Sacrificing Oath- Chapters 1

Sigil, the Sanguine Sea

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Blood, blood, blood.

Hot, burning, swelling.

Red, crimson, darkness.

Puddles, rivers and the sea.

Death.

With one last blow of Sigil's fist, the crackle of his knuckles and cartilage filled the room with echoes.

He was dead. His sweet, crooked smile gurgled blood as well as his shattered nose. The smell of the blood surged through Sigil's body. He couldn't think of anything, it was as if his eyes were cloaked and blinded by it. A smirk etched into his face as he wiped as much blood as he could with a handkerchief. Sigil would have to savor this for later. Reaper would be back to irrigate the remaining guard at any moment.

The crunching moss and autumn leaves from the gutters indicated he would be coming from the east entrance. Soaking up as much blood as he possibly could, he rung the sopping rag into a small vial for later use and shoved it back into a vest pocket. The chambers were silent, with the exception of the other guards muffling in terror through the ragged rope around his mouth. No one would hear them, or see them. Thick cobblestone walls lined with moss and magic runestones made sounds impenetrable for the common individual.

Though, being in the sewers, the turgid streams of sewage were far beyond their senses. Praise the true king. It was surprising that in the autumn rotation for the sewer to not be contagion with plagues of rats and homeless. The sewer was mapped as giant spiderwebs connecting to each other in some way. Afraid of legends and myths, most did not venture past the first web of tunnels. One of which was a hideout was located around the ninth or tenth web connection. To stand in such a location would put Sigil on the outskirts of town by some sparse guard towers. This came in handy for eavesdropping and having little chance of being discovered lurking below.

The clanking of a ladder suggested that someone was approaching. Unamused of who it might be. Unless it was Ermengilde, then it made Sigil's legs quiver with fear.

Click! The door sprung open and the chains were dispelled, vaporizing upon hitting the cobblestone. It was not an unwanted guest if so, the chains would have eradicated the target instead of dispersing.

Reaper's face wasn't pleasant; Sigil knew he was in danger of being reported to Ermenegilde. Distorted and confused, Reaper rushed to the slain guard examining the injuries he had subdued. As the head of the information unit, Reaper was higher up in ranks than himself. The room became uneasy as the excitement of the savory nectar and adrenaline washed away from Sigil's tender body.

He was frightened of what he might say, but he stood there for a period of time, staring down the remaining guard. Though, Reaper's sorcery surpassed his, agility and melee combat was his true weakness. Sigil's excelled in rogue missions and abilities. His small body allowed him into places others could not, and with the right costume, he merely resembled the peasantry that bloated the city.

“There you go putting more weight on everyone else,” fizzled Reaper as he tilted the remaining guards' chair back pulling it towards another chamber.

He was indisputable. Curse him thought Sigil. Reaper conceives himself obedient and mature, narcissistic and arrogant. They are all slaves, not one of them better than the other in the time of war. Without Sigil, Reaper would be graveling in the dirt, starving with the rest of the outcasts. "One day," Sigil thought, "I will usurp far above him and rub it in his face."

They were all slaves until Euryalia, the Gorgon Witch took control of surrounding territories. Renegade parties and deviants were popular groups among a town under the dictatorship. Those who upset the balance are punished for their ambitions. Unfortunately, the witch seduction overruled the king and now his lascivious eye turns blind towards his people. No one knows the true annex of the serpent. Everyone wanted power, but as a gorgon, she already had enough followers to harbor a town of her own.

Most gorgons lived semi-peaceful in the Southlands, near the desert. They were polite to travelers, but all was just worldly courtship. Their medical knowledge was impressive compared to the capital's vast knowledge. Many churchmen make a pact with gorgons for their knowledge then return to their homelands.

Euryalia was a special breed. A half-ling of sorts. Disgusting and vile magic was long outlawed for species to interbreed so carelessly. Only nobility was allowed to pick amongst species. Her power seemed unmatched when it came to sorcery and alchemy. Little is known still of her true potential.

The smuggle unit flanked nearby guards on their night patrol of Aurna. Gagged, blinded and shackled, they were brought down to the Den. One of the many small hideouts scattered in the city. Some resided in common households in the inner rings of the city, while others lay beneath the earth, protected by runes of magic to hide their stashes of supplies.

The wrinkles in the stone played as amusement for his hands until Reaper was done.

Very few in Aurna had combat skills. Just those whose fathers fenced with them in their spare time. That's why Ermenegilde sent for each of them. It was Reaper, Rodit, Ermenegilde, and Sigil at the time. It seems that Ermen and Rodit have been together since the start, and then himself to Rodit. They were building an army. The Grand Revolution Ermen called it, when storytelling to the other young cadets who did minor work for them along the way.

