Encounterlogs
Viktorins Odd Encounter Sr Legion 240215
In the curious haven of Fertile Valley Florists, Viktorin finds his world upended when a desperate vampire's thrall barges in, seeking assistance to reunite with his master. With eyes sharing the pallor of death and desperation, the thrall reveals his plight and his unique condition, captivating Viktorin with a story of separation and longing. Although initially resistant, Viktorin's guarded exterior cracks, and he finds himself drawn into the thrall's tragic narrative. Reluctantly agreeing to aid in the search, he leads the thrall outside, navigating the complexities of the situation with a simmering irritation underscored by a reluctant sense of duty. Their journey takes a treacherous turn as they descend into the gloomy depths of the city's sewers, unveiling a subterranean world far removed from the vibrant life above.
The sewers, normally unseen by the city's inhabitants, become the stage for Viktorin's harrowing quest. Traversing the murky corridors, he encounters Samuel, the thrall, who shares a tale of hunters who captured his master. The hunters' motives are sinister, invoking a sense of urgency that propels Viktorin forward. Armed with resolve and a growing sense of camaraderie with the thrall, he confronts the coffin-bound master, guarded by two formidable hunters. In a daring and desperate altercation, Viktorin's resourcefulness and courage shine, as he manages to outmaneuver the hunters and break the enchanted lock sealing the vampire master's fate. The victory is pyrrhic, as the awakened vampire master's emergence plunges Viktorin into a terrifying tableau of predation and raw survival instinct. His escape is a flight not just from physical danger but from the moral complexities of his actions. In the end, Viktorin emerges from the sewers, his morality and understanding of the world deeply shaken by the encounter. The gratitude of the thrall, Samuel, intertwishes with Viktorin's own tumultuous feelings, leaving a lasting impression of the night's dark ventures.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Wed Feb 14 2024]
In Fertile Valley Florists - Shop
When you step into this room you are greeted with a plethora of green that is a back drop for the various assorted flower arrangements set upon displays. The floor is made from a similar reddish brick that the walls are made from, and the window sills have a rustic kick with their off white wooden trim. Toward the center of the room is a wooden counter where customers can purchase their finds. Off in the southwestern corner of this front room, two cafe tables sit near the stained glass windows that fill the room with a rainbow of colors throughout the day as well as whenever the flash of headlights pass by on the street outside.
It is afternoon, about 3F(-16C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies encounter the former thrall of a vampire who's become accidentally separated from their master. Likely mind controlled into complete devotion the thrall wants nothing more than to return. It is up to the characters to either help them do so, or prevent them from doing so.
)
Viridian-green eyes scan bouquets here and there, a brow knitting together. The man's hand reaches upward towards his brow to rub it, circling two fingers about in a circle. "Fuck... don't think I can concentrate... on all this bullshit right now," Viktorin mutters to himself, his jaw clenching and his eyes glaring vengefully at a certain bouquet of offending red roses. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Czech swiftly turns around, sharply exhaling.
A young man, his face ashen and drawn, bursts into the flower shop with a sense of urgency that sends a hush through the fragrant air. His eyes, wide and wild, dart frantically from corner to corner, scanning the colorful arrays of blooms as if seeking a lifeline amidst a sea of petals. The contrast between his pallid complexion and the vibrant hues surrounding him is stark, highlighting the depth of his distress. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breath comes in short, sharp gasps, betraying his state of panic. The delicate scent of flowers does little to soothe his evident turmoil, as he stumbles forward, clutching at the nearest display for support. Customers and staff alike pause, their attention drawn to this unexpected intruder, whose appearance is as out of place in the serene shop as a storm cloud in a clear sky. His clothes, disheveled and unkempt, suggest a man who has been running, perhaps from something more terrifying than mere physical pursuit. As he mutters incoherently to himself, the desperation in his voice is palpable, a raw edge of fear that cuts through the tranquil ambiance of the shop. He looks to Viktorin -- staggers towards him -- and then croaks out, "Help me."
Viktorin lifts his gaze, squinting at the man. His stare is hawkish, cold, with a hint of viciousness. Snapping at him, he growls, "Who the hell are you, and why'd you need my help?" There's an inhale and a nagging attempt to compose his dour mood. With a tired exhale, the Czech covers his face, muttering into his hand, "What's up dude. Whatcha want?"
Staggering forward, the pale-faced man focuses his eyes on Viktorin. They are blood-shot, shaky, and he breathes in -- and when he opens his mouth, the Czech can see a glint of teeth, the sort of sharp fangs that are obviously inhuman. "I..." He coughs it out. "My maasster," he says to Viktorin. "I can see on you the mark of some beast: help me," he says, plaintive. Plaintive and... hungry? "Help me find him. Help me rescue him," he says, reaching for Viktorin now to grasp him with a too-strong hanbd.
Viktorin lowers his eyes, lifting an eyebrow at the man's grasp on him. A glance of his shoulder comes before a low murmur and the clasping of the man's mouth with his left hand. "Shut the fuck up, not so loud you fucking moron." A snarl erupts from the Czech as he tries his best to keep his voice down, angrily whispering to, what appears to him, to be some sort of vampire, "Outside now." With all the force he can muster, he attempts to yank himself, and by consequence, the man, forward, outside the shop, growling lowly, "I'll help you, just keep your damn voice down." There's a minute attempt to remain inconspicuous, but other than that, the aggravated man appears to be far too livid to really make too much of an effort.
Outside, indeed -- the man, the vampire, follows Viktorin, lurching out into the sunlight. He recoils immediately. "No," he hisses. "We need -- this way." Now he's tugging on Viktorin, trying to urge him to an open grate near the florist that seems to lead down out of the light into Haven's sewers. There's an urgency in his voice. "Down here," he says. "The sun -- it burns me," he says. "It is the day, and I am a thing of the night." The night: suddenly, Viktorin has his own vision: some Black Stag, clad in night, banishing the sun for darkness.
Viktorin mutters, "Jesus Fucking Christ, the fucking -sewers-? I'm wearing -nice- clothes you dick." Despite his protestations, he doesn't resist being tugged, instead complying and trailing his steps to walk alongside the man. There's a measure of sympathy aside, but the situation only really seems to irk the Czech more. A step and another brings the man closer to the open grate, but the perceived vision has his nerves slowly settling. With a thumb flicking the pendant dangling from his neck, he takes the initiative and begins crawling into the grate, carefully minding his clothes.
