World of Aztersil

The deadman did not answer, pupils vanishing in the glow of his eyes. He hated to repeat himself, which was something he found himself doing more and more often with this pitiful failure of a man. Once again, he turned his back to the rish'dar, knowing his order needed no repeating and if it did, he might as well crawl into the hole with the frozen bodies and die a much easier death than the nythren's temper would concoct. The wind whipped and tore at his robes, thought Dalsh paid no mind to any of it as he narrowed his eyes out into the frozen wasteland. Something was coming, scouts perhaps, maybe someone missing the rishdar thief.

They were not visible yet, but Dalsh could feel them, their presence thrumming through the mysterial in as much a way footsteps created vibration on the ground.

The animated zombie sat up in his grave, but remained still as a statue. Its dead, frozen eyes stared straight outward, not registering Bluk's presence at all.

Three days was a turning point in his existance in the rat, and child infested sewers. Three days was typically how long an average ghoul would last before it collapsed. They only lived on a simple, inner store of mysterial and three days marked the textbook time of how long before it was all used up. In three days Dalsh began to venture to the surface at night. None of his little companions knew the first lick of magic. To them he was some form of immortal, brain eating undead man that was going to help them get their home back if they did a little scouting for him.

Dalsh highly suspected they were not putting their full efforts into the search. No, they were more interested in their half of the bargain than actually helping him. It was no matter, he started following them to the surface in the darkness under the guise of wanting to see this building he would have to perform pest control on.

It was on one of these nights, the fifth night, he and Eric had their first altercation. Dalsh expected it, even encouraged it now. He, Eric, and three of the other orphans sat crouched in an alley as Eric pointed to the abandoned building and giving Dalsh details of how many were inside, where they typically slept, all the little minute details of several scouting expeditions. It was clear to the nythren where Eric had been focusing his forces.

Dalsh stood, moving into the street before the boy even finished speaking, and promptly began walking away from the building, arms in his sleeves as if he were just a civilian on a simple midnight stroll.

They didn’t try to stop him, a wise move as the nythren was becoming a touch moody at not having any results in finding the myst who had him hunted. Upon his return to the sewer camp, just before the sun rose, Dalsh smirked at Eric’s irritable expression.

“Where did you go?” Eric hissed in a whisper as he followed Dalsh to the nythren’s usual corner of darkness.

“Careful, boy,” the nythren growled back as he settled himself against the wall, tail curling around his legs.

“You were supposed to help us clear the hideout tonight! You just wandered off like..”

“A zombie?” Dalsh sneered up at Eric, rolling his shoulders. “I suppose I did. Tell me, Eric, has there been any progress in finding my myst?”

“No, I told you. They all fucking look the same.” Eric was getting too aggressive. Dalsh could feel it in the air around him, the emotions. Sireel and myst had that little knack. Because they were so attached to the mysterial, a bit like he was, an untrained, untalented projected his emotions just a touch through the currents.

Chuckling, Dalsh shook his head, a hand reaching up to rub at the amulet around his neck. “Give me results and we will make the next move on your home.”

As Eric opened his mouth to reply, which Dalsh knew would not be a good reply either way they looked at it, a cry went up through the little group. Dalsh and Eric both turned to watch as two of the bigger boy orphans dragged in a tiny, struggling klavden girl.

“We found her sneaking around the camp!”

“Please don’t feed me to the ghoul!” the girl’s high pitched voice squeaked.

“Damn it to the void,” Eric whispered, striding over to look down at the captive.

Dalsh remained where he was, eyes narrowing as he slouched against the sewer wall, ears folding down as he growled low in his chest.

“You are stupid to come in here if you think the ghoul’s still here. How’d you find us?”

“I followed it, I saw you guys with it!” The girl’s terrified eyes switched between Eric looming over her to watching all the others in the group surround her.

Dalsh stood then, approaching slowly. Once he’d entered the light, he heard her gasp and shrink back. Eric spun, pointing back into the shadows.

“Are your brains completely rotted, get back over there!”

The nythren stopped, eyes shifting to the sireel with a smirk. “No, boy, I don’t think I will.”

He turned away, crouching before the girl with a disarming smile. One would never have believed he was capeable of such a simple smile had they not seen it for themselves.

