Eldritch Guidance

(Content warning - Graphic Descriptions of Gore)

Within the city of Disca, a city near the border of Gix, Arnold moved through the teeming artery of the city’s main plaza, a ghost in a world of neon and noise. The air was thick with the greasy scent of street-vendor pretzels and roasting chestnuts, undercut by the distant, metallic smell of the rain-slicked streets. A symphony of shouted conversations, the tinny blast of boomboxes, and the electronic chirping of arcade games poured from open doorways. He wore a faded denim jacket over a grey hoodie—a costume chosen for its perfect anonymity.

Arnold was a man on a mission. His eyes, shielded by aviator-style sunglasses, were not admiring the vibrant graffiti murals or the flickering neon signs advertising clubs. They were locked on a single, unassuming figure strolling fifty paces ahead, his form intermittently obscured by the crowd bustling around groups of people walking by.

Vince Neeves.

The name was a poison in his mind, a name of heresy and rot.

The Witch Hunters’ dossiers contained grainy, photocopied photographs of a man with sharp, intelligent features and cold, piercing eyes. The man ahead had those same sharp cheekbones, that same calculated grace as he sidestepped the performers. But the dossier made no mention of the black leather patch obscuring his left eye. A recent injury from some dark ritual? Or an attempt at disguise?

Arnold catalogued the discrepancy, but his gut, honed by years of hunting the unnatural, held no doubt. This was the architect of countless defiled graveyards and crimes against humanity, the necromancer whose whispers could make dust dance and dead flesh knit back to terrible life. This was the rumoured leader of the Rattle Bone cult, a blight upon the city and world, here, looking over a food stall as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The sheer audacity was a personal insult. While Arnold and his brothers-in-arms tracked cults in the dark, one of their most wanted quarry was dropping a coin into a street musician’s open guitar case, his manner casual, almost bored. A cold fury settled in Arnold’s chest, cutting through the background music of a performer. He noted everything: the way Vince’s single remaining eye scanned the crowd reflected in the dark glass of a video rental store, the subtle nod he gave to a man in a Members Only jacket.

A message had been sent. A brief, coded pulse through the pager secured at his belt: Vince sighted. Arnold’s thumb had found the button as Vince haggled over fruit, a gesture masked by the fold of his cloak. He knew the protocol. The other Witch Hunters stationed in Dista—Kaelen, an S-rank geomancer whose patience was as immense as his power, and Elara, a swift and lethal battle-weaver—would already be moving, weaving through the city's arteries toward his position.

There was no other choice. To confront Vince alone would be suicide. The man’s arcane prowess was the stuff of classified briefings and horrified whispers. He was catalogued as a threat comparable to an S-rank mage, with the chilling caveat that his command over death might well edge into the territory of an archmage. Such beings were not something you tried to handle by yourself. Against that, Arnold’s own considerable skills—his tracking, his swordsmanship, his knowledge of dark lore—were but a flickering candle before a gale. But together, with Kaelen’s earth-shattering power and Elara’s razor-sharp spellwork, they might, just might, stand a chance.

His pager vibrated twice against his hip—Acknowledged. En route.—and a sliver of tension eased from his shoulders.

Ahead, Vince finished his purchase, taking a casual bite of the fruit before discarding it half-eaten. He then melted back into the human current, his pace unhurried. Arnold followed, a shadow tethered to its prey. He became a master of peripheral vision, his gaze never directly locking onto Vince for more than a second. When the necromancer paused to admire a display of Gixian textiles, Arnold became intensely interested in a sellers wares. When Vince glanced over his shoulder, Arnold was already turning away, sharing a laugh with a stranger about nothing at all. The dance was flawless. Vince gave no sign of suspicion, no flicker of awareness in his one visible eye. He was a man utterly at ease, a fact that only deepened Arnold’s unease.

The character of the street began to change. The vibrant storefronts and food stalls gave way to warehouses and boarded-up windows. The crowd thinned, the cheerful noise fading into an oppressive quiet broken only by the sound of distant vehicles driving by. Vince turned, without a backward glance, into a narrow alleyway choked with shadows. A large, flickering neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a sickly magenta glow on the wet cobblestones: The Rusty Nail.

Arnold’s instincts screamed a warning. This was it—a potential entrance to his lair, a meeting point, a trap. He couldn't lose him now. Pressing himself against the cold brick of the corner building, he risked a quick, sharp glance down the alley.

Vince was gone.

The alley was a dead end, but it dog-legged sharply to the right a few paces in, a narrow passage leading into deeper darkness. Heart hammering against his ribs, Arnold made his decision. He had to maintain visual. He slipped into the alley, the stench of rotting refuse and stale beer accosted his nose. His boots made no sound on the damp stone as he moved slowly toward the turn.

He never reached it.

Three steps in, the world dissolved. A sudden, violent vertigo seized him, as if the cobblestones had fallen away. His vision swam, the buzzing neon sign smearing into a meaningless pink haze before his eyes. A cold, alien pressure, like a shard of ice, drove directly into his mind, bypassing all his mental defenses with contemptuous ease. There was no pain, only an absence of consciousness. The last thing he registered was the feeling of his body going limp, his muscles turning to water, as the darkness rushed up to claim him.