Haven's sewers are -- unusually large, more like storm drains that sources of effluence, and as Viktorin descends into them there is a sudden blackness of light. The vampire seems to relax a little, but he is still agitated, looking to Viktorin in the gloom. "I am Samuel," he says, breathless. "They -- my master," he says. They came upon him sleeping. They -took- him," he says.
Around Viktorin and Samuel, the underground storm drain stretches out like a cavernous artery beneath the town, its wide passage echoing with the distant, constant trickle of water. Dominating the center of this subterranean conduit is a deep channel, carved out by years of relentless torrents, now lying in wait for the next deluge. The walls, made of rough, moisture-slick concrete, rise steeply from the edges of the channel, their surfaces marked by the passage of time and water. Overhead, the ceiling looms low, punctuated by occasional shafts of light that penetrate from the world above, casting eerie beams through the dank air. The sound of water moving in the depths of the channel reverberates, a constant reminder of the drain's purpose, to channel the fury of storms away from the streets above. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and the indefinable smell of urban runoff. This hidden thoroughfare, though devoid of life, bears the marks of occasional human presence?discarded debris caught in the grates, graffiti adorning the walls?silent witnesses to the intersection of two worlds."
(re after disconnect) Haven's sewers are -- unusually large, more like storm drains that sources of effluence, and as Viktorin descends into them there is a sudden blackness of light. The vampire seems to relax a little, but he is still agitated, looking to Viktorin in the gloom. "I am Samuel," he says, breathless. "They -- my master," he says. They came upon him sleeping. They -took- him," he says.
Around Viktorin and Samuel, the underground storm drain stretches out like a cavernous artery beneath the town, its wide passage echoing with the distant, constant trickle of water. Dominating the center of this subterranean conduit is a deep channel, carved out by years of relentless torrents, now lying in wait for the next deluge. The walls, made of rough, moisture-slick concrete, rise steeply from the edges of the channel, their surfaces marked by the passage of time and water. Overhead, the ceiling looms low, punctuated by occasional shafts of light that penetrate from the world above, casting eerie beams through the dank air. The sound of water moving in the depths of the channel reverberates, a constant reminder of the drain's purpose, to channel the fury of storms away from the streets above. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and the indefinable smell of urban runoff. This hidden thoroughfare, though devoid of life, bears the marks of occasional human presence -- discarded debris caught in the grates, graffiti adorning the walls?silent witnesses to the intersection of two worlds."
Viktorin brushes himself off, balancing himself out between the channel and the slick wall. He gives a slight nod towards the vampire, asking him, "Who took him? And where?" His voice comes out terse, clinical, almost cold. With a fluttering wave of his hand, Viktorin gestures forth, "Lead on. Talk while we walk." And with that, decidedly, the Czech whips out a baton from his backpack, inspecting it slightly before extending it with a small 'whoosh' sound. He traipses his fingers over it, delicately at first, before slapping it lightly into his hand, toying with the weight. Each step forward brings another slap upon his palm. However the man flickers his gaze towards the graffiti, taking extra care not to stumble into the water or against the wall. Squinting, he mutters, "Graffiti... wonder who lurks down here..."
"Hunters," comes the vampire's quiet comment to Viktorin. He starts to pick his way along the channel passageway. "Hunters took him while he slumbered, dragged him down here." His voice is plaintive. "I can -smell- him," he says. "But there is some ward here," he says... And then, indeed, he's starting to lead down some dimmer, side passageway. "It blocks those who do not breathe."
In the velvety cloak of darkness, the whisper of a faint breeze becomes a murmuring secret, rustling through forgotten spaces with a ghostly touch. Somewhere in the distance, the creak of old wood punctuates the silence, a groan of age that speaks of long-abandoned corridors. Water drips in a slow, relentless rhythm, each drop a hollow echo in the vast emptiness, resonating like the ticking of a clock in the void. A sudden, sharp crackle, as if from an unseen fire, briefly shatters the calm, leaving a lingering sense of unease in its wake. The low, mournful howl of wind weaving through unseen crevices carries with it the sorrow of uncharted depths, a lament that chills to the bone. Soft, indistinct whispers seem to float on the edge of perception, elusive and fleeting, as if the shadows themselves have found a voice. The distant scuttle of unseen creatures stirs the imagination, painting pictures of skittering forms just beyond the reach of sight. Metal creaks ominously, a sound out of place, suggesting the presence of long-forgotten machinery awakening in the gloom.
Down the passageway, trudging in silence, Samuel seems to just... stop. There's a place there where he cannot pass, and then he points to the graffiti. "These marks," he says, and indeed, they look arcane. "They have him in his coffin past here." Up the corridor, some dim light seems to echo from a side chamber, with a little flicker of movement.
Viktorin gives a curt nod towards the man, whipping out a flashlight and clicking it on. His eyes trail the ray that paints out a circle that grows upon the grown, forming a gradual oval as he aims it forward. "How many?" he asks, keeping his voice lowered as they continue down their fated path. As he hears the crackle, he tilts his head, positioning his ear towards the noise, closing his eyes for a moment and pausing, trying desperately to decipher it from the sound of the howling wind. And then the indistinct whispers come and tries to listen to those as well, his jaw clenching slowly, his teeth grinding. There's some level of anxiety stirring upon his features, but a growing rage as well. As Samuel pauses, so does he, and he lingers his gaze upon the graffiti... unsure for a moment. Shutting off his flashlight, the Czech slowly lowers himself into a balanced crouch, asking quietly, "Mm. He still asleep, or trapped within the coffin?"
Lingering behind, the vampire says, "There were two, before." He's stuck, bound by some invisible force. "He is bound inside the coffin," Samuel tells Viktorin. "There is a lock on it of enchanted silver," he says. "Break it open, and there will no longer be two hunters." There's something eerie and disturbing when Samuel says that -- his face curls into a rictus of a hungry, bloody smile, his sunken cheeks pale and his bloodshot eyes lit up with desire.
As the vampire smiles, Viktorin can feel some chill fear in his breast -- it settles in the pit of his stomach, something very mortal, but then something blossoms in it in return. That sense of pride, of triumph: Czernobog, inside him. The Black Stag sees Viktorin's fear and seems to consume it, as if it gives the black god some strength and in turns he lends some of that pride and strength to Viktorin.