“Why were you following me?” he asked in a calming tone, sliding a hand into his robes to withdraw a rather long chain of links. There as a sudden intensity that pass like lightning through the entire orphan group. No one had tried pick pocketing the ghoul.

At the sight of such money, the girl quieted, looking at his hands instead of his face. “I was paid to. He said he’d give me more if I could find you and tell him where you was.”

“How much was he paying you?”

“Copper links. Was feeding me for a good month they will.”

Dalsh chuckled, his smile widening. “I’ll give you ten of these,” he shook the silver links gently. “If you show me where he resides.”

Leaning in, Dalsh’s grin widened to something a little more typical of his character. “And I’ll give you a single gold link,” he purred softly. “If you deliver a message to him.”

Her eyes widened, along with Eric’s. The fucking dead thing had gold on it?

Taking the gold link from within his robes, Dalsh dropped it into her hand and leaned forward, whispering into her ear. “Tell him, Skelkinvorachaald sings for him.”

Any native of Sharzak would know the name. Skelkinvorachaald was one of the more  famous nythren of myth, one of the few to actually have a name. He was so misshapen he would never leave his cave, instead singing much of his time. It was said his voice was so beautiful it was almost hypnotic and his prey would walk right up to him completely entrenched. It was quite some time before Skelkin was killed in the stories, by a woman who broke his spell.

Dalsh stood, nodding. “Good girl,” he smiled, holding up a finger. “You come back here tonight for the silver, I’ll give you another gold, and you take me to him, alright?”

The girl nodded vigorously, avoiding the greedy glares of the other orphans as she turned and bolted away.

The nythren reached to his neck, pulling off the pendant and sliding it into his robes.  Holding his arm out slightly, Dalsh shook the links with a smirk at the children around him. “How many of you will work for me?” The response was typical, every single one of them let out a cry.

Turning, Dalsh eyed Eric with a smirk. “And you?”

Gritting his teeth, Eric loomed over the nythren. “You work for me, monster. Remember, I know what you are. Just a short walk to the Inquisitors.”

“Oh Eric,” Dalsh chuckled, shaking his head. “That was a very poor choice.”

He slashed out, too fast for Eric to react. For a moment, he had no idea what hit him until he felt the warm blood cascading from his throat. Eric dropped like a stone with a wet thud to the floor.

“Now, my children. You have work to do. Follow the girl! I want to know where she goes!”

(Sorry Illy. I got carried away)

One...

Two...

Three...

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Five...

Six..

Sev-CRASH!

Dalsh counted the seconds he fell, watched the little box of light become smaller and smaller, closing his world in darkness. He'd expected to fall into a pool of sewage, or at least water. He hit neither, what connected with his back was something considerably harsher. Dalsh felt his spine snap and shatter as he slammed into something, he wasn't even sure what it was. Perhaps it was a pillar, or another pipe, it may have even been a wooden beam built and used by those who lived in these detestable surroundings. To anyone listening, it would sound like another corpse being dumped from the eyes of guards. Some poor fool who fell on the wrong end of a better blade.

His body tumbled, still falling. He finally found the ground just a few seconds later, with his right shoulder. More bones gave way to pressure and strain, snapping like dry twigs as the nythren finally ended his decent in a ragged heap on a wet, stone floor. Dalsh wasn't quite sure how badly he was hurt. That was the whole point of pain for any normal creature. Pain let one know what was wrong, where it was hurt. To force an injured body part could very well compound the damage. Splintered bone would cut into muscle, blood could pool in the wrong places, it was a perfect natural evolution. Dalsh didn't have it.

On many occasions that was good, he supposed. Being run through the heart with a sword was hardly an issue, except now his heart didn't work and his blood would stagnate. That would certainly be a very big issue. At least he wasn't moaning in agony, that was something. Dalsh didn't move for some time, lying where he was as he let his mind think and his senses spread around him. It was very dark, but even here the mysterial currents flowed. In similar ways a bat used sound, Dalsh closed his eyes, letting the mysterial waves wash over everything around him, sending pulses back that gave him a rough idea of where he lay. There were sounds of water, dripping, sloshing, but nothing alive.