Squeals of the metal chair dragging upon the floor interrupted any thoughts that continued. Reaper rounded the corner and back into the entrance chamber with the guard. Before Sigil could look up, the smell hit him.

Blood, blood, blood.

Reaper had finished this guard but dared not criticize him for the first fatality.

"But, why? Why kill the guard now after only a few hours of interviewing?" Sigil muttered while crumbling a piece of cobble between his fingertips.

“Before you mutilated your subject, did you happen to find any information as to wear Euryalia will strike next?” Reaper huffed as he hunched over a map dispersed across the dank, moist floor.

It startled Sigil, he thought he was unheard. He shot up straight-backed and positioned himself over the rough vellum map laid upright on the wall.

“Of course, I'm not as useless as you think. I'd like to re-enforce myself after doing such a spectacular job!” Sigil grinned as my finger pointed down towards the Sunspire Tithe, to the west of Aurna.

The Sunspire was a town where most crops for the nation were grown. Vast fields of grain blanketed the valleys. Many creeks and small rivers were weaved into the land as well, which made it viable for many crop types. An unfortunate attacking position for them. They were small in numbers still and the land offered little cover for their stealth. If the witch controlled this area, it would lead the masses to be controlled by starvation.

“Except you killed the first guard, instead of allowing me to wipe his memory. I cannot just send one guard back without the other. The patrol leader will become suspicious and have more guards on the watch to find us,” he replied with his nose up in the air.

“We have been relieved of duty today, Rodit says to meet in Tyadain's pub for further instructions.” Reaper pulled out a small silver flask.

Sigil was surprised almost, Reaper hardly ever drank. He's not going to wait to get to the pub before he starts his guzzle. Sigil couldn't comprehend what had just happened, it was already too late.

Reaper poured the contents of the vial onto both guards. Without a failing second, the burst into black flames. Their flesh melted into puddles of charred goo. The blood evaporated into the air. The flame extinguished itself after a few minutes. A small flash unsighted his vision. When everything had rightly adjusted, all that was left of the puddles were crystallized gems. "What just happened? How did this happen!?" Sigil pondered astonished and mortified.

Before he could ask a single question about the events, Reaper's tall, slender body disappeared, leaving only a glimpse of his dulled yellow hair. All that was left of the guards were their shackles and chairs. The mysterious gems were also truant. The chain apparitions reappeared linked to the door. Instead of dealing with the hassle of undoing the chains, Sigil decided to venture a bit further into the chamber webs and exit out of one of the manholes located a distance from the main walls.

The ladder up was rattling like a snake as each foot found its way in the extremely dim chamber. Half expected, one of the rails snapped underfoot and he lost his balance. Clinging to the ladder for dear life, he managed to steady himself and the ladder from tipping in a direction. After his grand adventure up the ladder of doom, Sigil shimmied up the remaining rails and pushed his way out of the sewer.

“Boo!” shrieked someone.

A booming laugh crackled through the night air as Sigil found himself planted ass firmly in soil and shrubbery. Ermenegilde stood broad and efficacious. His mass was at least double that of Sigils. He has his leather gear on for minimal protection while off the job. They all had many outfits to change into for their protection and for stealing through the city undetected by commoners. Ermenegilde also had a way with words that weasled them even out of the deepest situations.

Though envious of Ermenegilde, Sigil has always admired his inherent and astonishing battle skills. Nobody has ever seen Ermeneglide fall in battle or even lose a duel. Sigil's goal is to one day have him under his boot begging for mercy. He has no intention of killing Ermen. Without Ermen he would have wasted away in the darkness. That day, even with its miracles, has its nightmares.

Hot

Hot

Hot

The memories buried deep of that night still burned like hot coals. They were repressed and unable to be remembered. Sigil wanted to remember, he wanted to know why this blood excites him so. Why does it bring him relief? "Am I a monster?" he thought. Sweat pours down his body when waking from the nightmares. All that could be heard were faint speech and sounds of steps. He could never visualize anything. The burning would get deeper and more intense with every second spent in hell.

Mother.

The sweet aromatic smell of comfort and tranquility. Her voice eludes but still, the mutters are familiar to the senses. That's all Sigil can remember. The screams and gurgles of Mother. Is she drowning? Has she choked on bad fermentation? The burning is back.

With a swift hand, Ermengilde's calloused slap to the back of his head shook him back.

"Little mouse, little mouse, what do you bring today?" he grinned and ruffled Sigil's hair all in different directions. He was not little, nor a mouse.

Sigil snorted and brushed him off and began to walk to the inn. The few commodities this wretched labyrinth of a city had to comfort his mind.