(re) Lingering behind, the vampire says, "There were two, before." He's stuck, bound by some invisible force. "He is bound inside the coffin," Samuel tells Viktorin. "There is a lock on it of enchanted silver," he says. "Break it open, and there will no longer be two hunters." There's something eerie and disturbing when Samuel says that -- his face curls into a rictus of a hungry, bloody smile, his sunken cheeks pale and his bloodshot eyes lit up with desire.
As the vampire smiles, Viktorin can feel some chill fear in his breast -- it settles in the pit of his stomach, something very mortal, but then something blossoms in it in return. That sense of pride, of triumph: Czernobog, inside him. The Black Stag sees Viktorin's fear and seems to consume it, as if it gives the black god some strength and in turns he lends some of that pride and strength to Viktorin.
Viktorin shrugs nonchalantly, humming softly, "I think I'll let my great great deda decide if that's what he wants. Death-wise I mean." With a wrinkle of his nose, the Czech flattens himself against the wall, creeping forward. With pride and strength at his heels, he inches forward, a wriggling blossom of concern contorting his features, but he doesn't seem to be caving in fear. It was just tested caution. He keeps his eyes trained ahead, squinted, decidedly peering for the layout of the room he may come across before doing much of anything else.
Viktorin moves forward, and then there's the room: a small, clandestine chamber, its existence known only to a select few. The air is thick inside it with dampness, the walls slick with the sheen of perpetual moisture, casting the space in a claustrophobic embrace. Inside, in the heart of this hidden alcove sits an ominous lead coffin on a table, its surface etched with arcane symbols that seem to absorb the scant light, giving the metal an unnaturally dark hue. A heavy silver lock secures the coffin, its intricate design at odds with the otherwise stark utilitarianism of the chamber, suggesting a purpose far beyond the ordinary.
Two rough-looking men stand sentinel over the coffin, their presence marked by a palpable tension that fills the air. Clad in nondescript garb that does little to betray their allegiances, they are armed with crossbows -- gripping the weapons with a grim determination, their faces set in hard lines. The flicker of buzzing fluorescent light casts their shadows against the damp walls, creating a dance of elongated figures that adds an eerie dynamism to the scene. Their eyes, wary and watchful, scan the chamber's few entrances, a silent testament to the gravity of their charge.
Viktorin prowls forward, still sticking to the wall as he reaches the entrance towards the chamber. A decision flickers across his mind for but a second before he moves to act, tensing the muscles in his calves. With strength coursing through his body, he immediately starts sprinting, trailing his steps left for a moment, before springing rightward, going for the second man first. As he dashes forward, he hugs his right arm across his chest, grasping his baton tightly, ready to arc the weapon into a swing towards the man's temple as soon as he reaches him. With his other hand, he readies his thumb upon his mag-lite's switch, keeping his gaze concentrated upon his first target for the moment, until his swing connects. Viktorin doesn't utter a noise, no heaving of the breath, instead, desperation and instinct shoving him forward with his steps. His lips curve into a venomous smile, pleased for a scant few seconds.
CRUNCH. As tensions in the dimly lit chamber reach a peak, one of the hunters, his focus locked on the potential threats lurking in the shadows, is caught off guard. Suddenly, from the darkness, the swift, heavy arc of Viktorin's mag-lite cuts through the air, striking the hunter squarely on the side of the head with a sickening crunch. The impact is brutal, the solid heft of the flashlight delivering a blow that's both audible and visceral, echoing off the damp walls. In an instant, his body goes limp, the crossbow slipping from his grasp as he crumples to the ground, a heap of unresponsive limbs. The thud of his fall is muffled by the wet stone beneath, leaving a tense silence in the wake of the violence.
He thrashes, a little -- but the other hunter is raising his crossbow, now, to take aim at Viktorin. In that terrifying instant, the Czech man might notice that the bolt has no head: it's a wooden stake, now aimed directly in the the intruder's direction.
Viktorin immediately aims his own flashlight into the man's eyes, flicking the switch. He doesn't dare stop moving now however, it's just a moment before he's darting around the coffin. Except for the heaving of his breath, silence remains true. No noise uttered from the Czech's lips, no exclamation, just movement. This time however, he's moving to delay the inevitable, delay it long enough so he can get close. His aim is keen on the man's eyes, for the moment, but his opposite hand is readied, outstretched. He dashes and exerts presses himself painfully, in a desperation for survival, at all costs. There's a glare, glowering at the hunter as he pivots his feet, aiming himself to rush to the right of his new target. And another as he forcibly pivots again and aims left, scrabbling over the wet stone to avoid the stake that he knows could just be barreling towards him, any second.
In the immediate aftermath of his companion's sudden collapse, the remaining hunter reacts with a mix of shock and rage. With no time to process, he instinctively raises his crossbow, his movements fueled by adrenaline. The bolt is loosed with a sharp twang, its deadly point aimed with lethal intent at a young man emerging from the shadows. The missile whizzes through the air, a blur of potential death, only to narrowly miss Viktorin. It skitters off the damp wall with a screech as it ricochets into the darkness, its threat extinguished as quickly as it was born.
Without hesitation, the hunter discards the now-useless crossbow, his hand reaching for something far more personal -- a terrible knife hidden within the folds of his clothing. The blade, when revealed, gleams with a malevolent light, its edges cruel and unforgiving, promising pain and violence for Viktorin. With a grim set to his jaw, the hunter advances, the knife held low and ready, the hunter's entire demeanor shifts to one of primal, calculated aggression.
Viktorin recalculates his steps as he watches the man draw a knife, now far more wary than he was before. With a bit of caution, he slips backwards, aiming himself towards the coffin with caution. His eyes don't betray his thoughts however, kept trained upon the man's eyes, watching him. With a small whimper, he makes to act like he's surrendering, lifting his arms up high, though he keeps a firm grip on his mag-lite. And with deliberate moves, he inches backwards toward the lock keeping the coffin closed. "I give up, please don't kill me. I don't want to die... I'll do anything you want," he cries, trying to inflect fear into his voice.
As the hunter closes in, knife at the ready, he's met with an unexpected sight -- Viktorin, rather than bracing for a fight or attempting to flee, simply stands his ground and lifts his arms hands in a clear gesture of surrender. The defiance and fear that the hunter had braced himself against are absent, replaced by a vulnerability that seems out of place in the dank, perilous confines of the underground chamber. There's a quick glance, worried, between Viktorin and the coffin on the table, but his eyes are back to the young man quickly.