Reaching out his left arm, Dalsh gauged its usefulness. It wasn't broken, from what he could tell. If there were fractures, weaknesses in the bones, the pesky dead pain sensors wouldn't give a damn enough to tell him. He flexed each finger, testing his wrist and shoulder joints, extending his elbow. His left arm and hand seemed in perfect working order. Which, he feared, would not reflect on the rest of him.

He tried to move his right arm, and could feel weaknesses in it from the second he curled his fingers into a fist. His wrist worked fine, but when he moved his shoulder, Dalsh could feel bone crunch and grind against each other. Until he could better see, Dalsh opted to tuck the arm close to his body, he would rather not end up losing any of his parts here. While he could continue to move with seriously injured limbs, if the muscle structure was severed, he would be unable to use it.

"Death," he whispered to himself, his voice sounding as if it boomed in the quiet tunnels. "How it has ruined, and improved me."

Using his left arm, Dalsh pushed his body into a sitting position, feeling crushed vertebrae in his back. Damage to his skeletal structure would slow him down, create weaknesses in balance and fluid movement, but it would take much more to stop him. His legs would still respond. As long as everything was still attached or with his body, he was fine.

However, to heal these injuries, Dalsh needed to find a souled creature, something to feast upon. And for that, he staggered to his feet, limping from some weakness in one of his legs, and began a weary walk through the tunnels. Keeping his eyes closed, he let the mysterial guide him.


"Hurry everyone, we need to split up! Take what you don't want to lose and scatter! There's guards coming!" The voice woke the few sleeping, who snapped to with surprise. Like ants, the camp broke apart, taking the few glowing wands they shared. Out of habit, they split in pairs or small groups, scurrying like rats through the tunnels.

"Eric, what's going on?" a small voice whispered by the eldest, the leader's side.

"Hush, Yana, we have to move now. Get Korivk."

He held a wand aloft, the tip glowing bright enough to light their little ramshackle home. A tiny dvergr girl ran for a nest of straw and rags, grabbing a ragged trill doll and clutching it to her chest.

Eric, a teenage sireel, grabbed her hand and pulled her down one tunnel none of their group had taken. This was something their gang had drilled for. Guards would patrol once in a while when a body was discovered at a sewer runoff. Never did they venture here unless with some reason.

"Erriiiic," the girl whispered, looking up at him as they ran. "Where are we going?"

"They are saying a ghoul attacked some guards up top," he replied quickly, remembering the bits of conversation he'd heard from the irritable group of men. "It escaped down here, no one knows where it is. They want to catch it and find out who made it."

Yana sucked in air through her teeth. "Oohh, that's so bad, isn't it? Eric, why is it bad?"

He pulled them through several tunnels, taking turns almost in random. "It's bad because ghouls are illegal, and they brought Inquisitors with them. If the Inquisitors find us, they will want to know where we got the wands. If that happens, we go to jail. You don't want to do that, Yana. Jail's bad."

Their small gang had managed to get their hands on several enchanted wands. In a wright's hands, the wands were rather cheap, but useful foci. In the hands of children, the wands were simple torches that didn't burn up when the wood was all gone, or make smoke. Toys really, but it was all they had, and could land them in some considerable trouble if the Inquisitors found out.

Thankfully, Yana took his answers and didn’t ask anymore questions, her hand tightening in the older boy’s hand as he wove a path through the tunnels. It wasn’t until he finally began to slow to a less rushed walking pace when she spoke up again.

“Eric, what if we run into the ghoul? It’s down here right? What if it tries to eat us?”

He paused, crouching down to smile at her as he held the wand with it’s lit tip between them. “If that corpse tries to hurt us, I’ll just cut him up. They said he’s really injured, injured ghouls dry out of mysterial fast, Yana. He’s probably just like every other corpse down here. I won’t let a silly ghoul hurt you, promise.”

She smiled, squeezing her stuffed toy tightly. “I trust you,” she whispered.

“Aww, Eric, she trusts you! Isn’t that cute?” the voice snubbed.

The sireel boy jumped to his feet, turning to put the young girl behind him as he bared his teeth into the darkness. Two hulking rish’dar boys stepped into the wand’s light, having douced their own meathods of vision, glowing glass. A mysterial infusion into hollow glass containers which glowed like lanturns. Very valuable.

“How many times do we have to tell you, cripple. You come into our territory, we are going to bust you up again. Maybe this time I’ll make you even on both sides and twist up your other wing, huh?”

