Exquisite Corpse

Byrne was still too sick to travel – but not so weak that he still needed constant watching. That left Esme at loose ends. They’d never meant to stay in Starkhaven after the artist snatch job, but in the end, there’d been no choice.

And if she didn’t get out of those rooms at Harlin’s from time to time, she was going to lose her mind.

This job seemed promising. Some killer or demon or something out along the river, menacing travelers and outlying farms. She stood in the cool tunnels beneath the palace, examining one of the victims under the watch of a pair of guardsmen and a thin robed woman that she took for a priest.

The dead man was nearly unremarkable, save that most of his chest and the entirety of his arm had been flayed. Esme bent close, trying to detect the knife work. Part of her wished she had her lab equipment and reagents with her – but that went a bit beyond the mandate of this particular mission.

“You just want whatever-it-is dead, right?” Esme preferred jobs with no killing as a matter of principle – but she could make an exception for a real monster.

“Yes, Serrah, that’s right.” The chantry mother leaned forward, directing Esme to pry open the dead man’s jaw. The corpse’s purpled tongue was pierced by a rusty iron nail. “They’ve all had this. What do you make of it?”

“I dunno, calling card or something?” There wasn’t much blood in the mouth, meaning he’d probably died before the nail had been hammered into place. “Look, I’m ready to go as soon as the other guy gets here.”

Genthus jogged in a rare hurry, swears whispered under his breath as he fastened his new armor. The chest plate across his breast, new and shiny, was but the first piece of the few he’d received by courier from his cousin when they’d arrived to Starkhaven, a purchase weeks in the making via letters to and fro. He’d been afraid to miss it entirely, but lo and behold, Caro’s sickness had delayed them all, and he’d received it without issue. He’d meant to spend today learning it, reading his cousin’s instructions, practicing putting it on, and so on. Then word had come from Esme that something demonic needed killing.

Needless to say, he’d contented himself with only what he’d learned so far, grabbed his axe, and come running.

Rounding another corner in the tunnels, he’d spot his friend, the two guards who’d offered to show her the way, and a priestess in chantry attire that he couldn’t recall, all in a little circle. As he neared, one of the guards would move to face him, hand up. “Halt there, ser. State your business.”

”I’m… ugh… with her…” Pointing as he bent forward to brace against his knees, Genthus would catch his breath, armor still hanging off-kilter, the sight a mess. He’d be tempted to comment on it himself had his eyes not found, at their feet, a mess of a corpse, skin lashed, tongue pierced, rigor mortis set. Guard relenting, he’d push past the other man and near close enough to take a proper look, huffing still.

”Mmm… you weren’t kidding, Esme. That’s a kill for sport if ever I’ve seen one.”

Esme wiped her hands on her trousers and turned away from the grisly sight to grin up at the new arrival. By necessity, she hadn’t seen much of the other Salamanders since the artist job – too much activity at Harlin’s would draw the eye of the guard.

“Hey. It’s good to see you, big guy.” She clasped his arm, then spent a moment looking over his new armor. It didn’t seem to be of local make – and it wasn’t quite sitting right on his frame. Loose buckles dangled and rattled with each step. “Need any help with all that?”

The chantry mother cleared her throat, a disapproving gleam in her eyes. Esme shrugged, slightly abashed. The woman had the same icy manner as her own mother.

“We’ll get started right away, ma’am.” Steering Genthus out of the catacombs by the back of his belt, Esme didn’t speak again until they were standing in the weak autumn sunlight. “You got my letters? Or did the Dogs fill you in?”

It rankled a bit, how wrong things had gone. Caro had nearly died, pinning them in place until he was fit for the road – still a week or so off, in her opinion. They’d spent nearly as much coin as they’d earned for the job on lodgings and medicine and bribes. Then something had happened to the Maker-damned Prince of Starkhaven himself, leading to the city closing its gates and locking down.

The chantry wanted these ritual-killings solved before news of them spread. The mother’s writ of passage was hot in her palm.

“Everything’ll be alright. Byrne included. I just don’t want to leave with empty pockets.” She gestured vague behind them at the palace, by way of explanation. The words didn’t sound right to her own ear, failing to muster the confidence she was reaching for. A couple seasons into this new profession and she’d seen just as many horrible injuries. As stir crazy as sitting in an inn room for days on end made her, it was hard not to feel a little bit of trepidation about diving back into the work.

They collected the horses from the stable and she mounted up.

“Have you ever fought a demon, Genthus? What do you think it does with the skin?”