service is complete-!”
Gasin broke off and bit down hard on his tongue to increase the blood already flowing, and spat a mix of saliva and scarlet straight into Simo’s face. As the doctor blinked and cursed him, Gasin took the opportunity to break the blade-lock; leaning hard on his sword like a crutch to support his bad leg, he drove a kick into her knee. Simo’s leg buckled beneath her, sending her crashing to the ground with a grunt of pain. Gasin pulled his sword free from the ground, and swung.
His longsword struck the ground hard, burying the blade halfway into the soil; Simo had rolled out of the way in the heartbeats between her fall and her strike, returning his kick with one of her own. Gasin’s weakened ankle buckled again under the force of the blow, sending him into a fall. He seized hold of his sword as he fell, clinging to the quillons as though they were the only thing that could support him in the world. He crashed to his knees with a grunt that came more out of instinct than surprise, head jerking back slightly from the force. His sword had done its job, keeping him from falling to the ground completely. Using his grip on the quillons for leverage, he hauled himself upright with a noise of effort, tugging the sword free of the soil and turning his head about, searching for Simo.
A dull sensation against his back. Another; another. He had his answer.
Cursing aloud, he blindly swung the longsword in a broad arc around his body. Whether he had hit anything or not, he could not tell. But he could feel the cold air on his back, and the dull, slick sensation of blood running down it. Simo had taken advantage of his fall and distraction, darting around his back and slicing it open with a swift string of blows from her daggers, driving them through the armour he wore like it wasn’t even there. Another blow ripped into his flesh, jarring hard against the shoulderblade, the dagger lodging in the bone.
Almost against his will, he grinned. Then he gripped his blade with both hands and swung with a wordless shout of effort.
He heard Simo swear aloud, felt the dagger tear loose, saw her in the corner of his eye, barely ducking beneath the swipe of his sword, turning a decapitating strike into a near-miss. She rose back up with a hiss of effort, bringing her daggers up into a scissoring swipe at his chest. He met them with another swing of his sword, feeling the impact jar his arms. Simo was stronger than she looked, however, pushing back against the sword with enough force to lock it in place.
As their blades locked against one another again, a change came over Simo’s features. There was something else in her eyes, now. The earlier rage and hatred had dissolved away. Now, Gasin saw something like pity in them, and the sight of it was enough to roil his stomach and set his skin to crawling.
“I know what she promised you.” Simo murmured, almost too low for him to hear. She shook her head, mock-mournfully. Her blades grated against Gasin’s sword as it began to tremor under the force of the lock. “Poor, deluded creature. The Abyss never frees, only consumes. She will punish, and punish, and punish, until there is nothing left of you.”
Gasin’s skin burned, even as his blood ran cold. It itched terribly, as though he had leapt into a bed of nettles. His head throbbed painfully. Snarling, he broke the lock and cannoned a fist toward Simo’s face, prompting the doctor to sway aside with almost mocking grace. Her knives flicked forward, carving deep lines down his breastplate, cutting shallow scarlet rents into the cold flesh beneath. The nobleman cursed, more out of surprise than true pain, thrusting his longsword toward Simo’s side only for the lightweight plates of her armour to turn it aside with a sharp screech.
Gasin’s sword flashed past Simo’s shoulder as she twisted out of the way, burying itself deep in the wood of the tree. His eyes flared at the dodge, and he strained to pull the blade free of the wood, but it was in vain. Simo crossed the distance between them in three swift strides and threw herself forward with a furious shout, her twin daggers stabbing toward his chest. They found the chinks in his breastplate and mail with ease, slid effortlessly through his doublet, and buried themselves deep within the pallid flesh of his chest.
Simo pulled her blades back and stabbed again and again, tearing rents through his breastplate and laying his chest open to the bone. Gasin spat up a mouthful of blood, a half-strangled grunt leaving his throat as one of the strikes punctured a lung. He could feel the iron blade grating against bone as it lodged awkwardly in his torso, the dulled sensations of it being worked loose as the other rose to stab deep into his right shoulder.
His flesh burned with pain; muted and dulled though it was. Gasin relished the sensation.
He risked a glance downwards, grimacing as he caught sight of exposed viscera among the white bone. It would be a devil of a job to patch his equipment up once this battle was done, to say nothing of replacing his ruined clothes or the tedious healing process that awaited him. Groaning slightly, he raised his good leg and delivered a hard kick to Simo’s chest, sending her staggering a dozen paces backward.
“Fight on if you wish, Lady Cosmoscleaned.” Gasin raised his sword again with a half-theatrical grunt of effort. He barked something in a guttural language, and the thralls broke from their battle to stand beside him. They made no move to attack despite their prior aggression, as though entranced by the man’s cry. “How much longer can you last? How much longer can your
companions last?”