Eric slid his wrist blades free, backing up a step as the other two advanced. His left wing had been twisted and shrivled from birth, and was the reason he believed he was abandoned to the streets. A sireel who couldn’t fly.

“There’s guards and Inquisitors sniffing about,” Eric growled. “We are not here to bother you.”

“It’s not my problem you got yourselves noticed by the Happening zelots. And what a pussy for leading them to us.”


There were voices, like a torchlight through this hell. He followed them, keeping his eyes closed and his left hand brushing against the tunnel walls. Hunger drove him, a strange instinct surfacing. He’d not quite been this injured before, this broken. He could feel a hobble in his back, like a used up spring swaying around on gravel. There wasn’t enough mysterial in the air to eat, he couldn’t feed enough to help his decayed, worn body back to its not so broken rotted state.

There were shouts now, sounds of fighting. Dalsh snapped his eyes open, observing a light bouncing from the walls around the bend. New sounds followed his steps now, the sounds of slithering intestines, slick snakes sliding over each other, wet cheese slithering over a table. His tendrils curled and wrenched around each other, twisting in some unnatural hunger pain. The nythren stopped, gritting his teeth as his mouth began to water. He could smell their mysterial souls on his black, forked tongue. The taste would drive him mad.

Dalsh didn’t even take in the details of the scene, only threw himself into the fight with a furious snarl. There were surprised cries, the screaming of a little girl, and so much fear. Wrapping his arms around the first one he could get to, the nythren pressed his body close, second mouth opening wide and biting into the unarmored meat. Tendrils shot forth, burrowing into the body, feeding like straws of the pulsing mysterial within. Teeth sank into the soft tissue of the boy’s throat, cutting the scream of surprised agony short as the windpipe shattered like brittle wood in the nythren’s jaws.

The rish’dar boy was dead in moments, shock inducing physical injuries compounded the the sudden, debilitating loss of mysterial.

The world was more full now, he could feel his body healing the many injuries covering his body. It went for his heart first, restoring the supernatural hum, the vibration that moved his thick, syrup blood. He began to bleed from many points. His arm was the worst, dripping the brackish slime in thick gobs to the floor. Scrapes, cuts, it all began to bleed. However, his body’s own unnatural evolution took hold in his spine. His blood coated the bones where they were shattered, coagulating quickly and hardening to reinforce the injury.

Dalsh returned, for the most part, to his right mind, looking down to the young man whose soul he had just devoured in a starved rage.

“Holy fucking mysteria, it’s the the gods be damned ghoul!”

The nythren turned as the voice, frantic, gasped the words out. A second rishdar had backed himself into a corner, looking on in abject horror.

“Ghoul?” Dalsh hissed, sliding his form around to face the second boy. If everything wasn’t already wet, Dalsh would have sworn the reptile had pissed himself. “What is a ghoul?” he snarled.

Dalsh had been crouched beside the corpse, knees resting on the wet floor. A constant stream of water, or what he hoped was water. After all, this was a sewer. One could honestly hope there was real water here and pretend to not think otherwise. Luckily, Dalsh had a piss poor scent of smell. His second mouth had closed, tendrils now slithering about each other once again.

He didn’t even register these were just boys, intent on a second helping.

“Go on,” Dalsh sneered, moving closer to the rish’dar as the other fell onto his ass, tail curled almost in half around his body. “Give me an answer. What is a ghoul?”

“An animated corpse,” the boy stuttered out as Dalsh reached out, touching his chest with the tips of fingers. He’d kept the illusion up through all of this, though his appearance was still affected by his state.

Barking a laugh, the nythren curled his fingers around the other’s throat. “You’ve described every undead there is with a single sentence. They are all animated corpses. What makes ghouls special, do you know?”

He was a predator playing with his food, enjoying the look of horrific fear on the boy’s face. His nythren nature overpowered his logical mind. Dalsh strove to enhance that terror in any way he could, leering into the other’s face.

“I don’t know!” There were tears in the rish’dar’s eyes, he began blubbering in his response, squeezing his eyes shut as Dalsh’s cold, rancid breath washed over his face with the nythren’s laugh.