Indeed, it is this moment of human frailty that gives the hunter pause, his advance slowing as he takes in the sight of Viktorin before him. The hard lines of his face soften slightly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his weathered exterior. Still -- despite this glimmer of empathy, the hunter's grip on the knife does not wane; the blade remains poised, making manifest the lingering suspicion that clouds his judgment. The tension in the hunter's arm is palpable, a tightrope walk between the instinct to protect and the impulse to eliminate threats. There is an opportunity here, though: a moment for Viktorin to move.
Viktorin guiltily watches the man for a scant second, though danger coaxes a swift movement of the Czech's arms. With all the strength he can muster, he swings his arm downward, aiming his mag-lite towards the lock, a prayer ushered forth beneath his breath. "Let this work, Black One," his voice shakes. The muscles in his legs tense as he lowers himself with the strike towards the lock, his opposite hand grabbing towards the coffin as his he tenses his arm as well, all in preparation.
Viktorin moves, and then the air suddenly shivers with the unexpected sound of metal against metal. The mag-lite, previously wielded as a weapon, now serves a different purpose as it crashes with formidable force into the silver lock on the coffin. The impact is precise and devastating; the lock, despite its intricate craftsmanship and strength, cannot withstand the ferocity of the blow. It shatters into pieces, the fragments glittering briefly in the dim light before clattering to the stone floor, a twisted, broken wreck of silver.
The hunter, caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, realizes in that instant that Viktorin's surrender was nothing more than a ruse -- a calculated distraction to shift the hunter's focus and lower his defenses. With a surge of adrenaline and a curse whispered under his breath, the hunter's momentary compassion evaporates, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. He pivots with lethal grace, the knife in his hand becoming an extension of his will. In one fluid, practiced movement, he slashes through the air towards the young man, his action driven by a renewed sense of purpose and the bitter sting of deception. The blade glints menacingly as it arcs, a silent promise of retribution for the betrayal.
Viktorin uses the hand he's placed on the side of the coffin, and the tension in his calves to shove himself forward, desperately ducking away and trying his best to scrabble and flee from the blade. Or at the very least, keep his vitals away from the man's blade. He heaves his breath from his lungs needfully, in order to steal away any oxygen he can, moving his other hand, the one grasping the mag-lite, in front of him, planting it only to pull himself forward, to launch himself away from his current adversary. With a glint of hope, he shouts, "Might as well quit swinging at me, and start swinging at the bastard you kept locked up. It's your only chance of survival." And there it goes, a final hope flung to the winds in his voice, which wavers in fear and an instinctual desperation to survive, whatever the cost.
As the shattered remnants of the silver lock fall away, the coffin's foreboding lid begins to tremble, then bursts open with a violence that sends echoes ricocheting through the chamber. From within the dark confines, a figure emerges with a presence so chilling, it seems to leach the warmth from the air. This is no mere mortal, but a creature of ancient lineage, a vampire whose years span centuries, visible in the depth of its malevolent gaze. Its skin, pallid as moonlight and stretched taut over sharp, aristocratic features, contrasts starkly with the inky blackness of its ageless eyes, which burn with an unholy fire.
With a fluid grace that belies its monstrous nature, the vampire rises, towering over the hunter and the young man alike, its aura of power and age-old hunger palpable. The air around it seems to thrum with a dark energy, a testament to countless years spent in the shadows, biding its time. The ancient being's emergence is accompanied by a sound not unlike the whisper of death itself, a sigh that speaks of endless nights and the thirst that drives it. As it stands fully upright, the terrible majesty of the vampire is unveiled in full -- a predator reborn from its enforced slumber, ready to reclaim its place in the night.
As Viktorin scrambles back from the hunter, the vampire looks between the two with red, awful eyes -- as if trying to decide who is the threat. The hunter, certainly knows: he's got panic in his face, dropping the knife to now try to fumble for his dropped crossbow and load a wooden stake.
Viktorin turns his gaze as the vampire emerges, watching it with anxious eyes. And then his eyes flicker towards the hunter. Making a quick decision, he raises his mag-lite, taking aim at the man's head, and with two testing swishes, he launches it, like a tomahawk. However, his eyes flicker back, warily towards the monster in front of him, his hands skittering quickly to drag himself away from the thing, and against the wall. Shakily, he inhales and exhales, panic causing him to freeze a moment, before glancing towards the entrance to the damned chamber, as if to flee.
Behind Viktorin as he runs, the terrifying symphony of the vampire's assault unfolds in a cascade of harrowing sounds in the pitch-black chamber he has left behind. The air is rent with the hunter's initial cry of shock and pain, a sharp, desperate sound that cuts through the darkness. Almost immediately, it's drowned out by a series of sickening, wet rending noises, the unmistakable sound of flesh being torn asunder with brutal force. The dull thuds of the hunter's body hitting the ground intermingle with the grotesque squelches of the vampire's relentless attack, each impact a grim punctuation in the nightmarish ordeal.
Amidst this tableau of horrific sound, Viktorin's frantic, uneven footsteps echo as he stumbles away in blind terror, his breaths coming in ragged gasps that speak volumes to fear. The vampire's low, guttural growls reverberate through the chamber behind him, a primal sound that chills the blood, interwoven with the occasional, chilling snap of bone that sends shivers down the spine. In the background, the continuous drip of water and the distant, eerie echoes of the sewer system serve as a stark, uncanny contrast to the violence unfolding in the shadows.
Eventually, he makes it some distance away -- and then there is Samuel, the young thrall, pale and gaunt, looming out of the darkness with curious, hopeful eyes. "Did you rescue him?" he asks -- breathless, for he cannot breathe. "Is my master safe?"
Viktorin heaves his breath for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and then back towards the thrall. With a small flippant wave of his hand, he hoarsely grumbles, "Yeah. Holy Fuck..." He takes a few moments, leaning his hand against the wall as he struggles with a nagging of guilt that contorts his face, causing his lips to twist into a frown, his eyebrows to knit together, and his nose wrinkling in disgust. Flickering his gaze over towards the thrall, he asks them, "What now?" With tired exhalations, he drags himself to stand straighter, looking over the thrall with a deepening frown.