Simo gritted her teeth, flicking her eyes to Sorus and Degel. Neither mercenary was in good shape: Sorus was bleeding from a half-dozen small cuts along her limbs, and her left arm was wrenched to an odd angle; Degel was breathing hard, one of his vestigial wings hanging in bloody tatters. Their armour was riddled with dents and deep rents where the thralls’ weapons had taken their toll. They were still fighting, still defiant, but she knew at the sight of them that neither would last much longer.
To their credit, they had given as good as they received to the thralls. The spear-wielder’s mask had been knocked away in the fighting, exposing a face reduced to a bloody ruin: her jaw was visibly dented inward, and her nose a smashed, bloody stump where Degel had smashed the butt of his axes into it. The axe-wielding brute’s robes were half-shredded and soaked through with blood from a gaping wound in its side, while its dominant arm hung uselessly by its side, forcing it to drag the weapon beside it. Only the lithe, sword-wielding thrall seemed unaffected, though she stood with a slight slump to her posture.
“Long enough to kill you,” Simo snarled in reply to Gasin. Sudden hatred flared across her features, dying her pale skin red. “Long enough to give your companions the rest they deserve.”
Yet for all of her fire and defiance, the defiance in her voice sounded hollow even to her. Simo’s shoulder was still bleeding hard, and she could feel the beginnings of weakness in her arm. Degel and Sorus were in poor shape, enough that she couldn’t be sure they would endure the coming fight – or survive its aftermath. Gritting her teeth, she opened her mouth and prepared to speak again – only for a familiar voice to cut her off.
“Go.”
Simo and Sorus turned toward the speaker as one.
“Degel?”
“Go.” The Hand of Planegifts repeated, scraping his battle axes against each other to underscore his words. “I will hold them here. You both escape.”
“Fuck that!” Sorus practically exploded, stepping forward with a snarl and her sword raised. “I’m not leaving you!”
“She’s right.” Simo growled in agreement, gripping her daggers tight. “I will not abandon you to face th–!”
“Do you ‘member what I said, back before this began?” Degel fixed them both with his reptilian gaze. His teeth bared themselves almost involuntarily, the long canines protruding out from his muzzle as old instincts reasserted themselves. “I was the one that pushed us t’ward this, weren’t I? That I’d bear the consequences, if this went sour?”
“But-!”
Her words were cut off mid-sentence by a scream from behind. A new thrall charged from the treeline to their side, hefting a massive war hammer with both hands, bloody saliva frothing from behind their mask. Degel met its charge, wheeling around to slam the blunt rear of his axe into its face with a wet cracking noise. The thrall staggered backward with a gurgling noise, mask dented inward and fresh blood streaming down its neck. The Hand smashed a hard kick into its groin and stepped over the thrall’s collapsing form with axes raised, ignoring the low, deflating whine of released air behind him.
His gaze was on the rest of the thralls, as they broke ranks and charged them again, the spear-wielding berserker leading them. Gasin lurked behind them, his sword planted point-down in the dirt; and there was a strange look on his face, as though grief and pain and nostalgia had all become tangled together at the sight. The pale, wounded man was distracted, and that was something Degel could exploit.
“Go!” Degel roared. He looked back over his shoulder for a split second, and his features were hard and proud and lit aglow with fierce defiance. “Go, and live – or I swear on Mukca’s name, I’ll come back and bloody well kill you! Again!”
Before Sorus could get so much as a word in edgeways, Degel was moving - bounding across the grass toward the charging spearmaster, cannoning a fist into her face as she came into striking range. She staggered backwards with a howl of pain or rage, mask knocked askew to expose the snarling ruin of a face beneath. He followed it up with an elbow that cracked bone, sent the stunned thrall crashing to the ground, and set her rolling down the sloping side of the hillock. The spearmaster dug her weapon into the soil, spitting mangled, half-intelligible curses as it failed to gain traction and joined her in rolling down the slope.
Degel didn’t spare her a glance, sprinting onward instead. He knew what he had to do.
The black-clad man was the key. Destroy the monster’s head, and the body will follow.
Degel roared aloud and lunged for Gasin, throwing the whole weight of his body into the blow. He hit Gasin head-on; perhaps shocked or caught off guard by the ferocity of the attack, he made no attempt at defending himself. His second strike knocked the wind out of the black-clad man’s stomach, bending him double from the force; the third cracked something within the mangled box of his ribcage, a fresh string of blood falling from his torn lips to join that already on the grass. Gasin staggered backward, wheezing horribly.
Degel closed in once again, raising his axes high. The weak sunlight from the clouds above flared off the bloody edge of the copper blades as he charged, blood thundering in his veins as he prepared to deliver the killing blow. He felt the sting of a blade rip through one of his arms, leaving it dead and numb; he had lost one axe, but the other was still in hand and ready. His pulse rose again as he closed into striking distance, fixing his eyes on Gasin’s neck, bringing the axe up and swinging it down with all his strength –
And at the very last moment, two of the thralls lurched forward into his path. The taller, bulkier one met Degel’s axe with a raised shield, letting the blade bite deep into the wood before twisting her entire arm to the side. The axe’s handle was ripped free of his grasp by the force of the sudden movement, leaving him staggering and off-balance. The other one – the slender, black-robed swordswoman, her weapon still wet with blood and a sheen of his shredded muscle – met his charge with one of her own, thrusting the point of her sword toward his chest.