“Ghouls are ghosts bound to a zombie. Souls trapped in an animated body. Don’t you get it? Ghouls, you see, have a soul.” His illusion shattered, what mysterial Dalsh had been using to keep it going now refocused as the nythren’s second mouth yawned again, tendrils slithering out.

“I don’t have a soul at all.”


The ghoul had come right out of the darkness, attacking the rival gang member like a savage dog. Eric managed to roll away from the fight, his nose bloodied and grabbed Yana. “Get back, quickly now,” he whispered into her ear, pushing her around a corner and behind him as he watched the thing maul his gang’s enemies like they were wet parchment.

As the scene played out before him, Eric could only watch in disbelief, jaw hanging open when it ate the second rish’dar. But the thing didn’t really eat them. It changed right before his eyes, and he recognized it as an illusion. The ghoul went from being a beat up looking working class klavden, to something vastly different, a corpse with...things lashing around out of its midsection.

The second rish’dar slid to its side, dead eyes staring upward. The ghoul thing’s tail slithered across the sewer walkway behind it. Sounds rumbled, like a rabid korlx growling. There were strange, high pitched squelches and whimpers, meat sliding on meat, stone grinding against bone. It was filthy, unnatural. And it had not noticed them yet.

“What the fuck,” Eric whispered, at which time the monster’s large ears flicked and the creature turned deftly around, twisting its upper body to lock a brightly glowing, dark hued purple gaze upon him.

“Another?” the deep, gravel growl addressed him. “And here I thought the sewers would be void of life.”

It started to stand, wavering a little. Eric had dropped the wand when the rish’dar jumped him, and it now lay between him and the monster, casting an eerie glow on the thing. It was like a skeleton, ripped and torn. One of its arms looked about to fall over, and the shambling walk reminded Eric of every zombie story he’d told the other orphans at meal time.

Eric raised his arms, wrist blades glimmering. “Get back, ghoul, zombie, whatever the fuck you are.”

Yana’s voice sounded from at his side. Eric looked down in horror that she had moved into danger.

“Thank you, Mr Ghoul! You saved us!”


Dalsh froze, eyes locked on the tiny dvergar child. His eyes narrowed, tendrils freezing from their mid air lashing. Eyes opened along their lengths, all focusing upon her. The enormity of what he’d done crashed home, fear crushing his freshly healed heart.

“I’m not a ghoul,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he desired nothing more than to vanish and appear home in his underwater haven.

Mysterial burned hot inside him, working to put his twisted body to its twisted ‘right’. It would still take time to heal, but now it wouldn’t be so long. The taste of their souls was on his tongue, pulsing with the desire to tear the souls from the flesh sacks of the two remaining. He ate children, sucked the souls of young boys like any monster from story.

“Oh, well, what are you then? Are you an orphan too?”

Dalsh’s eyes opened, glaring at the child as she clutched some stuffed toy. “I’m your hero, apparently.”

Wrapping his good arm around his middle, Dalsh closed his second mouth, tendrils slithering back into the maw like so many tongues. He sank to his knees with a grunt, shifting his scathing gaze to the older child.

They stared at each other for several minutes, until the young girl took a step forward. Like a wounded, rabid korlx, Dalsh leaned back and snarled, baring savage yellowed teeth at her. Squeaking, she jumped behind the sireel, peeking from under his wings with wide eyes.

“What are you then?” the elder boy asked, still standing ready for a fight.

Dalsh sneered at him, tilting his head to the side, red hair hanging in his face. “Very hungry.”

The nythren hung his head forward, feeling disgusted with himself for falling back into the darkness of the monster he was. Worst of all, he was pissed with himself for eating them, not for their deaths. Likely he’d have killed them anyway, thought a second though, without remorse, if they even stood in the smallest likelihood of interfering with him. He would have done it bloody. He would have enjoyed every second. But he would not have eaten them. It was that failure he fought, that last step. The monster nythren ate children without remorse, he would at least chastised himself for it. It was how he proved to himself he was always in control of his monster, of the monster he was. He would deny it that at least.

“I have some peppermint sticks,” the little girl offered in a quiet voice.

Dalsh grinned from behind the curtain of matted mane. “I’m thinking something a little more alive. Or at least has been recently.”