"He comes," the thrall tells Viktorin, and there's some hunger. "And you should go," he says. "Thank you."
Viktorin nods easily behind himself as he turns, before breaking off into slow jog, at first, and then a steady sprint, retracing his steps towards the safe day-light of the world above the same sewer-grate he climbed down. Guilt mired his face, but pride quickly replaced guilt, a flicker of a smile curving across his lips.
The sewers, normally unseen by the city's inhabitants, become the stage for Viktorin's harrowing quest. Traversing the murky corridors, he encounters Samuel, the thrall, who shares a tale of hunters who captured his master. The hunters' motives are sinister, invoking a sense of urgency that propels Viktorin forward. Armed with resolve and a growing sense of camaraderie with the thrall, he confronts the coffin-bound master, guarded by two formidable hunters. In a daring and desperate altercation, Viktorin's resourcefulness and courage shine, as he manages to outmaneuver the hunters and break the enchanted lock sealing the vampire master's fate. The victory is pyrrhic, as the awakened vampire master's emergence plunges Viktorin into a terrifying tableau of predation and raw survival instinct. His escape is a flight not just from physical danger but from the moral complexities of his actions. In the end, Viktorin emerges from the sewers, his morality and understanding of the world deeply shaken by the encounter. The gratitude of the thrall, Samuel, intertwishes with Viktorin's own tumultuous feelings, leaving a lasting impression of the night's dark ventures.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Wed Feb 14 2024]
In Fertile Valley Florists - Shop
When you step into this room you are greeted with a plethora of green that is a back drop for the various assorted flower arrangements set upon displays. The floor is made from a similar reddish brick that the walls are made from, and the window sills have a rustic kick with their off white wooden trim. Toward the center of the room is a wooden counter where customers can purchase their finds. Off in the southwestern corner of this front room, two cafe tables sit near the stained glass windows that fill the room with a rainbow of colors throughout the day as well as whenever the flash of headlights pass by on the street outside.
It is afternoon, about 3F(-16C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies encounter the former thrall of a vampire who's become accidentally separated from their master. Likely mind controlled into complete devotion the thrall wants nothing more than to return. It is up to the characters to either help them do so, or prevent them from doing so.
)
Viridian-green eyes scan bouquets here and there, a brow knitting together. The man's hand reaches upward towards his brow to rub it, circling two fingers about in a circle. "Fuck... don't think I can concentrate... on all this bullshit right now," Viktorin mutters to himself, his jaw clenching and his eyes glaring vengefully at a certain bouquet of offending red roses. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Czech swiftly turns around, sharply exhaling.
A young man, his face ashen and drawn, bursts into the flower shop with a sense of urgency that sends a hush through the fragrant air. His eyes, wide and wild, dart frantically from corner to corner, scanning the colorful arrays of blooms as if seeking a lifeline amidst a sea of petals. The contrast between his pallid complexion and the vibrant hues surrounding him is stark, highlighting the depth of his distress. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breath comes in short, sharp gasps, betraying his state of panic. The delicate scent of flowers does little to soothe his evident turmoil, as he stumbles forward, clutching at the nearest display for support. Customers and staff alike pause, their attention drawn to this unexpected intruder, whose appearance is as out of place in the serene shop as a storm cloud in a clear sky. His clothes, disheveled and unkempt, suggest a man who has been running, perhaps from something more terrifying than mere physical pursuit. As he mutters incoherently to himself, the desperation in his voice is palpable, a raw edge of fear that cuts through the tranquil ambiance of the shop. He looks to Viktorin -- staggers towards him -- and then croaks out, "Help me."
Viktorin lifts his gaze, squinting at the man. His stare is hawkish, cold, with a hint of viciousness. Snapping at him, he growls, "Who the hell are you, and why'd you need my help?" There's an inhale and a nagging attempt to compose his dour mood. With a tired exhale, the Czech covers his face, muttering into his hand, "What's up dude. Whatcha want?"
Staggering forward, the pale-faced man focuses his eyes on Viktorin. They are blood-shot, shaky, and he breathes in -- and when he opens his mouth, the Czech can see a glint of teeth, the sort of sharp fangs that are obviously inhuman. "I..." He coughs it out. "My maasster," he says to Viktorin. "I can see on you the mark of some beast: help me," he says, plaintive. Plaintive and... hungry? "Help me find him. Help me rescue him," he says, reaching for Viktorin now to grasp him with a too-strong hanbd.
Viktorin lowers his eyes, lifting an eyebrow at the man's grasp on him. A glance of his shoulder comes before a low murmur and the clasping of the man's mouth with his left hand. "Shut the fuck up, not so loud you fucking moron." A snarl erupts from the Czech as he tries his best to keep his voice down, angrily whispering to, what appears to him, to be some sort of vampire, "Outside now." With all the force he can muster, he attempts to yank himself, and by consequence, the man, forward, outside the shop, growling lowly, "I'll help you, just keep your damn voice down." There's a minute attempt to remain inconspicuous, but other than that, the aggravated man appears to be far too livid to really make too much of an effort.
Outside, indeed -- the man, the vampire, follows Viktorin, lurching out into the sunlight. He recoils immediately. "No," he hisses. "We need -- this way." Now he's tugging on Viktorin, trying to urge him to an open grate near the florist that seems to lead down out of the light into Haven's sewers. There's an urgency in his voice. "Down here," he says. "The sun -- it burns me," he says. "It is the day, and I am a thing of the night." The night: suddenly, Viktorin has his own vision: some Black Stag, clad in night, banishing the sun for darkness.
Viktorin mutters, "Jesus Fucking Christ, the fucking -sewers-? I'm wearing -nice- clothes you dick." Despite his protestations, he doesn't resist being tugged, instead complying and trailing his steps to walk alongside the man. There's a measure of sympathy aside, but the situation only really seems to irk the Czech more. A step and another brings the man closer to the open grate, but the perceived vision has his nerves slowly settling. With a thumb flicking the pendant dangling from his neck, he takes the initiative and begins crawling into the grate, carefully minding his clothes.
Haven's sewers are -- unusually large, more like storm drains that sources of effluence, and as Viktorin descends into them there is a sudden blackness of light. The vampire seems to relax a little, but he is still agitated, looking to Viktorin in the gloom. "I am Samuel," he says, breathless. "They -- my master," he says. They came upon him sleeping. They -took- him," he says.
