- Oct 20, 2018
- 56
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Posting Status
- Weekly
"Now, Miss Madison Mortiere, let's recap. Why in hell are we spending our afternoon in the darkest depths of Manta Carlos City's labyrinthine sewer system instead of curled up on the couch in front of the heater with a book and a mug of cocoa?"
A tool slip out of her sweaty grasp and hit the damp stones of the floor with a heavy clang! Madison's breath caught in her throat as it rang throughout the chamber and echoed down the hall. She sat there frozen for a moment, ears straining to hear any sort of response that would be her excuse to hightail it out of there and back into the bright sunny skies of the world above her. Hearing only the dripping of leaky pipes and the trickling of thick soupy sewage water running past, she exhaled.
"Because," the necromancer answered her own rhetorical question, "instead of building a crypt in the woods and sealing it off with enough wards to deter curious adventurers like they did with most of the Dread Captains of the Decayed Fleet, this fucker just had to stage a mutiny, fail, get boxed up, and unceremoniously stashed in the tavern basement."
Madison leaned down, picked up the pickax, and gave it a few more swings. The masonry had long been crumbling thanks to shoddy labor and the passage of time, and she only needed to break apart a select few stones to bring down most of the wall. Her arms ached more and more with each hit.
"So, ask yourself. Is this all even worth it?"
She glanced down at the backpack leaning against the nearby corner. Inside, a collection of serums and powders, a few hypodermic needles, a heavy-duty box cutter, an unopened box of ritual candles (uniquely-crafted to help bind more powerful souls to the physical realm, the saleswitch told her), a lighter, and a mysterious journal that was delivered to her bookstore two weeks prior that belonged to an old sailor by the name of "Blackhand" Burr.
With one wild, final swing, the last stone shattered. A cloud of centuries-old dust and mold swirled around her, enveloping the woman as she stood there in the sewer. The wall crumbled away, revealing another small chamber dug into the middle of the earth. Leaned against the dirt and rock sat a coffin of wood, the final, rotting resting place of a man that she spent the better part of a month trying to hunt down.
A small smile curled across her face, hidden by a gas mask. "Yes. Yes it is."
@Shelby
A tool slip out of her sweaty grasp and hit the damp stones of the floor with a heavy clang! Madison's breath caught in her throat as it rang throughout the chamber and echoed down the hall. She sat there frozen for a moment, ears straining to hear any sort of response that would be her excuse to hightail it out of there and back into the bright sunny skies of the world above her. Hearing only the dripping of leaky pipes and the trickling of thick soupy sewage water running past, she exhaled.
"Because," the necromancer answered her own rhetorical question, "instead of building a crypt in the woods and sealing it off with enough wards to deter curious adventurers like they did with most of the Dread Captains of the Decayed Fleet, this fucker just had to stage a mutiny, fail, get boxed up, and unceremoniously stashed in the tavern basement."
Madison leaned down, picked up the pickax, and gave it a few more swings. The masonry had long been crumbling thanks to shoddy labor and the passage of time, and she only needed to break apart a select few stones to bring down most of the wall. Her arms ached more and more with each hit.
"So, ask yourself. Is this all even worth it?"
She glanced down at the backpack leaning against the nearby corner. Inside, a collection of serums and powders, a few hypodermic needles, a heavy-duty box cutter, an unopened box of ritual candles (uniquely-crafted to help bind more powerful souls to the physical realm, the saleswitch told her), a lighter, and a mysterious journal that was delivered to her bookstore two weeks prior that belonged to an old sailor by the name of "Blackhand" Burr.
With one wild, final swing, the last stone shattered. A cloud of centuries-old dust and mold swirled around her, enveloping the woman as she stood there in the sewer. The wall crumbled away, revealing another small chamber dug into the middle of the earth. Leaned against the dirt and rock sat a coffin of wood, the final, rotting resting place of a man that she spent the better part of a month trying to hunt down.
A small smile curled across her face, hidden by a gas mask. "Yes. Yes it is."
@Shelby