The Warrens, as Lacerta learned, was not the name of a street. Rusk's surprisingly thorough explanation had allowed him to piece together the grim reality of this place.
In the Vollachian Empire, law follows strength and strength dictates hierarchy.
Sometimes, when a district weakens to the point that it can no longer pay its dues, those in charge simply declare it abandoned. Governance is withdrawn, soldiers depart, and whatever survives within does so by skill alone.
The Warrens in Guaral is clearly the most infamous example of this decree. Once a thriving network of homes and forges was left to fester after its workers starved and its owners fled.
The strong moved on and up while the weak sank ever lower.
To outsiders, the Warrens are decay itself. The Empire does not waste pity on the fallen; it allows them to prove their worth in the dark. If they fail—if they turn upon one another until only silence remains—that, too, is considered justice.
And so the Warrens remained persistent: a city beneath the city, ruled by hunger and survival. For in Vollachia, even ruin has its place in the hierarchy of strength... even if that place may be right at the bottom.
Thus, an inevitable question arose: Why would anyone still live here?
—————————————————————————————
The trio walked through the damp alleyways in silence. The desire for conversation, which Glenn might have had earlier, was nullified by the palpable stench of death that grew with every step they took deeper inside.
The sight which, although unnerving, wasn't enough to crack Lacerta's indifference that easily.
Though what did make his brows furrow in confusion was a sight just a dozen or so meters before the trio where the shape of a T in the alleyway had formed.
Glenn: ["That explains that awful smell then..."]
Before them, the corpse—well, a skeleton unmoving flat against a wall with not an ounce of flesh left on the body.
As they drew closer, the words highlighted in blood on the half deteriorated wall spelled out...
—"LET YOURSELF BE EATEN."
Rusk's frown that was already on his face only intensified after reading that.
Rusk: ["I knew it was bad here but.... not to such a degree."]
Obviously, Rusk was a good man in comparison to the unknown people that had left the Warrens up to fate.
Glenn: ["What does well.... that mean anyway...?"]
Lacerta opted to remain quiet, trying to ponder with what minimal information he had.
Rusk was the likeliest of the three to have any idea about what was going on—being one of Haldran's closest and most trusted guards, and the fact that the Velin Estate holds a certain level of power within Guaral hopefully meant they had some level of knowledge about the Warrens.
Though, as Rusk shook his head, both Lacerta and Glenn couldn't help but frown.
Rusk: ["As said prior, the Warrens has long since been ignored. It's a wonder that this place isn't fully abandoned."]
Lacerta: ["What makes you think that it's not?"]
Rusk shook his head.
Rusk: ["—Well... for starters... do you not hear that?"]
Lacerta's brows furrowed and silence settled in once more as he attempted to focus. The moment he did, a somewhat familiar, distant sound of cutting and thuds met his eardrums.
Glenn: ["Hear what...?"]
Lacerta was certainly impressed at Rusk's honed senses.
Glenn: ["What do you two hear?"]
It's not a wonder that Haldran sent this man of all people along with him. Not only was he trustworthy in Lacerta's eyes, but he was powerful too.
Glenn: ["—Hey!?"]
Lacerta instantly turned over toward Rusk.
Rusk: ["Lets go."]
Glenn: ["Hey! Let's go where? What is that sound? What aren't you telling me?"]
Lacerta's gaze didn't waver from Rusk's retreating back. He tilted his head slightly, listening again before answering.
Lacerta: ["Well, it sounds.... like something sharp, hitting something hard. I guess."]
Glenn's eyes narrowed at the dangerous implication behind those words.
Without speaking any further, Lacerta followed after Rusk, forcing Glenn to either stay with the corpse or hurry after them. He chose the latter, his footsteps now noticeably lighter with his hand remaining firm on the handle of his axe.
They moved in a tight formation, Rusk taking point, Lacerta close behind with Glenn brought up the rear, his eyes darting into every shadow.
The sound grew louder and louder with each step that they took. It wasn't just a rhythmic cutting and thudding anymore. They could hear the wet tear of a blade being pulled from something on repeat. Accompanying that sound, was a low hum that seemed to keep time with the chopping, like it were a song. The stench of death intensified, but it was now mixed with something else—the familiar stench of fresh blood and raw meat.
Rusk held up a hand, bringing them to a halt at a corner where the alley opened into a small, squalid courtyard. The sound was coming from a dilapidated cottage on the far side, the only building with a faint, flickering light seeping through its grimy, boarded-up windows.
