Adventure Log XVI.II
A MONSTER REVEALED. PART 2
The Flowers found a simple rowing boat and moved silently across the salty waters, their boat slipping like a ghost toward the ruined shores of Old Korvosa. Taylan’s invisibility sphere spell cloaked them from prying eyes, but even the magic could not dispel the tension that hung heavy among them. Each stroke of the oars brought them closer to the heart of chaos.
Byron sat near the bow, his grip tight on the edge of the boat. His jaw clenched as his thoughts lingered on Gina. The hope of finding her weighed heavily against the urgency of their mission. He finally looked up as the stench of charred timber and smoke filled his nostrils, snapping him back to the present.
"Keep your heads low," Byron muttered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water. "The Queen’s quarantine might keep most people out, but who knows what kind of clown patrols are out here."
Calli, her gaze fixed on the skeletal remains of buildings on the horizon, nodded grimly and remembered what she’d seen earlier that day.
As they neared the docks, the devastation of Old Korvosa became painfully clear. Whole blocks had been reduced to rubble, their charred frames jutting out like broken teeth. The distant sound of shouting and laughter—wild, unhinged—echoed across the ruins. Fires burned in scattered patches, casting a sinister glow over the chaos.
The boat bumped against the dock with a soft thud.
“We move fast, stay together, and keep quiet,” Byron said, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured for everyone to disembark. “Let’s find Orisini and get out of here before anyone realises we’re here.”
As they stepped onto the dock, Byron hesitated, looking back at the city proper, still faintly visible across the water. For a moment, guilt flickered in his eyes. Then he turned, hardening his resolve, and followed the others into the shadows of Old Korvosa.
The streets were worse than they had imagined. There was despair in the air, and the distant wails of the desperate added to the sense of foreboding. Crude graffiti marked the walls, proclaiming allegiance to “The Emperor of Old Korvosa,” while others were warnings to stay away. Piles of rubble and trash blocked alleyways, forcing the group to pick their way carefully through the ruins.
As the Flowers made their way through the crumbling streets of Old Korvosa, the veil of their monk disguises did little to shield them from the pervasive madness that clung to the city like a sickness. Children skipped through the streets, their high-pitched laughter echoing against the soot-stained walls, but the songs they sang were anything but innocent. The strange, disjointed rhymes spoke of queens, devils, and burning skies. In their hands, they clutched a small crude guillotine, and with unnerving focus, they decapitated their toy dolls, cheering each time the heads fell to the cobblestones.
Travis’ hand tightened on his weapon beneath his robes, his jaw clenching as he watched the scene. “This place... it’s lost its soul,” he muttered under his breath.
Ahead, a man in a baker’s apron appeared on a balcony, his flour-dusted hands raised high as if addressing an invisible crowd. “Rejoice!” he cried. “The Queen will save us! She’ll save us all!” His voice cracked into laughter, an unhinged cackle that echoed through the alleyways. Then he fell silent, staring blankly into the distance before retreating back inside.
Taylan shivered, his voice low. “This isn’t a city anymore. It’s a nightmare.”
Knowing they were surrounded by danger—not just from the clown face gangs but from the very citizens themselves—the Flowers moved with practiced stealth, sticking to shadows and abandoned pathways, each step calculated to avoid drawing attention.
The air grew heavier as they approached their destination. The walls of Fort Korvosa loomed ahead, towering sturdy stone a stark contrast to the chaos of the city around it. The ground within seemed pristine, untouched by the madness that had consumed the rest of Old Korvosa.
The Flowers exchanged silent glances, their breaths held as they crept toward the gates. The guards stationed there, wearing Cerulean Society livery, were alert but far from vigilant, their eyes scanning the main streets and not the shadows where the Flowers moved. Slipping past them was child’s play; within moments, they had crossed into Garrison Hill, hidden among the perfectly manicured hedges and trees.
Byron let out a quiet exhale as they regrouped near a large flowering topiary, its bright decorative nature a jarring contrast to the filth and chaos outside. “We’re in,” he murmured.
Nightingale nodded, his gaze towards the Arkona Palace walls in the distance. “Let’s not waste time. We can’t afford to be delayed by the Arkona’s brand of hospitality.”
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The Flowers navigated through Garrison Hill with careful precision, finally making their way to the ruins of Orisini’s training academy. What had once been a proud arena—a place where the sharp clang of swords and the disciplined shouts of students had filled the air—was now a desolate, blackened husk. The fire had consumed almost everything, leaving only skeletal remains of the once-grand structure. Charred beams jutted upward like broken ribs, and ash swirled around their feet with every step.
Nightingale’s face darkened as he took in the scene. He’d spent a good deal of time here growing up. First as a child with his mother, and then on his own. "This was more than a fire," he said, his voice laden with suspicion. "It looks deliberate. Orisini’s work... his students... all gone."