He looked up then, to the elder child, the sireel. He saw the twisted wing, and how the boy tried to push the younger one behind him and back away. Yes, back slowly away from the monster, as if it would ever help you when it loosed again. When Dalsh lost himself into the last step of insanity, lost himself to the thing he was. Backing away wouldn’t save them.

“Know anyplace I can find that?”

“Yeah,” the boy said, lowering his arms just a fraction. “We are in the FrayVics territory. They have patrols like them out here everywhere. Go eat them.”

Dalsh chuckled, staggering to his feet, tail low and swaying. “I’m not going to eat you,” he offered. “I might kill you, but I’m not going to eat you. Show me older prey, and I’ll let you live.”


Eric shivered as those cold eyes followed his every movement. He had to get Yana out of here. “Why don’t you just finish eating them?” he gestured with his wrist blades to the two mauled and bloody bodies lying on the floor.

The thing didn’t turn, never even shifted to look, but instead to one limping step forward. “I don’t eat the bodies, boy. I eat the soul.”

Eric felt his breath catch in his throat, the fear he’d felt great a thousand fold. “Shit. A nythren? You have to be fucking me. No such thing.”

It laughed at him, those large ears perking high as it shambled another step, keeping the distance between them the same as he tried to back away.

“You are not the first to wish me a myth, I assure you. Believe what you wish, I’m hungry and there’s either you two or something else you can offer. Your choice.”


Eric hated turning his back to the monster, but carried Yana in his arms as he led the way. His mind worked wildly to figure a way out of this situation, or to even make sense of it really. Nythren didn’t exist, he didn’t even tell the gang any nythren stories. If they knew about nythren, it was from whatever family life they had before they were put out on the streets.

Yet, there was one here, walking its shuffling walk behind him, making those freakish unnatural sounds. It hadn’t spoken a word since he agreed to lead it to one of the FrayVics’ outposts. When they reached it, Eric shielded Yana’s face against his chest, turning his back to the sounds of screams, fighting, and the nythren’s own roars and hisses. Eric wanted to run, hide, go back to the group’s home. Hell, he’d even go for running into some of the Inquisitors. Wouldn’t they love to hear this one!

Dalsh found only two more at this outpost. Guards likely. These sewer clans were nothing but thieves and thugs. There were probably hundreds of them here. Entire villages living well beneath the city’s feet. He killed the younger one, still a child, and left the body to rot while feeding from the adult. Barely an adult, but well, good enough for his stomach, or whatever organ he had that did  the dirty deed of digestion.

The nythren stood over his fresh kills for some minutes, tendrils dripping blood as they hung chest height from the air. Several eyes flicking about, their tips split into three unnatural fingers. He had enough to heal. Now there was nothing left to do but wait and let his body do the work.

Dalsh turned from the scene, surprised to find his sireel companion still on the scene, clutching the near babe to his chest. It was almost picturesque. Dalsh had killed families in this same position, frozen them in time with his flame, burning their image upon walls.

He frowned deeply, tendrils slithering back into their home, mouth closing. “You have my thanks,” Dalsh growled. “Now I need something else from you.”

Paranoia was something Dalsh had never been able to shake since he'd re-awoken. It was a constant 'something is out to get me' feeling which snapped at his heels no matter where he went. For most individuals, he saw enemies or usable tools. If neither, then he saw nothing but fodder to be thrown to the side or used as filler in some experiment. While Dalsh kept his back turned to the rish'dar, looking off into the wasteland, he was very aware of what Bluk was doing and where he was. Like a bat, Dalsh 'listened' to the motions of the mysterial around them, tuning something akin to a sonar to 'see' around him even when his eyes were not directed upon it.

While Dalsh acted relaxed or dominate around the thief, there was a part of him always on edge around those that knew what he was or had seen his true face. The nythren's large ears twitched gently at the sound of cracking bone. However, he did not yet move. He'd animated the corpses nearly ten minutes ago, when Bluk had thinned the ice over them enough to allow base movement. Now the ice was thin enough to break free for at least one body.

Break free it did. The corpse, ragged, mummified flesh hanging in strands or wrapped tightly around bone, gave a sudden lurch and burst from the ice, hands first. The body was small, a young skeld boy, wrapped those icy fingers around Bluk's throat if the rish'dar did not climb out of his hole fast enough.

