James Davis - Circle of Skulls

"And what does this have to do with you?" Jinn asked, his jaw clenching as he fought the celestial blood in his veins, urging him to attack, to mete out justice and have done with questions and mysteries. "What does the blood you spill mean to him?"

"That is our business, deva," the skull growled. "Take care to bend the crusading mercy of your morals upon Sathariel, and we shall both have what we desire."

"And you take care not to presume what I desire,"

Jinn said threateningly, gold eyes flashing and stolen blade rising in hatred at the skull's condescending tone. The circle chuckled in unison, the sound of it rattling in his head like boulders.

"Agreed, deva," the lead skull said finally. "We wish you happy hunting."

The green flames flickered and began to fade as the circle spun slowly in an emerald fog that stank of dry rot and decay.

"No!" Jinn cried, slashing his sword through the dissipating mist. "Why is he here? What does he want? Tell me or I'll-!"

But the skulls were gone, only the lingering scent of their passing, of char and rot, hanging on the air. Jinn swore, slashing his sword across the ground with a shower of sparks before sheathing the weapon and calming himself. He paced in a circle where the skulls had appeared, staring at the cobbles and willing the undead things to reappear. One night had brought him closer to his desires than he'd ever been, and despite the slow-burning fires of his patience, another day of waiting, so close to his quarry, seemed more than he could suffer.

He stared into the middle distance, slowing his racing heart and breathing deeply for long moments before setting off toward North Ward and Mara's shop. Mysteries raced through his thoughts, but he felt certain that the key to finding Sathariel lay within the secrets of the circle of skulls.

The scent of smoke fit well on the breeze of winter's first night. Mingling with that of grand fireplaces throughout Sea Ward, the smell of charred flesh was obscured but did not go unnoticed. Tallus skulked in the shadows across the street from the dying fire, glowering at the blackened, smoldering remains of the Storm's Front. He spun his gnarled wooden staff slowly, grinding it between the cobbles absently as Rorden Dregg swaggered and handed out orders as if they were gold. Dregg disgusted him but Tallus knew it had been time for a change in the local Watch's leadership. Dregg's connections, however ill gotten, had proven a timely convenience.

Allek Marson's time had gone on for far too long, and there was no ward rotation scheduled for another month or two. Tallus's days were numbered, with too much to do and too little time, and his work could not go unnoticed for much longer.

Better that it be Dregg, he thought, fool that the man is.

James P. Davis

Circle of Skulls

Tallus fumed, having watched the deva easily escape, assisted by the meddling Quessahn and another woman whom he had not recognized. That there would likely be a bounty on their heads did not comfort the archmage in the least. He needed Jinnaoth dead, needed anyone with a chance of uncovering his secrets removed as quickly as possible. Marson's Watch, ironically, might have been well suited to the task of tracking down the deva, while Dregg would be lucky to find a decent place to drink while his men did all the work.

A section of the tavern's roof collapsed, sending showers of sparks dancing over the heads of those left to witness the destruction as if it were the evening's entertainment. Tallus scowled. Rumors would spread more quickly, prompting some, those wealthy enough, to move on to secondary homes within the city. Still others would remain as they were, willing pawns to his devices, their hidden altars burning nightly with offered sacrifices. Even to the wealthy and powerful, perhaps especially, promises of yet more wealth and power had driven many to debase themselves before dark and hidden lords. Many of those even reveled in the bloodletting, an extravagance beyond common parties and social status.

Tallus grinned at the thought. Though fallen, his order's reach had not been completely lost.

"I warned you, wizard," Sathariel's voice wrapped around him like a shroud, holding him in a sudden grip of terror, the trembling shadows of the angel's presence fluttering at the peripherals of his sight. His heart jumped wildly, and he coughed, fighting for breath as the fit overcame him. He found specks of blood on his hand when it had passed. "The deva is a trifle, a minor inconvenience unless you antagonize him."

"I… was trying to kill him!" Tallus replied, his throat sore between ragged, bone-chilling breaths.

"Then I expect he is sufficiently antagonized," Sathariel growled close to the archmage's ear. "Tell me, what have you gained for your efforts?"

"For one, another Marson is dead, the last of them," Tallus answered, regaining his composure and taking pride in the one small victory of the evening. "One step closer to the end of this business."

"There is that, I suppose," the angel said. "But you have also introduced Jinnaoth to the circle of skulls."

"Nonsense," the wizard retorted, searching for Sathariel's dark eyes in disbelief. "Impossible."

"He has already spoken with them." The words pressed upon Tallus's chest like a load of rocks. The familiar tickle itched in the back of his throat, but he breathed deeply, fighting the urge to cough. "I'm beginning to suspect the deva may be a more suitable ally to my purposes than you. His agenda is pure, if a bit distasteful, and his betrayals are more direct and predictable."

Tallus turned away from Sathariel's ebon visage, ignoring the angel's goading and already devising how to sever the deva's presence from his work. The Art was stable enough after the Spellplague, more so with the assistance of older magic, yet his task was not easy and, thanks to the mysterious skulls, not yet fully understood to him. Claiming his prize would be that much more difficult with the deva to contend with. As he pondered the problem, his gaze lingered over the dispersing crowd in front of the tavern, drawn easily to the sight of crimson lips and fair locks in a night blue dress as Rilyana Saerfynn followed some distance behind her drunkard brother. The soft, undulating curve between her breast and hip derailed his thoughts for a moment; the thought of her flirting with the deva derailed them further.

"Jinnaoth also knows how to place duty before lust." The angel chuckled, a hellish sound that conveyed an insatiable hunger for mortal failings.

"Fear not," Tallus replied, collecting himself though he could not help but keep a possessive eye upon Rilyana until she had strolled out of sight. "I will not fail you."

"As you wish, Archmage, but I truly do not have the capacity for fear or worry," Sathariel said. "Should you fail, your soul is forfeit, your order is dead, and my master shall have the prize I was sent for in the first place. You are merely a means to an end, but you are not the only means by any stretch of the imagination."

"An end," Tallus repeated wistfully. "The First Flensing."

"Do your work. Give to the skulls the power they need for all the bloodletting they require." The angel's oppressive voice grew fainter as the shadows receded. "And perhaps you and yours shall be forgiven."

A light snow began to fall as the angel departed, leaving Tallus both momentarily relieved and full of dread as he turned back toward the House of Wonder under a cloud of dark thoughts. Some distance away he could make out faint shouts and at least two signal horns echoing through the ward. He cursed Dregg and shook his head, already lamenting the regrettable loss of Rorden Marson's subtle yet effective leadership of the Watch.

"Dregg will wake all Waterdeep with his floundering," he muttered, turning in to a darkened block of narrow streets and widely spaced lanterns. Here and there among the shadows and short alleys, he could see them, blank eyes staring back, too dull to even carry a glitter of hope at his passing. Their stench stung his nose, and he covered it with a perfumed sleeve, trying not to imagine himself wandering among their pitiful numbers.