Calli crouched near a crumbled stone pillar, brushing ash away with her fingers before using her cantrip to clean them. "The fire wasn’t recent," she said, her tone contemplative. "This happened weeks ago. But why would someone destroy the academy? What did they gain from this?"
As they wandered the ruins, the emptiness of the place gnawed at them. Broken training dummies lay scattered like fallen soldiers, their straw innards spilling onto the soot-covered ground. A faint smell of burnt leather and wood still clung to the air, mingling with the scent of decay.
It was Travis who first noticed it—a faint, almost imperceptible trail in the soot. Footprints. They led away from the academy, barely visible but unmistakable. "Over here," he called quietly, gesturing for the others to join him.
The Flowers gathered around, their eyes following the trail. The prints were uneven, as if whoever had left them had been injured or in a hurry.
"Someone survived," Nightingale whispered, a flicker of hope in his voice.
"Orisini," Byron said firmly. "It has to be him. He must’ve fled before the fire consumed the place.”
Taylan added, “Whoever left these prints—whether it’s Orisini or not—might know what happened here."
The group nodded in silent agreement, their steps cautious as they left the ruins behind.
————————————————————-
The trail led the Flowers to a modest wooden house, nestled inconspicuously amidst the decay of Old Korvosa. Its weathered boards and quiet demeanour did little to distinguish it from the surrounding ruins. Byron raised a hand, signalling for caution, and then instructed Little Focker, his ever-loyal drake, to scout the perimeter. The drake launched into the air, its leathery wings beating softly as it circled the house.
Little Focker returned moments later, his sharp eyes offering little insight. "Windows are shut tight," Byron muttered after the drake’s report. "Curtains drawn.If anyone's in there, they don’t want to be seen."
Nightingale knocked on the door and called out, “Orisini? Are you in?” They waited and listened but heard nothing.
With weapons at the ready, the Flowers tried the front door and found it unlocked. The interior was eerily quiet. They found themselves in a small entrance hall, its centrepiece an elegant rug that seemed oddly out of place in the otherwise barren room. Byron's instincts flared. He crouched and lifted the rug, half-expecting to find a trapdoor or hidden compartment. But there was nothing.
“Just a rug,” he muttered, dropping it back into place with a frown. As he stood looking back at those still entering he noticed a dark smear on the doorframe. Inspecting it he points out to the others that someone with an ashy hand had come through- and it was fresh. He shut the front door behind them and the party lined up down the narrow hall to begin checking rooms. The hallway extended further into the house, ending in what appeared to be a dimly lit living room. There were two closed doors to the right and two to the left.
Nightingale opened the closest door on the right, revealing a workshop. The room was tidy and meticulously organised, lined with racks of tools and shelves stocked with materials for repairing and embellishing blades. A long wooden table dominated the centre, cluttered with half-finished rapiers, intricate engravings partially completed on their hilts.
Travis picked up one of the rapiers, inspecting it closely. “Well-made, but nothing too valuable. Whoever lived here wasn’t hoarding treasures.”
As the Flowers continued down the hallway, three more doors came into view—two on the left and one on the right. Each step was measured, their senses sharp, expecting danger at every turn.
Byron moved past to push open the next door on the right, revealing a small bathroom. A free-standing toilet and a worn porcelain sink stood quietly in the room, unremarkable yet oddly unsettling in the silence. He glanced around quickly, noting nothing out of place, and stepped back into the hall.
Taylan took the lead with the first door on the left, easing it open with a creak. Inside was a cozy study. A single leather chair faced a polished wooden desk, while two tall bookcases filled with tomes of swordsmanship and philosophy lined the eastern wall. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and leather, a subtle reminder of a time when this place probably buzzed with intellectual pursuits.
Calli rifled through the papers scattered across the desk. "Accounting records," she muttered, flipping through ledgers detailing expenditures and income for Vencarlo’s Academy. "Nothing here to tell us where he’s gone."
“Just like the workshop,” Nightingale said with a sigh. “This place feels abandoned, not lived in.”
Byron grunted in agreement.
Finally, Travis approached the last door on the left. The creak of the hinges echoed louder than he’d anticipated, setting everyone’s nerves on edge. Inside was a small pantry, its shelves lined with jars and supplies. The smell of rotting food wafted out, and he wrinkled his nose.
“Mostly spoiled,” he said, poking at a mouldy loaf of bread.
The party regrouped in the hallway, unease prickling at their nerves. So far, the house offered no clues, just echoes of a man who once lived here—a man who had vanished without a trace.
The Flowers cautiously stepped into the living room, their eyes immediately drawn to the glowing hearth. The fire crackled warmly in the brick fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the room. It felt out of place in what seemed to be an otherwise abandoned house.
“Strange,” Nightingale muttered, his eyes narrowing. “Who’s keeping that fire going?”