"I told you to be careful," Dalsh growled darkly, turning to settle glimmering eyes upon his hireling.

The look of confusion as the nythren smiled only furthered his desire to send the little shrimp packing. As the spell was unleashed, Dalsh snapped his robes around him and turned on a heel, hoping he would finally be able to get some peace, which wasn't exactly so. Sharaden may be a free city, for the most part, but they did not approve of wright fights in the streets. Guards had already appeared from their posts around the market, frowning deeply at the scene they beheld. Dalsh was on his way out, cloak snapping at his heels as he walked briskly, until he heard the shout behind him.

Baring his teeth, the nythren turned his upper body sharply, teeth bared in a snarling grimace. It was all the guards needed, hefting weapons and striding forward, calling for Dalsh to halt.

"Gods be damned," the nythren snarled under his breath, clenching his fists and standing his ground. As they approached, he knew he was running out of options. When they reached him, they would surely grab his arms, like any good guard would. If he ran, he had better run faster than they. If he attacked, he doubted he would have too much of a chance. Their weapons were likely embedded with crystals and enchanted, if they didn't know basic spell slinging of their own.

Holding up his hands, Dalsh shook his head with a nervous smile, shaking his head. "I did nothing of the sort! That little pest has been stalking me since I arrived!I only wish my space and to complete my business without further disruptions."

"You'll need to come with us, Sir." One of three guards approached Dalsh. They appeared relaxed, yet cautious.

"Check his pockets," another commanded, moving to stand behind Dalsh as they closed in.

The nythren's tail flicked irritably, eyes narrowed as he looked between the lot of them. A crowd had gathered by then, watching with mild interest as yet another pick pocket was taken from their streets.

One guard reached out, grabbing Dalsh by the shoulder while his free hand slid into the deadman's robes. Beneath the illusion, Dalsh's tendrils had slithered out, wrapping around the man's wrist while one tendril drew a single kukri, a curved knife, and slipped it through his sleeve, waiting to drop it into the nythren's hand.

"What the fuck?" the guard's expression changed to a mix of disgust and horror, then surprise as Dalsh made a quick movement forward, planting the blade into the man's chest.

"I said I don't like people in my space. Now you know why," he hissed, pushing away.

Using the moment of surprise, Dalsh flipped the blade in his hand, cutting across another guard's throat to open his escape route and bolted into the streets.

Dalsh seemed to be completely oblivious to his companion's rather violent fear of his presence. Rather he seemed annoyed with the questions, brushing at frost and ice which had begun to cling to his robes and dead skin.

"Yes digging," the nythren replied with an exasperated sigh. Those unnatural eyes settled upon the terrified rish'dar. "We?" Dalsh chuckled, brushing black talons over his chin as he continued to brush away the ice. "You. You will be digging for three unfortunates buried about three feet under the ice out there."

He couldn't raise them if they were buried under ice. Buried under ground and ice were two very different things. Most of the time, a physically strong zombie or ghoul could bust through dirt covering if they were not too far under. Things very deep in the ground would need to be very strong or else he would have to help them out a bit. Ice was something very hard and difficult for a raised dead of any type to break through.

While Dalsh himself could bust through the ice with mysterial force easily enough, he would risk damaging the bodies.

Dalsh took the vial, tapping his claws to it to listen to the ring and check for any flaws. As another customer stepped up beside him, he worked to kill the paranoia growing in his gut, tendrils slithering over each other in distrust. Replacing the vial, Dalsh cast a half glance to the myst as the other began to make an attempt at starting small talk. The nythren grunted in reply, sliding  a few silver links across the counter and pocketing the vial. It would serve his purposes well enough, but he also needed to find something with a bit stronger mysterial enchantment.

The other was a bit too close for comfort, and Dalsh, not for the first time, felt nervous about being in this city at all. Gripping the edge of his cloak, the deadman snatched it around his feet, frowning to the myst in distaste. "I'm sure there's a tailor you can speak to about it," he hissed in reply, turning and striding away. He hoped the other would get the message. Most individuals would be embarrassed and slink away. The myst didn't appear to be a pick pocket, in fact, Dalsh could feet a certain mysterial 'scent' from him. An idling flowing wave that suggested a wright.

Tail carried low to the ground, he continued looking through the wares, seeking something that would work well for an experiment of his own design.