Around Viktorin and Samuel, the underground storm drain stretches out like a cavernous artery beneath the town, its wide passage echoing with the distant, constant trickle of water. Dominating the center of this subterranean conduit is a deep channel, carved out by years of relentless torrents, now lying in wait for the next deluge. The walls, made of rough, moisture-slick concrete, rise steeply from the edges of the channel, their surfaces marked by the passage of time and water. Overhead, the ceiling looms low, punctuated by occasional shafts of light that penetrate from the world above, casting eerie beams through the dank air. The sound of water moving in the depths of the channel reverberates, a constant reminder of the drain's purpose, to channel the fury of storms away from the streets above. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and the indefinable smell of urban runoff. This hidden thoroughfare, though devoid of life, bears the marks of occasional human presence?discarded debris caught in the grates, graffiti adorning the walls?silent witnesses to the intersection of two worlds."
(re after disconnect) Haven's sewers are -- unusually large, more like storm drains that sources of effluence, and as Viktorin descends into them there is a sudden blackness of light. The vampire seems to relax a little, but he is still agitated, looking to Viktorin in the gloom. "I am Samuel," he says, breathless. "They -- my master," he says. They came upon him sleeping. They -took- him," he says.
Around Viktorin and Samuel, the underground storm drain stretches out like a cavernous artery beneath the town, its wide passage echoing with the distant, constant trickle of water. Dominating the center of this subterranean conduit is a deep channel, carved out by years of relentless torrents, now lying in wait for the next deluge. The walls, made of rough, moisture-slick concrete, rise steeply from the edges of the channel, their surfaces marked by the passage of time and water. Overhead, the ceiling looms low, punctuated by occasional shafts of light that penetrate from the world above, casting eerie beams through the dank air. The sound of water moving in the depths of the channel reverberates, a constant reminder of the drain's purpose, to channel the fury of storms away from the streets above. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and the indefinable smell of urban runoff. This hidden thoroughfare, though devoid of life, bears the marks of occasional human presence -- discarded debris caught in the grates, graffiti adorning the walls?silent witnesses to the intersection of two worlds."
Viktorin brushes himself off, balancing himself out between the channel and the slick wall. He gives a slight nod towards the vampire, asking him, "Who took him? And where?" His voice comes out terse, clinical, almost cold. With a fluttering wave of his hand, Viktorin gestures forth, "Lead on. Talk while we walk." And with that, decidedly, the Czech whips out a baton from his backpack, inspecting it slightly before extending it with a small 'whoosh' sound. He traipses his fingers over it, delicately at first, before slapping it lightly into his hand, toying with the weight. Each step forward brings another slap upon his palm. However the man flickers his gaze towards the graffiti, taking extra care not to stumble into the water or against the wall. Squinting, he mutters, "Graffiti... wonder who lurks down here..."
"Hunters," comes the vampire's quiet comment to Viktorin. He starts to pick his way along the channel passageway. "Hunters took him while he slumbered, dragged him down here." His voice is plaintive. "I can -smell- him," he says. "But there is some ward here," he says... And then, indeed, he's starting to lead down some dimmer, side passageway. "It blocks those who do not breathe."
In the velvety cloak of darkness, the whisper of a faint breeze becomes a murmuring secret, rustling through forgotten spaces with a ghostly touch. Somewhere in the distance, the creak of old wood punctuates the silence, a groan of age that speaks of long-abandoned corridors. Water drips in a slow, relentless rhythm, each drop a hollow echo in the vast emptiness, resonating like the ticking of a clock in the void. A sudden, sharp crackle, as if from an unseen fire, briefly shatters the calm, leaving a lingering sense of unease in its wake. The low, mournful howl of wind weaving through unseen crevices carries with it the sorrow of uncharted depths, a lament that chills to the bone. Soft, indistinct whispers seem to float on the edge of perception, elusive and fleeting, as if the shadows themselves have found a voice. The distant scuttle of unseen creatures stirs the imagination, painting pictures of skittering forms just beyond the reach of sight. Metal creaks ominously, a sound out of place, suggesting the presence of long-forgotten machinery awakening in the gloom.
Down the passageway, trudging in silence, Samuel seems to just... stop. There's a place there where he cannot pass, and then he points to the graffiti. "These marks," he says, and indeed, they look arcane. "They have him in his coffin past here." Up the corridor, some dim light seems to echo from a side chamber, with a little flicker of movement.
Viktorin gives a curt nod towards the man, whipping out a flashlight and clicking it on. His eyes trail the ray that paints out a circle that grows upon the grown, forming a gradual oval as he aims it forward. "How many?" he asks, keeping his voice lowered as they continue down their fated path. As he hears the crackle, he tilts his head, positioning his ear towards the noise, closing his eyes for a moment and pausing, trying desperately to decipher it from the sound of the howling wind. And then the indistinct whispers come and tries to listen to those as well, his jaw clenching slowly, his teeth grinding. There's some level of anxiety stirring upon his features, but a growing rage as well. As Samuel pauses, so does he, and he lingers his gaze upon the graffiti... unsure for a moment. Shutting off his flashlight, the Czech slowly lowers himself into a balanced crouch, asking quietly, "Mm. He still asleep, or trapped within the coffin?"
Lingering behind, the vampire says, "There were two, before." He's stuck, bound by some invisible force. "He is bound inside the coffin," Samuel tells Viktorin. "There is a lock on it of enchanted silver," he says. "Break it open, and there will no longer be two hunters." There's something eerie and disturbing when Samuel says that -- his face curls into a rictus of a hungry, bloody smile, his sunken cheeks pale and his bloodshot eyes lit up with desire.
As the vampire smiles, Viktorin can feel some chill fear in his breast -- it settles in the pit of his stomach, something very mortal, but then something blossoms in it in return. That sense of pride, of triumph: Czernobog, inside him. The Black Stag sees Viktorin's fear and seems to consume it, as if it gives the black god some strength and in turns he lends some of that pride and strength to Viktorin.
(re) Lingering behind, the vampire says, "There were two, before." He's stuck, bound by some invisible force. "He is bound inside the coffin," Samuel tells Viktorin. "There is a lock on it of enchanted silver," he says. "Break it open, and there will no longer be two hunters." There's something eerie and disturbing when Samuel says that -- his face curls into a rictus of a hungry, bloody smile, his sunken cheeks pale and his bloodshot eyes lit up with desire.