Byron’s hands instinctively clenched as he scanned the room. Two large, well-worn sofas were positioned in front of the fireplace, as if waiting for occupants to sit and enjoy the warmth.
Calli moved closer, her steps light. She crouched by the hearth, holding her hands near the flames. “It’s fresh,” she said. But something about it felt…off. The warmth it gave was too inviting, too comforting for a place as desolate as this.“Someone’s been here recently.”
"Or someone’s still here," Travis added, his voice low. He glanced toward the stairs on the right, which spiraled upward into the shadows. “Could be upstairs.”
The group exchanged glances, their unease growing.
“Alright” Nightingale said firmly. “We check upstairs, but carefully. Whoever’s here might not want company.” He stalked up the stairs cautiously. Taylan followed, and Calli mounted the stairs behind them, the creak of the wooden steps breaking the tense silence as they began their ascent.
As they climbed the stairs, the faint but unmistakable smell of alchemist’s fire tickled their noses. It was sharp and acrid, a warning that set their nerves on edge.
“Do you smell that?” Taylan whispered.
“Yes,” Nightingale replied, his tone hushed but focused. “Stay close.”
They emerged into a large, open space that was immediately recognizable as a training room. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and leather, but the faint tang of alchemist’s fire was sharper here, seeping into the edges of the room.
The walls bore the scars of countless duels—scratches, chips, and shallow gouges. On the western side, two battered practice dummies stood as silent sentinels in the corners, their straw-stuffed forms wearing the tattered remains of what had once been clothing or armor. Between them, a second fireplace mirrored the one downstairs, its flames flickering and casting long shadows over the room.
Taylan moved to the center of the space, his sharp eyes scanning the exposed wooden rafters that loomed fourteen feet above. The open design of the ceiling made the room feel vast, yet strangely oppressive, as if the weight of the house’s secrets pressed down from above.
As Nightingale and Taylan investigated the training room above, Calli only halfway up the stairs, saw movement at her feet as a chilling presence stirred below. From the shadows of a nook nestled beneath the rising staircase, a figure emerged, as if conjured from the nightmares of Old Korvosa itself.
Draped in blood-red and black leather armuor, the figure’s silhouette exuded menace. The armor clung tightly, its design mimicking the segmented carapace of an insect. The most striking detail, however, was the mask—a grotesque, insectoid visage with compound eyes and mandibles, its appearance alien and utterly unnerving.
The figure moved with an eerie, deliberate grace, stepping forward on soft, measured feet, as though savoring the tension of its reveal. It clutched two sawtooth sabers, their serrated edges glinting with an unnatural sheen in the flickering firelight. The tips of the weapons angled downward, perfectly mimicking the claws of a praying mantis poised to strike.
The fire in the hearth crackled, casting long shadows that danced across the living room. The figure tilted its head slightly, the gesture unnervingly insect-like, as if studying the room for prey. The figure did not speak but instead shifted its weight into a battle-ready stance, the sabers gleaming as it raised them in a deadly display. The blades hummed softly as they sliced through the air, a sound that promised bloodshed.
Another Red Mantis Assassin materialized from the same nook, mirroring the eerie menace of the first. This one moved with a sinister elegance, spinning its jagged sawtooth sabers in intricate arcs. The air seemed to hum with the motion, the flashing blades creating a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic pattern that caught Byron’s gaze. The hulking barbarian froze in place, his fierce determination replaced by a stunned awe as his mind succumbed to the assassin's deadly display.
“Byron!” Calli shouted, her voice cutting through the growing chaos, but it was no use—the barbarian stood transfixed, helpless in the face of the assassin’s unnerving technique. She ran back into the living room and began singing a dark, threatening dirge aimed at the intruders designed to interfere with their effectiveness.
Taylan started back down, but seeing how close the red figures stood to the stairs he knew he’d be at risk, and returned to the top. “After you!”
Nightingale rushed past as soon as Taylan was out of the way, years of training proving their worth, and took steps two at a time with his rapier drawn. One of the assassins did swipe out at his heel as he got within range, but misjudged how fast Gale was moving and the overextended himself, leaving his side open. Without hesitation, he lashed out at the first assassin with two swift strikes before he’d even fully reached the ground floor. His blade, crackling with the energy of a shocking grasp spell, pierced through the assassin’s defenses deep into his ribs. The charge surged through the assassin’s body, and with an unnatural crack, the figure’s form disintegrated into a swirling cloud of dust. The room fell momentarily silent, no sign of flesh or bone left behind.
Before anyone could fully process the strange demise, Little Focker sprang into action. Sensing his master’s peril, the drake unleashed a cone of confusion. The magical energy rippled through the air, enveloping the remaining assassin in its grasp. The assassin faltered, his movements becoming erratic as he suddenly turned one of his sabers inward and punched himself square in the face with the hilt.