Motioning for the others to stay back, Rusk crept forward, hugging the crumbling brick wall. He peered through a crack between two warped planks of wood. He remained there for a long moment, utterly still, before recoiling slightly, his face a mask of grim disgust. He backed away silently and rejoined the others.
Lacerta: ["What is it?"]
Rusk: ["A butcher.... but he's not carving up any animal I've ever seen before."]
Glenn's frown warped into something of disgust with what Rusk seemed to be implying.
Lacerta, however, stepped forward unaffected, taking Rusk's place to peek through the gap in the boarded window. The scene inside was lit by a singular candle.
A hunchback figure with a matted curtain of greasy hair obscuring its face stood over a massive, gore-stained tree stump. With a grunt, the figure raised a massive cleaver and brought it down with a heavy impact on a pale, slender limb lying on the block.
The butcher worked with a practiced, methodical rhythm, completely absorbed in the task of dismemberment. Around the hovel, other pieces of the grim harvest were hung from hooks or simply piled up in wooden buckets.
Glenn: ["Just what the fuck is going on in this part of Guaral...?"]
Glenn muttered, approaching with narrowed eyes. His glare of disgust shifted into confusion as Lacerta suddenly stepped back from the window and approached the closed wooden door.
Glenn: ["Hey, kid, what are you—"]
Three knocks rang out against the door. The sound of slicing fell silent.
Lacerta stepped back a meter or so from the door and simply waited, not even batting an eye toward Rusk or Glenn, who were perched in wait around the corner.
The door slowly swung open, creaking off its latch. A hunched figure stepped out, his clothes matted in blood that was clearly not his own. He tilted his head with a wet, cricketing sound, and with a disturbingly deft motion, scratched his cheek.
Butcher: ["And... who might you be? I've never laid eyes on such a tender morsel before... but you can't be new... oh no, of course not. No, no, no. Nobody willingly walks into this place. Not a single, living soul..."]
Thankfully, the Butcher didn't immediately rush out swinging his cleaver. In fact, he had apparently set it aside before answering the door. While the man's choice of words was disturbing, his tone was... conversational? Almost friendly, in a way that set one's teeth on edge.
Butcher: ["Mmmm... so then... a customer? Are you here for some... fresh meat?"]
Lacerta: ["Ah... meat? No, something else... but if I'm ever hungry, I'll definitely... remember this place..."]
Butcher: ["Ah, good, good! Then pray tell, little one..."]
His voice dropped, losing its feigned warmth. A long, greasy fringe obscured his eyes, but Lacerta felt a predatory stillness settle over the man, a gaze he could feel pinning him in place.
Lacerta knew that he was stronger. He could feel that the Butcher wasn't even a fighter. So what made him feel like this?
Butcher: ["Why. Are. You. Here?"]
Lacerta dispensed with pleasantries, stating his purpose with a bluntness that left no room for evasion. He carefully omitted, however, that Glenn and Rusk were secreted around the corner of the blood-splattered hut, mere meters away.
The butcher's head listed to one side, craning at a disquieting, almost disjointed angle after Lacerta finished speaking.
Butcher: ["Ah... Caro Mendin... Mmmm... that name resonates... ah, yes. How could I forget one so recent? Argh... I supplied his provisions, a great many of them. He was a frightened little bird at first, but he learned the warmth of the flock. And he too learned how to provide for others..."]
A knot of bewilderment tightened in Lacerta's gut, his brows arching.
Lacerta: ["Your words make no sense."]
Butcher: ["Sense is a cage for the timid, child. I speak of revelation! The Feast sanctifies the frail, makes them pure! We surrender ourselves to the strong, allow it to devour our oh-so profane doubts...! Do you... do you feel its magnificent hunger, boy? Oh, you must!"]
As the man descended into this feverish trance, Lacerta seized his chance. A fleeting glance toward the corner was all the signal Glenn and Rusk needed.
Lacerta: ["I think I'll be on my way now... I appreciate the… insight?"]
The butcher seemed not to hear, collapsing to his knees in a paroxysm of ecstasy, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were bone-white as he preached nonsense to the world itself.
Once the night had swallowed their footsteps, the artifice fell away. The butcher rose with an unnerving fluidity, wiping away the crocodile tears that stained his cheeks.
Butcher: ["So, he's gone... I trust you heard everything?"]
He received no audible reply, but he felt their attention—an unseen, ever-present audience connected by unfamiliar means. He knew they were listening.
Butcher: ["Kill the boy and bring his corpse to me."]
Standing fully upright, the man scratched thoughtfully at his chin before stepping back into the shadowed doorway of his cottage.
Butcher: ["...It has been some time since I've had the pleasure of carving such healthy stock."]