As the vampire smiles, Viktorin can feel some chill fear in his breast -- it settles in the pit of his stomach, something very mortal, but then something blossoms in it in return. That sense of pride, of triumph: Czernobog, inside him. The Black Stag sees Viktorin's fear and seems to consume it, as if it gives the black god some strength and in turns he lends some of that pride and strength to Viktorin.
Viktorin shrugs nonchalantly, humming softly, "I think I'll let my great great deda decide if that's what he wants. Death-wise I mean." With a wrinkle of his nose, the Czech flattens himself against the wall, creeping forward. With pride and strength at his heels, he inches forward, a wriggling blossom of concern contorting his features, but he doesn't seem to be caving in fear. It was just tested caution. He keeps his eyes trained ahead, squinted, decidedly peering for the layout of the room he may come across before doing much of anything else.
Viktorin moves forward, and then there's the room: a small, clandestine chamber, its existence known only to a select few. The air is thick inside it with dampness, the walls slick with the sheen of perpetual moisture, casting the space in a claustrophobic embrace. Inside, in the heart of this hidden alcove sits an ominous lead coffin on a table, its surface etched with arcane symbols that seem to absorb the scant light, giving the metal an unnaturally dark hue. A heavy silver lock secures the coffin, its intricate design at odds with the otherwise stark utilitarianism of the chamber, suggesting a purpose far beyond the ordinary.
Two rough-looking men stand sentinel over the coffin, their presence marked by a palpable tension that fills the air. Clad in nondescript garb that does little to betray their allegiances, they are armed with crossbows -- gripping the weapons with a grim determination, their faces set in hard lines. The flicker of buzzing fluorescent light casts their shadows against the damp walls, creating a dance of elongated figures that adds an eerie dynamism to the scene. Their eyes, wary and watchful, scan the chamber's few entrances, a silent testament to the gravity of their charge.
Viktorin prowls forward, still sticking to the wall as he reaches the entrance towards the chamber. A decision flickers across his mind for but a second before he moves to act, tensing the muscles in his calves. With strength coursing through his body, he immediately starts sprinting, trailing his steps left for a moment, before springing rightward, going for the second man first. As he dashes forward, he hugs his right arm across his chest, grasping his baton tightly, ready to arc the weapon into a swing towards the man's temple as soon as he reaches him. With his other hand, he readies his thumb upon his mag-lite's switch, keeping his gaze concentrated upon his first target for the moment, until his swing connects. Viktorin doesn't utter a noise, no heaving of the breath, instead, desperation and instinct shoving him forward with his steps. His lips curve into a venomous smile, pleased for a scant few seconds.
CRUNCH. As tensions in the dimly lit chamber reach a peak, one of the hunters, his focus locked on the potential threats lurking in the shadows, is caught off guard. Suddenly, from the darkness, the swift, heavy arc of Viktorin's mag-lite cuts through the air, striking the hunter squarely on the side of the head with a sickening crunch. The impact is brutal, the solid heft of the flashlight delivering a blow that's both audible and visceral, echoing off the damp walls. In an instant, his body goes limp, the crossbow slipping from his grasp as he crumples to the ground, a heap of unresponsive limbs. The thud of his fall is muffled by the wet stone beneath, leaving a tense silence in the wake of the violence.
He thrashes, a little -- but the other hunter is raising his crossbow, now, to take aim at Viktorin. In that terrifying instant, the Czech man might notice that the bolt has no head: it's a wooden stake, now aimed directly in the the intruder's direction.
Viktorin immediately aims his own flashlight into the man's eyes, flicking the switch. He doesn't dare stop moving now however, it's just a moment before he's darting around the coffin. Except for the heaving of his breath, silence remains true. No noise uttered from the Czech's lips, no exclamation, just movement. This time however, he's moving to delay the inevitable, delay it long enough so he can get close. His aim is keen on the man's eyes, for the moment, but his opposite hand is readied, outstretched. He dashes and exerts presses himself painfully, in a desperation for survival, at all costs. There's a glare, glowering at the hunter as he pivots his feet, aiming himself to rush to the right of his new target. And another as he forcibly pivots again and aims left, scrabbling over the wet stone to avoid the stake that he knows could just be barreling towards him, any second.
In the immediate aftermath of his companion's sudden collapse, the remaining hunter reacts with a mix of shock and rage. With no time to process, he instinctively raises his crossbow, his movements fueled by adrenaline. The bolt is loosed with a sharp twang, its deadly point aimed with lethal intent at a young man emerging from the shadows. The missile whizzes through the air, a blur of potential death, only to narrowly miss Viktorin. It skitters off the damp wall with a screech as it ricochets into the darkness, its threat extinguished as quickly as it was born.
Without hesitation, the hunter discards the now-useless crossbow, his hand reaching for something far more personal -- a terrible knife hidden within the folds of his clothing. The blade, when revealed, gleams with a malevolent light, its edges cruel and unforgiving, promising pain and violence for Viktorin. With a grim set to his jaw, the hunter advances, the knife held low and ready, the hunter's entire demeanor shifts to one of primal, calculated aggression.
Viktorin recalculates his steps as he watches the man draw a knife, now far more wary than he was before. With a bit of caution, he slips backwards, aiming himself towards the coffin with caution. His eyes don't betray his thoughts however, kept trained upon the man's eyes, watching him. With a small whimper, he makes to act like he's surrendering, lifting his arms up high, though he keeps a firm grip on his mag-lite. And with deliberate moves, he inches backwards toward the lock keeping the coffin closed. "I give up, please don't kill me. I don't want to die... I'll do anything you want," he cries, trying to inflect fear into his voice.
As the hunter closes in, knife at the ready, he's met with an unexpected sight -- Viktorin, rather than bracing for a fight or attempting to flee, simply stands his ground and lifts his arms hands in a clear gesture of surrender. The defiance and fear that the hunter had braced himself against are absent, replaced by a vulnerability that seems out of place in the dank, perilous confines of the underground chamber. There's a quick glance, worried, between Viktorin and the coffin on the table, but his eyes are back to the young man quickly.