Upstairs Taylan felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, and with shock he turned to find another bug-like killer twirling his swords in front of his face. The strange light reflections of the motions seeped into his psyche, and he- like Byron below- became hypnotised.
Yet another assassin revealed themselves upstairs, and pulling a bottle of alchemist’s fire from it’s belt, smashed it on the ground in front of him. The flames leapt into the air, gaining extra oomph from the chemicals already permeating the room.
Taking advantage of the downstairs assassin’s disorientation, Travis charged in, his massive axe raised high. With a ferocious cry, he brought the weapon crashing down on the assassin’s armored shoulder twice, the blade biting deep and drawing bursts of dark, brackish blood.
The blow shattered the hypnotic hold on Byron, and the barbarian’s eyes flared with renewed fury. With a guttural roar, he lunged at the assassin, claws extended. He stepped up on the sofa between them, leaping off to come crashing down on top of him. The Red Mantis barely had time to react before Byron’s claws gouged down through its chest, rending the figure apart.
As with the first, the assassin’s body did not fall—it burst into a cloud of dust, the particles swirling for a moment before dissipating entirely.
The room fell still again, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The group stood in a loose circle, breathing heavily, their weapons ready, scanning the shadows for any sign of more assassins.
The group downstairs barely had time to catch their breath when a scream from Taylan broke the tense silence. He’d regained his senses and immediately flung himself away from his attacker. They looked up to see the sorcerer tumbling backward down the staircase, wide-eyed and shouting as he bounced, “More! Upstairs! With fire!”
Taylan hit the floor with a thud, but before anyone could help him, Nightingale sprinted up the stairs again. As he reached the top, he saw two more Red Mantis Assassins, their sinister sabres weaving the same hypnotic dance. One assassin’s blade was already moving in mesmerising arcs, the effect that had threatened to pull Taylan into its deadly rhythm turned on the magus.
Nightingale wasted no time. With precision honed from countless battles, he lunged forward, his rapier crackling with magical energy. The blade pierced the closest assassin cleanly, the shocking grasp spell arcing through its body. Just like the others before it, the assassin erupted into a swirling cloud of dust, its form erased from existence.
The fire spread, and to Nightingale’s surprise, the last assassin stepped directly into it but was seemingly unfazed, as it began the same blade dance the others had used to try and hypnotize its the electric enemy.
Hearing the commotion, Travis stormed up the stairs, his brutal axe at the ready. He spotted the remaining assassin across the room, but the distance was too great for him to close in and attack directly. Thinking quickly, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a magical feather token. With a whispered command, the token transformed into a spectral whip, which sprang to life and lashed out at the assassin. The magical whip wrapped itself around the killer, pinning his arms to his sides.
The assassin hissed in frustration, its masked face turning toward Travis with an almost predatory focus, but the assassin remained within the inferno, unharmed, as if daring them to approach.
Downstairs Calli changed her song, knowing the dirge of doom wouldn’t work on foes who could not see her perform it, she instead inspired her team to be their best selves. Byron charged up to join the battle, shouting a challenge for the assassin to stop hiding and give him a real fight. Taylan crept up behind to see if there was anything he could do to help, but with the three taller men in his way he couldn’t get a good angle.
Nightingale tried to reason with the last Mantis, pointing out he was cornered, outnumbered, and soon to die. The Red Mantis Assassin didn’t respond to either Byron or Gale, but instead with a surge of unnatural strength, it broke free from the whip’s grasp. The fires around him continued to spread.
Travis, however, was prepared. His magical resistance to fire shielded him from the worst of the flames as he strode through the blaze, his spectral whip reappearing to bind the assassin once more. The assassin struggled, but this time, the whip held firm. With a growl, Travis raised his axe and brought it crashing down, carving a deep gash into the assassin’s torso.
Byron followed, his fury unchecked. Ignoring the flames licking at his skin, he barreled through the fire with claws extended. He roared as he plunged his claws into the assassin’s chest, lifting it off its feet. The killer’s body shuddered violently before it, too, dissolved into a cloud of dust, scattering into the air like ashes. Only once he ran out of foes did he jump out of the fire onto the floor so he could roll himself out again.
The fire in the room burned brightly, casting flickering shadows across the exhausted party as they regrouped upstairs. The training dummies and rafters bore scorch marks from the alchemist fire, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and dust. Because of the chemicals, the fire was not easy to put out, but Nightingale was able to overcome them by using a couple of well aimed ray of frosts. When the danger had passed, they took stock.
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The fire crackled and smouldered as the last remnants of its flames were extinguished, the air in the room was sickly between the chemical smell and the smoke. The Flowers, though weary, moved with purpose, aware that time was running out.
Taylan wiped soot from his brow and surveyed the room once more. "These assassins were waiting for someone. But who? Maybe they were after us... but I think they were after Orisini," he said, his voice low with thought.
