A bar, dimly lit, teeming with drunks and a gathering of enfeebled men who wandered the earth, had become Lariat's new home. His mortal wounds had healed enough to allow him to move, though the pain lingered like an unwelcome guest. More than a week had passed since his entire life had been strung up like a bundle of wheat and set ablaze.
He sat in the corner of the most degenerate bar in Lorton City—a place so beneath him that a suave gentleman like him should never have so much as grazed its threshold. Yet here he was. The mug of ale before him invited him, and he obliged, sinking into the taste of grain and the fleeting euphoria it brought. Beth haunted the edges of his mind, a ghost knocking persistently on the doors of his thoughts. He knew what he had to do.
His gaze dropped to the blood-stained piece of paper he had painstakingly repaired. The Black Emporium had left it behind—a cruel "gift" after they razed his hearth and home to the ground. A mocking note of thanks, dripping with venom.
Four Items:
Heaven Shaking Worm
Priestly Scepter of Peace
Bond Breaking Elixir
Sword of Calvary
"Bring these four items to the depths of the Maelstrom's Eye. Assuming you want to see her."
Somehow, he was back in his old trade. For lack of a better word, he was a ghost. He entered any place and left with everything, untraceable and unreadable—a phantom, a shadow. Blanc. He knew exactly what the Black Emporium wanted from him. It was a blood-soaked invitation to revisit old times. If only they hadn't been the cause of his wife's death. And now they wanted his daughter too—or perhaps they already had her. The not knowing was a fire that scorched him from the inside out.
If this had been years ago, he would have leapt into the job without hesitation. Or better yet, he wouldn't have been in this mess at all. But without a gold core, he had no chance. He took another swig of ale, emptying the mug in one long pull. The off-white froth left a mustache on his lips, fizzing out seconds later—just like his hesitation.
For days, he had been snooping around, searching for old contacts. The first name that came to mind was Willow Wisp—a prancing ball of energy he had once despised. Willow Wisp was the complete opposite of Jasmine. While Jasmine, his wife, had been like jade sculpted by the hands of a master jeweler, Willow was a molten blade forged from the explosion of worlds. Nothing in this life could contain her, while Jasmine had exuded a serene, unshakable coldness.
"Would you like another glass?" a waitress asked, reaching for his empty mug.
A brief debate sparked in his mind—reason or fury. Rationality, as some might define it, won out. Drowning himself in ale would do nothing to change the situation. And it would only mean another day lost without his daughter.
"No. I'm done. But thank you."
Lariat left the bar and headed in the direction an informant had indicated. The ever-expanding city of Lorton sprawled before him like a jagged mess of social classes and income streams, stitched together with grime. Drool, filth, and the stench of alcohol clung to every breath of air, whether inside or out. He marveled at how the inhabitants had grown used to it. To him, the city was a living, breathing thesis on the boundless adaptability of the human species.
He moved through the shadows, leaving no trace of himself in the murky world of rainbow-hued lights that adorned Lorton City's streets and shops like gaudy jewels. Another time, he might have mused on the irony of its outward beauty concealing the rot within. Buildings blurred as he moved swiftly. In three minutes, he reached The Guild—a seedy building nestled among equally seedy hotels and brothels, all fixtures of the city's lowest rung. Oddly, the stench wasn't as pervasive here, even though it was the heart of the slums.
He made a mental note to ask the owner about that.
Pushing open the doors, Lariat ignored the intricate designs etched into the walls and made his way to the counter. The noise of adventurers, mercenaries, and criminals laughing and brawling faded into the background as he focused on the man behind the desk.
An old habit surfaced—one he hated about himself. His dull gray eyes flickered, scanning the man's posture. Within seconds, he knew everything he needed. Tense shoulders bore unnecessary weight, throwing off his spine—and, by extension, his core. Translation: he'd die before he even had time to react.
The rest of the room had already been marked in Lariat's mental radar. Just because he tuned them out didn't mean he wasn't aware of every movement behind him.
Leaning forward onto the desk, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. His dull gray eyes sparkled with interest.
"I'm looking for someone," Lariat said. "I've been told they visit here often."
The man behind the counter returned the smile. "I suppose I might know. Depends on who."
"It's a lady," Lariat replied, his tone light, almost playful. "Goes by the name Bonny Clyde. A fiery furnace of energy, blue hair down to her hips, and a figure that could turn heads in any room." He added a wink, lifting his hand to gesture just below his shoulders. "About this tall, and always wears a silver necklace with the letter N on it."
"Bonny," the man mused, his tone amused. "Unattainable to most people here. What's your business with her? And for the record, the name's Roy."
"My business?" Lariat's grin widened as he feigned realization. "I was hoping to invite her to a round of none of your business."
Roy shook his head with a small laugh.
Lariat kept his smile, but his gaze—shrouded in something deep and unfathomable—sent an involuntary chill down Roy's spine. His mouth suddenly felt dry, as though all the moisture had frozen under the weight of the abyss staring back at him.
"Curiosity," Lariat said quietly, "has killed far more than just the cat."
Sliding a single carat across the counter, Lariat watched as Roy pocketed it in one smooth motion. A carat—a standardized unit of currency equal to an ounce of silver—was enough to feed someone in the slums for a week.
"Twenty more of these," Roy said, "and I'll tell you something nobody else in this room knows about Bonny Clyde."
"Everything," Lariat countered, "and for ten."
Roy hesitated, weighing the offer. After a moment, he nodded.
"Remember," Lariat said, his voice cold and even. "Curiosity kills more than just cats."