♦♦♦♦♦

The return to consciousness was a slow, painful tide dragging Arnold from the depths of oblivion. His head throbbed a dull persistent ache that radiated from a point behind his temple. The first thing he registered was the cold metallic chill that pressed against his back. The second was the absolute immobility.

He forced his eyes open, his vision swimming in and out of focus. He was upright, pinned against a cold, slanted metal table. Thick leather straps bound his wrists, ankles, and torso, biting into his flesh with every panicked twitch. A rancid-tasting cloth was wadded deep in his mouth, secured by another strap that pulled cruelly at the corners of his lips. A scream built in his throat, a raw, animal sound that was swallowed by the gag, emerging as nothing more than a choked whimper.

“Where…?”

He fought against the bindings, the muscles in his arms and back corded with the effort, but it was useless. The straps were expertly fastened, offering not an inch of give. A fresh wave of terror, cold and sharp, shot through him. His Aether. He needed his Aether. He focused inward, trying to summon the familiar, comforting warmth of the magical energy that flowed through him.

Nothing.

There was only a hollow, dead space within his core. Jinsil. The realization was a death sentence. The rare, magic-nullifying metal was secreted somewhere on his body, probably woven into the straps themselves or set into the table at his back. He was utterly, completely helpless.

His frantic, rolling eyes then caught movement in the gloom beyond his own personal nightmare. Two other tables, identical to his, were positioned in a loose semi-circle. Strapped to them were a man and a woman, their faces ghastly pale and slick with a sheen of cold sweat. Their eyes, wide with a horror so profound it seemed to have frozen them solid, were locked on him. And he knew them.

Councilman Evander and Councilwoman Lysa. The missing officials from Disca. Their disappearance had been the reason the Witch Hunters had been dispatched to this city. And now, they were here, prisoners in this place.

A soft, rhythmic clicking of heels on concrete announced a fourth presence. From the shadows, Vince stepped into the dim, overhead light, his form resolving with theatrical slowness. His good eye gazed at Arnold with terrifying curiosity. A small, sadistic smile played on his lips.

Vince: “Oh, good. You’re finally with us,” his voice was calm, conversational, as if greeting a colleague. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d miscalculated the dosage. I do so hate to rush a preparation.”

He stopped directly in front of Arnold, his gaze sweeping over him with the appraisal of a sculptor considering a new block of marble.

Vince: “I must thank you,” he continued, tilting his head. “I’ve been searching for the perfect third piece for this particular project. The composition, you see, requires a certain… balance. A certain symmetry of suffering. I didn't know who would complete the triad, and then you, a Witch Hunter no less, just fell into my lap. But, then again, perhaps I should curse you?” He chuckled softly, a dry, rustling sound. “This entire affair with the council was merely a delightful distraction, a bit of a side project while I waited for a… different guest of honor to fall into a trap. But oh well,” he sighed with mock resignation. “When prime material presents itself, a true artist does not question his muse. He creates.”

From a tray of polished surgical instruments, Vince selected a scalpel. The steel caught the light, winking cruelly. He held it up, not as a threat, but as a priest might hold a sacred relic.

Vince: “Know that your suffering will not be in vain,” he whispered, his voice taking on a reverent tone. “It will be immortalized. Transmuted from base agony into a beautiful, eternal work of art. So, please,” he leaned in close, his breath ghosting across Arnold’s face, “suffer intensely for me.”

The blade touched Arnold’s cheek. A line of fire bloomed on his skin, and a single, warm trickle of blood traced a path down to his jaw. Arnold screamed, the sound a muffled, hopeless roar against the gag, his body straining against the unyielding leather until the veins stood out on his neck and temples.

What followed was an eternity measured not in hours, but in escalating, unimaginable acts. Vince worked with the slow, meticulous care of a master craftsman. He used spells and alchemical tinctures to keep his subjects conscious and acutely sensitive, their nerves screaming at a pitch far beyond normal endurance. He made them watch as he worked on the others, a shared damnation that amplified the terror tenfold.

Arnold was forced to witness the methodical ruin of Councilman Evander, seeing the dawning, incomprehensible horror in the man’s eyes as Vince laid open his chest. He saw things no human was ever meant to see. A beating heart exposed to the cold sterile air. The wet, grating sound of separation was a noise that would be etched into his soul forever. Vince would occasionally pause, holding up a freshly extracted rib, examining its curve and structure with a critical eye before placing it gently on a growing, ghastly assembly in the center of the room.

Through it all, Vince hummed a discordant tune, his single good eye alight with a fervent, unholy joy. He was an artist, and this was his studio. Their lives were his pigment, their bones his clay, and their suffering was the very medium of his masterpiece. And Arnold, trapped in the prison of his own body, could do nothing but endure, his muffled screams joining the silent, terminal horror in the eyes of his fellow captives, as Vince’s ghastly work slowly took shape.