Byron grunted in agreement, his sharp eyes scanning the area. "If Orisini is still alive, he’s got to be close. We’ll find him."
The group split up, their eyes trained on every corner of the room. Nightingale's voice broke the silence as he moved toward the assassin's armor. "This is interesting," he muttered, as he examined the potions and weapons the assassins carried. "Resist fire, alchemist’s fire... not surprising, considering the traps they set." He picked up the magical leather armor, noticing its fine craftsmanship. "This armour’s enchanted, and these sabres are far beyond the usual fare. These aren’t your average hired killers."
Taylan nodded, hefting one of the daggers. "And these daggers... finely made. Whoever hired them wasn’t messing around."
Calli picked up a mask, first turning it over in her hands before pulling out the Harrow deck to help identify anything unusual about it. "These masks are also magical. They grant darkvision, see invisibility, and can even read the health status of those around them." She paused, her expression darkening. "I understand how the Red Mantis Assassins have such wicked reputations, they really are built to be boogeymen!"
”We have to find something that will lead us to Orisini,” said Nightingale “Let’s split up and search all the rooms”
Each of the Flowers nodded and went off. After a thorough search eventually, they made a discovery. In a closet tucked behind a stack of old blankets and crates, they found a hidden panel in the wall. Calli’s sharp eye noticed the faint seams in the wood, and after a brief moment of work, the panel opened with a soft click. Inside was a small compartment containing an iron lockbox.
Without hesitation, Nightingale used his acid splash to melt the lock, and the box popped open, revealing its contents. His eyes widened as he sifted through the items within, quickly realizing what they had stumbled upon.
"By the gods…" Nightingale whispered, his voice tinged with awe. "This is... this is Blackjack’s gear."
The box held a bag of holding, and inside it were several items that seemed to belong to a shadowed figure of legend. A black hooded cloak of elvenkind, several black masks, and a dozen masterwork daggers with a “B” engraved on the pommels. There was also a suit of black leather armor, +2 slick leather armor, along with black leather boots of elvenkind, and a pair of gloves of Dexterity +2.
Nightingale’s brows furrowed as he examined the final item: an exquisite mithral keen rapier. He recognized the weapon immediately. “This is Blackjack’s weapon,” he said, his voice filled with realisation. “Vencarlo Orisini… he’s Blackjack.”
The room fell silent as the weight of the discovery settled in. The vigilante they had heard so much about, the elusive hero of Korvosa, was none other than the man they had been searching for.
Calli shook her head in disbelief. "So, all along… Orisini has been Blackjack. No wonder he’s been so hard to find. He’s been playing both sides. I have so many questions for him!"
“Orisini must have known,” Nightingale murmured, "known that the Queen would come after him, that the city would be in chaos. He’s been preparing for something big."
The air in the house felt heavy now, the shadows seeming to grow longer. If Orisini was indeed Blackjack, he had been living a dangerous double life—fighting the corruption of Korvosa while still operating in the shadows to keep the Queen's forces at bay. But the question remained: where was he now, and what had happened to him after these assassins had arrived?
Nightingale looked at his companions, his gaze sharp. "We need to find him. And fast. He’s the key to unraveling the Queen's hold over Korvosa, and we have to find him before she does."
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As the Flowers exited the small wooden house, the weight of their recent discovery still buzzing in their minds, a subtle movement caught their attention—a figure crouched in a nearby bush, trying to signal them.
At first, it seemed like another assassin, but something about the posture seemed different. Calli squinted, and then, as the figure straightened up and revealed his face, recognition hit her like a bolt.
"Amin Jalento?" she called out, her voice low but relieved.
The young nobleman, looking gaunt and nervous, stepped forward from the shadows, his eyes darting around to ensure they weren’t being watched. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a look of urgency and fear. “Shhh! Yes, you know me? Were you sent to rescue me? Can you get me out of here?”
"How are you here?" Byron asked, his voice soft with surprise. "Last time we saw you, we saved you from an angry mob on the mainland."
Amin tilted his head, confused at this statement from an old man he’d never seen before. "I was attending Vencarlo’s Academy when the quarantine hit. Afterward, I couldn’t leave. I tried, but the docks were sealed, and then everything… turned into this. Vencarlo, gracious as he was, allowed me to stay here, to keep me safe when the city descended into chaos." He paused, swallowing hard as his eyes flicked nervously toward the house. "But that safety didn’t last."
The Flowers exchanged worried glances, a sinking feeling growing in their chests.
“What happened?" Nightingale asked, his voice calm but filled with concern.
Amin looked around again, lowering his voice even further. "Red Mantis assassins... they came for Vencarlo. They attacked the house just after the quarantine was enforced. Vencarlo tried to fight them off—he’s... he’s a skilled man, as you know—but there were too many of them. He took down one, but in the end, he had to flee."