Recognising the danger, Degel tried to throw himself backwards to evade the incoming strike, muscles straining as he sought to regain his balance and move away from the lethal edge.
The sword punched through a seam in his breastplate with ease, passed through the mail beneath, and penetrated both his lungs in one smooth motion. An odd choking noise came from the back of his throat as his body registered the blow, along with a froth of dark, arterial blood and spittle. He almost fell, kept upright purely by the blade running through his torso and the involuntary lean of his body against the thrall’s form. It stared down at him dully, as if in deliberation, before raising a stone-hard fist and smashing another blow into his sternum, cracking bone, bleaching his vision white with unexpected pain. He crashed to the earth in an undignified heap, limbs refusing to obey him, cold darkness spreading out through the ragged gash in his chest.
Gasin staggered back to his feet and toward the thralls that had once been his companions, helped none-too-gently along by a shove from Mori.
Unable to move anything but his head, Degel twisted about to shoot a murderous glare at the thralls’ master. Degel bared his teeth, expression defiant despite the coldness spreading in his chest. His vision was beginning to blacken at the edges, but he managed to force his serpentine head up to glare at Gasin’s towering form. He managed to spit, the blood-flecked saliva staining the edge of the human’s cloak.
“Damn… you…!” Degel managed to grate out, ignoring the blood pooling in his throat.
Gasin smiled, but the expression was entirely without mirth. Merely a cold, black hatred, and not all of it aimed toward Degel.
“That happened a long time ago, Hand.” Gasin rasped, but Degel was already dead.
Gasin turned his head to scan his surroundings, but they were devoid of any sign of his quarry. Both the mercenary and the renegade had fled while the Hand of Planegifts distracted them, vanishing into the thick forest that spanned in all directions around them. Tracks in the wet grass lead off westward, but he knew it was too late to follow them. The trees would provide ample cover for them; the roots and natural detritus would obscure any they had made in the forests. Besides that, he was in no condition to fight. There would be no way of tracking them, even with his once-comrades’ curse-sharpened senses. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled through his nose, letting some of the tension drain from his form as his sword-arm fell back to his side.
Dubmith limped her way toward the body, hissing hungrily, only to stop as Gasin placed one cold hand on her blistered shoulder. She swung around to face him, features twisting and her teeth grinding together at the interruption. One dulled eye blinked as though confused, the mass of diseased flesh that had subsumed the other pulsing. Saliva dripped between her torn lips as she cocked her head to the side in a mocking parody of curiosity, staining the hem of her robes and streaking her breastplate with bright scarlet.
The sight struck sharply upon him. A caustic squirming sensation boiled in his chest and belly, unexpectedly hard and fierce, almost enough to double him over. His chest burned like he’d run from Silverthrone to Dreadruled. He clenched his fist hard enough to crack two of the nails; his teeth strongly enough that he could feel the bones shift and creak in his jaw. Gasin forged through the sensations of shame and guilt to address his former friends, biting the words out through his gritted teeth.
“No.” He commanded, voice firm. He raised his tone, addressing all the lost souls he had damned around him. “Leave the body. We are done here.”
Through the deserted hamlet, through the frost-crusted grass and soil of the fields, through the thin woods. On and on Simo and Sorus ran, just as Degel had demanded of them. Neither dared to look back, as much out of fear that the thralls would be snapping at their heels as they would see Degel there, still locked in that desperate battle to the death.
It was not until they had left the hill and the shell of the hamlet below far behind that they began to slow, and even then it was a dozen minutes more before they slowed enough to catch their breath. Simo was hunched over, breathing hard from her exertions – and more than that, trying to reign in the instinctive dread seeing Gasin had re-ignited in her; the instinctive dread of what he represented.
It was for that reason that she failed to detect the movement behind her, and the tone of the speaker’s voice.
“Simo…”
Simo turned. No sooner than she had, however, a thunderous impact jarred her head back on her shoulders and sent her vision spinning; it was followed by a second, strong enough to loosen teeth and send her crashing to the hard earth. Stars burst behind her eyes and the taste of iron flooded her mouth; she had bitten her tongue in the fall. Grunting, Simo tried to rise to her feet, turning her head to face the source of the impact.
She was greeted by the sight of Sorus storming toward her, sword in hand and her features twisted in such fury that Simo momentarily feared her last companion had succumbed to the Blight. That fear was allayed as she began to speak, only to be replaced by a deeper one as the enraged mercenary placed the sharp edge of her blade against the side of Simo’s bare throat.
“Degel trusted you. I thought I could too.” Snarling, Sorus pressed down harder with the edge of her weapon. Blood beaded from Simo’s neck as it began to bite into the skin. “So tell me – why does that Blight-spawn son of a bitch
know you?”
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 478273 times)