The map unfurled with a whisper, its edges crackling like dried skin. Vincard pressed his gloved palm flat against the parchment, smoothing out the creases. Eldridge sprawled before him in five concentric areas.
The first was the Upper Districts: it was also known as the "noble district". It was located on the hills in the north of the city and was once the heart of the elite. Vincard remembers that before the plague, nobles, alchemists, and the leaders of many secret societies resided here.
He pointed his fingers toward the south, to the Lower Districts. It encompassed the slums and marketplaces, a maze of narrow alleys, wooden huts, and markets. The plague had raged most fiercely here, and the few survivors had barricaded themselves in or fled to the quarantine zone. There are also a few hidden areas where hunters brew potions, as well as black markets for blood samples and all sorts of things left behind by the beasts.
Then there was the Industrial District. Located in the east of the city, it was a labyrinth of factories, smokestacks, and railroad tracks that once symbolized Eldridge's economic power. Before the plague, factories here produced mercury, weapons, and alchemical reagents, which contributed to the spread of the plague. Now the halls are breeding grounds for mutated workers, but at the same time they are considered the perfect hunting ground for hunters. They are a good source of ingredients for potions. But the district was also dangerous for other reasons, such as toxic fumes and collapsing structures. On the other hand, you can find good resources here, such as ammunition and metal parts for weapons.
Then there was the Cathedral District in the center of the city. It's dominated by the Great Cathedral of Eldridge, a gothic masterpiece of black stone, pointed towers, and stained glass windows depicting foreign symbols. The cathedral was the spiritual center and site of the first rituals. But surrounded by squares and monasteries, the district has now become an epizone of the plague.
The fifth and final area was the Quarantine Zone. The outer edges of the city formed the quarantine zone, an improvised barrier of walls, barbed wire, and watchtowers, erected after the night of the first great Awakening. Here, the last loyal soldiers and hunters patrol to prevent outbreaks. It's also a transition area with abandoned camps where new arrivals like Vincard arrive. Infected people constantly try to break in, but the guards currently have most of them under control.
However, Vincard noticed that several other locations were marked on the map. They were scattered throughout the city, with the description: The Catacombs.
Vincard knew that beneath the entire city lay a network of catacombs. It was an underground system of tunnels, tombs, and hidden chambers that had existed since the medieval period.
The catacombs connect all districts and also serve as a shelter for some hunters. This allows them quick access from one location to another. However, they also serve as a breeding ground for the most gruesome mutations, beasts that lurk in the darkness. Some say that the plague originated down there. But no one knows for sure.
"That'll do for now, I suppose," he said quietly, rolling the map up tightly, the rustling sound echoing in the empty room. He put it in his inside pocket, next to the silent watch.
"Well, off to work..." This sentence came out rather mockingly, not entirely convincing.
He rose, the spindly chair creaking in protest, and stepped out into the fog once more. The streets twisted like the corridors of a fever dream, the greasy air clinging to his coat like unwanted hands. Vincard moved with deliberate grace, his boots sinking into the mud with soft, sucking sounds.
„Hopefully the Iron Guard has the information I need," he thought to himself as he made his way to their quarters.
After a while, he spotted the outline of the Iron Guard's quarters. It squatted at the edge of the quarantine zone, a squat fortress of riveted iron plates and reinforced timber. Barbed wire coiled along the top like thorny crowns, glinting dully in the flickering gaslight from mounted lanterns that sputtered against the damp. The structure had once been a customs house, judging by the faded emblem of crossed keys above the entrance, but now it bristled with modifications: slit windows reinforced with steel bars, a heavy portcullis gate etched with alchemical wards against corruption, and parapets where shadows of sentries paced like restless specters. The air around it reeked of oil, gunpowder, and the acrid tang of mercury vapor, defenses against the plagues insidious creep. Symbolically, it stood as Eldridge's last bastion of order, a iron fist clenched against the chaos, yet even from afar, Vincard could see the cracks.
Two guards flanked the entrance, their forms bulky in armored greatcoats and leather masks that muffled their breaths into mechanical rasps. One cradled a repeating rifle etched with protective runes, its barrel still warm from recent use; the other gripped a halberd modified with a serrated blade, dripping with a viscous, silver-laced oil. Their eyes, visible through the slits in their masks, narrowed at Vincard's approach, tracking him with the wariness of men who had seen too many allies turn foe overnight. He could feel their suspicion like a palpable weight, their postures shifting subtly: shoulders squared, fingers tightening on weapons. In this forsaken place, strangers were synonymous with threats.
"Halt," the rifleman growled, his voice distorted through the mask into a metallic buzz. He leveled the weapon not quite at Vincard, but close enough to make the point. "State your business, or join the ash piles."
Vincard stopped a respectful distance away, his hands visible but loose at his sides, palms outward in a gesture of non-threat. His silver-gray eyes met theirs without flinching, though inwardly he scoffed at the ritual. "I'm here on government mandate," he said, his tone even, laced with that dry sarcasm that served as his armor. "The same one that answered your cry for help. I'd like to speak with whoever penned that desperate missive, the architect of this little reunion, if you will."
The halberdier exchanged a glance with his companion, their masks tilting like inquisitive insects. "Government?" the rifleman echoed, skepticism dripping from the word. "We've seen plenty of 'emissaries' turn up, only to sprout fangs by nightfall. Show us the papers, or we ventilate you here."
Vincard slowly reached into his coat, extracting the sealed letter with deliberate care, holding it out like a talisman. "By all means, inspect it. But hurry, I have no desire to stand here debating with you."
The halberdier snatched the document, scanning it under the lantern's glow. Minutes stretched, filled with the distant toll of cathedral bells and the guards' muttered consultations. "Hmm... I see," the rifleman finally conceded, though his grip on the weapon didn't loosen. "But you're on watch. One wrong twitch, and—"
"—you'll burn me, I know," Vincard interrupted with a ghost of a smile, echoing the gatekeeper's earlier threat. "Honest fire, right? Lead on."
With a grunt, they heaved the portcullis up, the chains rattling like the city's dying gasps. They flanked him as they entered, their boots thudding in sync with his own, eyes never leaving his form. The interior was a dimly lit warren of corridors, walls lined with crates of ammunition and vials of mercury antidote, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. They led him deeper, past barricaded doors and huddled figures in uniforms frayed by endless vigil.
Finally, they stopped before a reinforced door at the heart of the compound, its surface etched with a faded insignia of crossed swords over a shield. The rifleman knocked twice, a sharp rap that echoed hollowly. "Captain," he called. "The government's man is here."
The door creaked open, revealing a figure bathed in the warm flicker of an oil lamp. She was a woman in her mid-forties, her frame wiry and unyielding, clad in a tailored uniform coat adorned with tarnished epaulets and a sash of faded crimson, the last vestiges of military pomp. Her hair, cropped short and streaked with premature gray, framed a face etched by hardship: sharp cheekbones shadowed by fatigue, eyes a piercing hazel that held the weight of too many lost comrades, and a scar running from her left temple to her jaw, pale against her weathered skin.
She stood with the posture of a coiled spring, one hand resting on the hilt of a saber at her belt, the other clutching a crumpled report stained with what looked like dried blood. Her presence radiated authority tempered by quiet despair, a symbol of defiance in a world unraveling at the seams, yet Vincard noted the faint tremor in her fingers, the subtle glaze in her eyes that spoke of nights haunted by the whispers.