His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he looked like he might say more but hesitated. The words seemed to stick in his throat. Finally, he spoke again, his gaze hardening with a mix of fear and resolve.
“Vencarlo’s... gone," Amin continued. "But I have an idea of where he went. Or at least, I have a suspicion."
“Where?" Calli asked quickly, her heart racing.
“I believe he went to Salvator Screams house,” replied Amin.
“Salvator Scream?" Travis echoed, narrowing his eyes. "I’ve heard that name. His work is infamous in Korvosa for its... unsettling nature. What business would Vencarlo have with a man like that?"
Amin shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know. All I can tell you is that Vencarlo called him a friend, even though it didn’t seem like their last meeting ended on friendly terms. Salvator came to the house three times, always at night. They’d speak behind closed doors. On the final visit, Vencarlo’s voice got heated—angry. It was strange, and I thought it best not to ask questions. After that, Salvator didn’t return, and then... the assassins came."
Byron frowned. "So you think this artist might know where Vencarlo is? Or at least have an idea?"
Amin nodded quickly. "If anyone does, it’s Salvator. But his home is in Wave Street, in the Narrows. It’s not exactly a welcoming neighbourhood, especially now. The quarantine has made everything worse. I’ve heard stories about people disappearing down there—gangs, crazed zealots, and who knows what else."
Calli crossed her arms, her mind working quickly. "We don’t have a choice. If Salvator might have answers, we need to find him. Amin. Thank you."
Amin then asked the unfamiliar monks if they could help get back to the mainland. They agreed but not until they had finished their mission. He needed to keep out of sight and they would return for him. “Please hurry. I’m out of rations, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” the unlucky noble then melted back into the shadows, leaving the Flowers to steel themselves for their next move.
Travis gripped his axe tightly, his jaw set. "Let’s not waste any more time. The longer we wait, the colder this trail gets."
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The Flowers navigated the dim, twisted streets of Old Korvosa with measured caution, their darkened monk disguises continuing to aid in the effort. Unfortunately, the disguises couldn’t correct behaviour, and Taylan wasn’t quite as stealthy on this journey as the others, drawing occasional wary glances from his companions.
As they rounded a corner, they crossed paths with an old woman carrying a basket of mushrooms. Byron signaled for everyone to stop, and pulled out a silver that he pressed into her wrinkled palm. “Good Eve, Granny. Do you happen to know the schoolmistress Ms. Cooper? I’ve not seen her since quarantine started, and it would do my heart good to check in on her.”
“You’ve a kind soul! I don’t know where she is, but the children might. Perhaps you’d like to meet my children?” She was soft spoken and sweet, without the tinge of desperation or madness they’d seen in others so far. However, the memory of the children from earlier made them hesitant.
“Not at this time, thank you for the offer, but we’re on the way to somewhere in a hurry. I won’t disturb them just now,” Byron apologised.
“Probably for the best,” she gave him a sympathetic look, “Poor things are sleeping off their sickness at the moment.”
Byron stiffened, the word ‘sickness’ feeling full of hidden menace in this lawless place. He forced a polite smile. “I wish them well. Another time, perhaps.”
The group moved on, curious and concerned but burdened with purpose to important to abandon.
As the Flowers got closer Salvator’s house, Calli froze, her ears catching a strange, soft cooing sound drifting from a nearby alley. Turning her head, she spotted a figure emerging from the shadows—a man clad in tattered robes and wearing a grotesque physician’s mask. His gloved hands flapped awkwardly at his sides, mimicking the movements of a bird’s wings.
“Caw… coo…” the man murmured, his voice muffled and oddly melodic. He tilted his head sharply to one side, as if studying them through the mask’s round, glassy eyes. “I am the herald of Pharasma,” he proclaimed, his tone both fervent and unhinged. “The great bird of judgment, sent to guide lost souls.”
The Flowers exchanged uneasy glances. Calli felt a chill run down her spine as the man continued to flap his arms and shuffle in a circle, muttering fragmented prayers and bird-like noises. His movements were erratic, and his delusions seemed absolute. Calli slowly moved over to him, reaching out a hand to lift the mask and see who was within. They didn’t recognize the man, just another citizen with the marks of Blood Veil.
“You take off my face!?” he spoke the stilted sentence in wide-eyed surprise. “Are you surgeon, too? Do you want to use my knives?”
Byron raised an eyebrow, “I have my own knives.”
“Keep moving,” Travis muttered, his voice low. “The city’s gone mad. No need to stir the pot.”
They sidestepped the strange man, his nonsensical coos fading into the distance as they pressed on. The encounter left an unsettling mark, another indication that Old Korvosa was a place teetering on the brink of complete insanity.
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Passing a sinkhole with three otyughs wallowing in the muddy pit, the Flowers finally found Salavator’s decrepit house. The earth outside was churned and as muddy as the pit, clearly showcasing numerous bootprints to and from the dwelling. There was also one deep groove, as if something heavier had been drug.
