Redemption and a Pocket Watch, Part 7

[edonil]

The inspection had taken far too long, but at least it was over now. Phelan sighed in relief, the sound hidden beyond his iron mask. This nightmare was finally almost over. The soldiers had been terrified of him, unsure of his title and purpose. They filed into the dining hall, frantic discussion filling the room with a low buzz as they saw him sitting with Lord Franklin at the front table.

The fat captain was trying somewhat desperately to engage Phelan in conversation, and failing. The assassin was uninterested in any topic, trying only to distract himself from the task that had brought him to the barracks. He wondered if Sabine had actually followed his orders. If not, then Phelan's last breaths probably wouldn't last much longer than the captain's. The soldiers had genuine loyalty to their commander, who ultimately wasn't an evil man. Flawed, certainly, but Lord Franklin meant well overall, and looked out for those under him. The assassin wasn't looking forward to killing him.

Phelan didn't eat any of the food placed out, but removed his mask to take a few sips of wine, smiling grimly at the astonished reaction his disguise got. After the soldiers had been eating for a quarter hour, Phelan took a wineskin from his waist, and poured it into his glass. "Captain, I propose a toast," he said, picking up Franklin's glass and filling it, then handed it to the captain.

The asssassin picked up his own glass, his hand brushing the edge and dropping a small capsule into it. "To the Guild," Phelan said, lifting his glass in the air. They drank at the same time, and Phelan swallowed the bitter, coppery liquid with a barely suppressed grimace. Franklin drained the glass, not paying attention to what he was drinking, and immediately started coughing, eyes gleaming with tears.

"A strange vintage," the captain finally said as the fit ended. He opened his mouth to say more, and stopped as there was a commotion at one of the tables in the back. One of the soldiers had fallen off his seat, mouth foaming as his back spasmed and his hands clawed at his chest. The other soldiers were getting up to help him, and blocked the view of the man on the ground.

"What the hell is going on?" Franklin roared, as more soldiers fell over, showing the same symptoms. Right on time, Phelan thought. He had chosen a slow acting combination of herbs that would create a very messy death, but at the same time was quickly over once the symptoms showed. The captain stood up, and fell over on the table, clutching his gut. A soft moan escaped his lips, and black fluid poured out of his mouth.

Phelan stepped back, academic detachment taking over. One of the first substances he had begun experimenting with from Malifaux was called Black Blood, supposedly from the nephilim. He had used a small amount on a rat in his room, and the creature had nearly dissolved from the inside out after fifteen minutes of agony. Since then, he hadn't touched the substance except to find a way to counter its fatal effects. Lord Franklin had drank a full glass of it, and Phelan expected that the man would die much quicker.

The black liquid began coming out of the man's ears and nose, slowly at first, then more rapidly. The captain stumbled away from the table, his eyes the color of jet, and began screaming. Steam flew off his skin, which had turned a disturbing shade of red. The screaming intensified, and Phelan pressed his hands to his ears as Lord Franklin's body began to flail with enough force that the sound of cracking bone filled the air. Mercifully, five minutes after Franklin had drank the poison, the screaming stopped, and what was left of the body dropped on the floor. Phelan looked around, the last one standing in the room.

The assassin knelt next to the dead captain, and closed the man's eyes with a gloved hand. "I'm more sorry than you'll ever know," Phelan whispered. He stood up, retrieved his mask, and began to walk out of the room. A sickening crunch stopped him, and he turned around slowly. What was left of the captain's rib cage had burst open from the inside, sending black gore everywhere. "What in the world?"

The assassin jumped in shock and horror as a skeletal hand shoved its way out of the corpse's chest. Another hand came out after it, and both reached up around the body to press on the floor. A skull followed, one with pointed teeth and proportions that were slightly but obviously wrong for a human. As more of the creature emerged, strings black ichor from Franklin's body began to crawl across the floor, covering the bone in stringy tendons and muscles, then grey skin and blood red clothing. The creature stood, the last of the corpse flowing into its body, and Phelan drew his pistol, eyes wide with panic.

"Ah, home," it breathed, its voice like shattering glass. "I have missed it so." Red eyes glowed as they turned their gaze to the assassin, and pointed teeth were bared in a smile. "What's this? Have the humans remained in Malifaux after all? Apparently my sisters were unable to remove quite all of you." Wings fluttered on its back, wet with ichor, and a pink tongue ran over along its canines.

"W-what are you?" Phelan stuttered, his hand shaking as he aimed the pistol.

"What a rude question," the creature replied with a grotesque chuckle. "Not who, but what? I am a 'he' not an 'it', human." It bowed, one clawed hand crossing its chest. "My name is Varful, and I am one of the Neverborn. A nephilim, if you wish to be precise."

"You, uh...you aren't like most Neverborn, are you?"

"What? Would you prefer that I was a raging lunatic, clawing you to death so I can chew on the marrow of your bones? If I disappoint you, that can be fixed," Varful laughed. Phelan blinked a few times, uncertain. This Neverborn seemed almost...polite. Even human. Instead of the rags everyone talked about, he wore a pair of red breeches, and a jacket, dressed similarly to Phelan's uniform, although in an older style. He was only slightly taller than the assassin, and had black hair pulled back in a tail that gleamed in the torchlight.

"Uh, no. I'm okay with this for now," Phelan said.

The nephilim looked around the room, taking in the sight of all the bodies. He sniffed the air a few times. "Poison, is it? I recognize some of the scents, but not the others. Your work, or are you just the messenger?"

"Mine."

"Impressive." Varful closed his eyes as he absorbed the smell. "I never would have thought to combine some of those ingredients. Masterful, really. And your use of the blood of my kin...purely genius. And, coincidentally, very helpful for me. I've been in exile so long, that I thought I would never get out. I must thank you for giving me a connection to my home that I could make a gateway from."

"I don't understand," the assassin said, wary.

"You don't need to. Merely be aware that you have my thanks." The nephilim spread his wings forward, checking them. "I suppose by rights I should kill you, but I believe in paying my debts. You have saved my life, therefore I shall spare yours. Besides, if I have anything to say about it, your kind won't be infesting my world for long. Goodbye, human. I'll give you a bit of parting advice: return to your home as soon as you can. If you stay, death awaits you." Varful turned, walked to an open window, and leapt out of it. Phelan stared after him in shock, and dropped the aim of his pistol.

[thatnicguy]

Fantastic, nice visuals! Can't wait to see where this leads!