Indeed, it is this moment of human frailty that gives the hunter pause, his advance slowing as he takes in the sight of Viktorin before him. The hard lines of his face soften slightly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his weathered exterior. Still -- despite this glimmer of empathy, the hunter's grip on the knife does not wane; the blade remains poised, making manifest the lingering suspicion that clouds his judgment. The tension in the hunter's arm is palpable, a tightrope walk between the instinct to protect and the impulse to eliminate threats. There is an opportunity here, though: a moment for Viktorin to move.
Viktorin guiltily watches the man for a scant second, though danger coaxes a swift movement of the Czech's arms. With all the strength he can muster, he swings his arm downward, aiming his mag-lite towards the lock, a prayer ushered forth beneath his breath. "Let this work, Black One," his voice shakes. The muscles in his legs tense as he lowers himself with the strike towards the lock, his opposite hand grabbing towards the coffin as his he tenses his arm as well, all in preparation.
Viktorin moves, and then the air suddenly shivers with the unexpected sound of metal against metal. The mag-lite, previously wielded as a weapon, now serves a different purpose as it crashes with formidable force into the silver lock on the coffin. The impact is precise and devastating; the lock, despite its intricate craftsmanship and strength, cannot withstand the ferocity of the blow. It shatters into pieces, the fragments glittering briefly in the dim light before clattering to the stone floor, a twisted, broken wreck of silver.
The hunter, caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, realizes in that instant that Viktorin's surrender was nothing more than a ruse -- a calculated distraction to shift the hunter's focus and lower his defenses. With a surge of adrenaline and a curse whispered under his breath, the hunter's momentary compassion evaporates, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. He pivots with lethal grace, the knife in his hand becoming an extension of his will. In one fluid, practiced movement, he slashes through the air towards the young man, his action driven by a renewed sense of purpose and the bitter sting of deception. The blade glints menacingly as it arcs, a silent promise of retribution for the betrayal.
Viktorin uses the hand he's placed on the side of the coffin, and the tension in his calves to shove himself forward, desperately ducking away and trying his best to scrabble and flee from the blade. Or at the very least, keep his vitals away from the man's blade. He heaves his breath from his lungs needfully, in order to steal away any oxygen he can, moving his other hand, the one grasping the mag-lite, in front of him, planting it only to pull himself forward, to launch himself away from his current adversary. With a glint of hope, he shouts, "Might as well quit swinging at me, and start swinging at the bastard you kept locked up. It's your only chance of survival." And there it goes, a final hope flung to the winds in his voice, which wavers in fear and an instinctual desperation to survive, whatever the cost.
As the shattered remnants of the silver lock fall away, the coffin's foreboding lid begins to tremble, then bursts open with a violence that sends echoes ricocheting through the chamber. From within the dark confines, a figure emerges with a presence so chilling, it seems to leach the warmth from the air. This is no mere mortal, but a creature of ancient lineage, a vampire whose years span centuries, visible in the depth of its malevolent gaze. Its skin, pallid as moonlight and stretched taut over sharp, aristocratic features, contrasts starkly with the inky blackness of its ageless eyes, which burn with an unholy fire.
With a fluid grace that belies its monstrous nature, the vampire rises, towering over the hunter and the young man alike, its aura of power and age-old hunger palpable. The air around it seems to thrum with a dark energy, a testament to countless years spent in the shadows, biding its time. The ancient being's emergence is accompanied by a sound not unlike the whisper of death itself, a sigh that speaks of endless nights and the thirst that drives it. As it stands fully upright, the terrible majesty of the vampire is unveiled in full -- a predator reborn from its enforced slumber, ready to reclaim its place in the night.
As Viktorin scrambles back from the hunter, the vampire looks between the two with red, awful eyes -- as if trying to decide who is the threat. The hunter, certainly knows: he's got panic in his face, dropping the knife to now try to fumble for his dropped crossbow and load a wooden stake.
Viktorin turns his gaze as the vampire emerges, watching it with anxious eyes. And then his eyes flicker towards the hunter. Making a quick decision, he raises his mag-lite, taking aim at the man's head, and with two testing swishes, he launches it, like a tomahawk. However, his eyes flicker back, warily towards the monster in front of him, his hands skittering quickly to drag himself away from the thing, and against the wall. Shakily, he inhales and exhales, panic causing him to freeze a moment, before glancing towards the entrance to the damned chamber, as if to flee.
Behind Viktorin as he runs, the terrifying symphony of the vampire's assault unfolds in a cascade of harrowing sounds in the pitch-black chamber he has left behind. The air is rent with the hunter's initial cry of shock and pain, a sharp, desperate sound that cuts through the darkness. Almost immediately, it's drowned out by a series of sickening, wet rending noises, the unmistakable sound of flesh being torn asunder with brutal force. The dull thuds of the hunter's body hitting the ground intermingle with the grotesque squelches of the vampire's relentless attack, each impact a grim punctuation in the nightmarish ordeal.
Amidst this tableau of horrific sound, Viktorin's frantic, uneven footsteps echo as he stumbles away in blind terror, his breaths coming in ragged gasps that speak volumes to fear. The vampire's low, guttural growls reverberate through the chamber behind him, a primal sound that chills the blood, interwoven with the occasional, chilling snap of bone that sends shivers down the spine. In the background, the continuous drip of water and the distant, eerie echoes of the sewer system serve as a stark, uncanny contrast to the violence unfolding in the shadows.
Eventually, he makes it some distance away -- and then there is Samuel, the young thrall, pale and gaunt, looming out of the darkness with curious, hopeful eyes. "Did you rescue him?" he asks -- breathless, for he cannot breathe. "Is my master safe?"
Viktorin heaves his breath for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and then back towards the thrall. With a small flippant wave of his hand, he hoarsely grumbles, "Yeah. Holy Fuck..." He takes a few moments, leaning his hand against the wall as he struggles with a nagging of guilt that contorts his face, causing his lips to twist into a frown, his eyebrows to knit together, and his nose wrinkling in disgust. Flickering his gaze over towards the thrall, he asks them, "What now?" With tired exhalations, he drags himself to stand straighter, looking over the thrall with a deepening frown.
"He comes," the thrall tells Viktorin, and there's some hunger. "And you should go," he says. "Thank you."
Viktorin nods easily behind himself as he turns, before breaking off into slow jog, at first, and then a steady sprint, retracing his steps towards the safe day-light of the world above the same sewer-grate he climbed down. Guilt mired his face, but pride quickly replaced guilt, a flicker of a smile curving across his lips.