"Looks like someone may have got to him before us," Nightingale murmured, his rapier already in hand.
"Or we might be walking straight into an ambush," Travis said, glancing around the shadowed alleys. His grip tightened on his axe.
Byron nodded, his expression dark. "We don’t have a choice. If Salvator’s the key to finding Vencarlo, we can’t afford to lose him. But let’s be smart about this. We check the house first—see if there’s anything left behind." He sent Lil Focker to do a circuit of the outside, and the drake returned to report the windows here had been as tightly shuttered as the ones at Vencarlo’s.
The group crept toward the leaning shack, careful to avoid making unnecessary noise. The building seemed ready to collapse under its own weight, its crooked walls sagging and its windows shuttered with warped wood. Byron listened at the door and heard a faint humming.
Taylan, finding out someone was inside, took the direct approach and knocked at the door. When there was no reply, Byron tried the handle, and it opened easily.
Nightingale slipped inside first, moving like a shadow. The interior was as bleak as the exterior, and the damp stench of mildew thick in the air. He gestured for the others to follow, as inside was only a long, empty hall with a door on either side and one further ahead. The humming, drifting from the far end, had stopped.
The Flowers moved cautiously, their weapons at the ready, as Nightingale stepped further into the house. The oppressive silence pressed against their ears, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. The group decided to check the bedroom to the left first, drawn by the sight of disarray and the faint metallic scent of dried blood. It was bare aside from a single bed that had been tossed, the blankets and pillows trampled under the muddy boots.
Byron entered the room with measured steps, his keen eyes sweeping over the scattered bedding. "Looks like someone was taken by force," he muttered, crouching near the pillow to examine the stains. “At least half a dozen people involved, from the looks of things.” He found the brown stains on one flattened pillow wasn’t just mud, but also dried blood.
They crossed into front room across the hall, and found it was covered in more of the muddy footprints. A single empty set of shelves were all that was left, but whether the contents were stolen or- from the shabby look of the dwelling- always empty, they could not know. Taylan ran a hand over the empty shelves, his fingers brushing over faint scratches.
Returning to the hall they found the door at the end had been opened, and there leaning casually against the wall, was a striking female elf. Her black hair had a turquoise sheen that shimmered in the candlelight, vibrant and unnatural against the grim setting. She wore a one-piece leather outfit adorned with jagged thorns, making her look as dangerous as the wickedly sharp spiked chain she held loosely in her hands.
Her posture was relaxed, almost playful. Her grin was unnervingly cheerful, her bright eyes scanning each member of the group with an unsettling mix of amusement and calculation.
“Oh hello” she said, her smile widening “Who are you?”
Quick as a flash Nightingale replied, “We are from The Faith of the Sword.”
The woman tilted her head, her vibrant turquoise hair shifting like a ripple of water as her cheerful smile widened. "Well, well! The Faith of the Sword, you say? How delightful! I've never heard of you, but you must tell me more."
Nightingale, ever the gentleman, stepped forward with an elaborate bow. "We are a humble yet devoted order," he said smoothly, his voice rich with fabricated sincerity. "Our faith is found in the forge of battle and the mastery of the blade. Every duel, every strike, brings us closer to enlightenment."
She clasped her hands together, her spiked chain jingling softly. Her enthusiasm was almost childlike, though it carried an undertone of something darker. "That is simply adorable! Faith through battle? Prowess as a path to divinity? I love it! I mean, it’s not quite chains and agony, but it’s still very poetic."
As she spoke, Calli’s eyes narrowed. Something about the woman’s demeanour clicked into place. The jagged thorns, the macabre candle arrangement, the unsettling fascination with pain—it all screamed one thing: she was a cleric of Zon-Kuthon.
The Midnight Lord. The God of Pain.
Calli suppressed a shiver. Zon-Kuthon’s followers revelled in suffering and torment, believing them to be the truest expressions of existence. They were dangerous fanatics, devoted to the kind of horrors that made strong men weep. And he also happened to be the estranged brother of Shelyn, her own goddess of choice. She wasn’t sure how a follower of his would take to meeting a follower of hers.
Nightingale also made the connection. “Chains and agony, are those the tenets of your own god?”
“Oh yes. Chains, agony, pain, madness. Being here in Old Korvossa right now is like a grand vacation!” The woman, oblivious to—or perhaps perfectly aware of—the discomfort she was causing, twirled her chain absently as she spoke. "So, what brings such interesting folk to this little haven of artistic misery? You must have a purpose!"
Nightingale nodded, his face carefully neutral. "We seek a member of our order, Vencarlo Orisini. He has... disappeared. We came here hoping Salvator Scream might provide answers."
At the mention of Salvator’s name, the womans eyes lit up with genuine excitement. She clasped her hands against her chest, the spikes on her armour clinking softly. "Salvator! Oh, he is brilliant! His work, the way he captures the raw, bleeding essence of humanity—it speaks to my soul. Have you seen The Ecstasy of Grief? Or Chains of Memory? Such profound reflections of life’s glorious suffering!" She disappeared back into the open room behind her and the Flowers followed cautiously.
In pride of place on the wall was one of the artist’s demented paintings portraying a pile of dead animals rendered in meticulous detail. On a simple desk in front of the painting a crude and macabre shrine had been erected. Six highly polished skulls crowned with lit candles illuminated the otherwise sparse room, the flickering candlelight casting ominous shadows that danced across the walls. The candles worked to make the room smell a bit fresher than the rest of the house, but with the windows boarded shut the room still felt stuffy. The skulls were arranged in a slight arc around a careful stack of papers and scrolls. Calli’s eyes lingered on the papers and scrolls within the arc of skulls, her curiosity piqued. The only other things in the room were a single chair in front of the desk, and a nearly empty cabinet to the south holding only a few paintbrushes and a cracked clay urn.
The Flowers exchanged uneasy glances, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. She went on, her voice almost reverent. "Salvator is a genius, a true artist who understands the beauty of pain and the fleeting nature of joy. I’ve been searching for him as well. I was hoping to commission him for a... personal project."
Taylan piped up, steering the conversation back on track. "It seems we’re both looking for him, then. Perhaps we can pool our efforts?" He didn’t notice Calli’s brief horrified face at the suggestion.
The woman clapped her hands together, her grin widening. "Oh, how marvelous! I knew you lot were special. What fun we’ll have together! My name is Laori. What shall I call each of you?"
“Tanisha. My name is Tanisha,” Calli immediately offered, not wanting them to give their names to this devotee of evil just yet. The party picked up on her cue, and one by one they offered new names for their monkish personas. Taylan revealed himself to be Brother Jamiroquai, Gale as Brother Bennedict, Travis as Brother Bloodstone, and Byron’s chosen (less subtle) alias was Brother Bear. Calli continued, “I’m not one of their faith, myself, I’m acting more as a tour guide for them while they’re in town on their pilgrimage.”
Laori repeated their names in turn, committing them to memory. “Pleased to meet you all,” Her tone was so lighthearted, so casual, that it took the Flowers a moment to register what she said next. “We should start with the Emperor," she declared cheerfully. "If anyone has Salvator, it’s him."
The room fell silent.
Travis voice was a low rumble. "The Emperor?"
Laori nodded, utterly unfazed by the tension her words created. "Oh yes, He’s such a delightful little tyrant, isn’t he? Always lording over his kingdom of filth with his grinning clowns. If Salvator’s been taken, he’s the likeliest suspect."
“It makes sense,” Calli reluctantly agreed, “He was a theatre person, yes? Perhaps he wanted the painter to do a royal portrait of himself in his new role.”
Travis shifted uncomfortably, gripping his axe. "And you think we can just... visit this Emperor?"
Laori chuckled, a musical sound entirely at odds with the sinister nature of her words. "Of course!”
"Fine," Byron said gruffly, "Let’s go see this Emperor. But if this is a trap..."
Laori raised her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. "Oh, darling, I wouldn’t dream of it! I like you lot too much already."
Laori extended her hand, holding out a small, bloodied scrap of cloth. The material, though frayed and stained, bore an unmistakable pattern—golden threads woven into an intricate design that marked it as part of the uniform of the seneschal of Castle Korvosa.
"This little treasure," Laori said, her voice dripping with delight, "was tucked away here in Salvator’s house. Strange place for something so... prestigious, don’t you think? It’s yours now, a gesture of faith between new friends."
Nightingale took the cloth, inspecting it closely. The weave and insignia were unmistakable. "The Seneschal? He went missing after the King died! Looks like it wasn’t a voluntary leave of absence."
Laori shrugged nonchalantly, her grin never fading. "Perhaps! Or maybe our dear Salvator has been dabbling in some very high-profile company. Either way, it’s juicy, isn’t it?"
Calli frowned, her mind racing. Seneschal Neolandus’ disappearance had been one of many mysteries haunting the city. If the Emperor truly had him as a prisoner, it added a new layer of danger to their mission. But also a glimmer of hope. The Seneschal is the only person legally allowed to depose the Queen. They’d have to ask Scream about him, too.
Travis growled, his fingers tightening around the haft of his axe. "We don’t have time to speculate. If the Emperor’s holding these people, we’ll get them out. End of story."
Laori clapped her hands together, her spikes clanking. "Oh, this should be juicy! Let’s not dawdle, then. The Emperor is a busy man, and I’d hate to miss his... eccentricities."
As Laori left the room, the Flowers exchanged more uneasy glances, there was no turning back now!
