The decision was cast. Greywind bypassed the door leading to the taproom and the stairs that descended into the throng of revelry. With a swift, measured stride, he took the service stairs at the quieter end of the corridor, emerging directly into the rear alley of the Golden Blossom—a narrow passage choked with refuse barrels and the cloying scent of damp rot.
The biting night air rushed to meet him, momentarily cleansing the lingering cloy of rose oil and the frantic aura of Elara's chambers. Jannis remained silent, yet her presence clung to his back like a shadow—a promise that demanded fulfillment.
He withdrew a weathered, roughly-sketched map, given to him by a cloaked bounty hunter at The Drunken Minotaur three nights prior. It traced the city's edge, followed by a jagged, dotted line toward the northeast, terminating at an area marked: "Watchtower Ruins—Caution. Unnatural Activity." The contractor, a man who called himself Kaelen, spoke of a cell suspected of cultist ties using the ruins as a clandestine meeting ground. Their ultimate purpose remained shadowed, but the coin promised for information—or evidence of their dispersal—was handsome.
The trek from the red-light district to the city's outskirts claimed nearly thirty minutes. The streets grew hollow and desolate, illuminated only by a full moon that frequently sought refuge behind drifting clouds. The nocturnal chorus—the skitter of rats, the drone of insects, and the distant, lonely howl of a hound—served as his sole accompaniment.
"Finally," Jannis whispered, resurfacing with sudden clarity. Her voice brimmed with anticipation, like a child standing before a confectioner's window. "The ruins. A sanctuary for the foul and the forbidden. I do hope they are still awake... or better yet, mid-ritual. Blood warmed by fanaticism is always more... aromatic."
She sounded ravenous.
Around 11:40 PM, Greywind reached the fringe of the small woodland encircling the Watchtower Ruins. The ancient sentinel was now little more than a shattered husk of stone, surrendered to moss and encroaching roots. From the distance, an orange glow flickered from within the main wreckage—a bonfire. And there were shadows in motion, more than one.
Greywind crouched at the forest's edge, roughly sixty feet from the half-collapsed maw of the entrance. Low grunts and unnatural growls drifted through the air, interwoven with the monotonous, rhythmic chanting of human voices.
He chose the path of silence. Utilizing the cast shadows of the trees and the scattered debris of fallen masonry, he drifted forward like a nocturnal mist. His focus narrowed upon the slivers of light escaping the cracks in the stone.
The night wind sighed softly, masking his cautious footsteps. Greywind crept closer—from sixty feet to forty, then thirty. He found cover behind a waist-high section of ruined wall, a mere twenty-five feet from the source of the light: a bonfire roaring in the center of the Watchtower's open floor.
The scene crystallized before his eyes.
Four figures were gathered around the blaze. Three were humanoids draped in coarse, rust-colored robes, their hoods concealing their features. The fourth was far larger—a thick-furred, hulking humanoid with the snarling visage of a hyena and massive, curved talons. A Gnoll. The beast salivated, emitting low, guttural rumbles, tethered by a heavy rope held by one of the cultists.
In the center of their circle, upon a flat stone slab etched with sanguine symbols, lay a young woman. Her hands were bound, her mouth gagged. Her eyes were wide, frantic with terror, as she struggled feebly against her restraints. She wore the simple garb of a villager, likely snatched from a nearby settlement.
One of the cultists, seemingly the leader by the superior quality of his robes, raised a ritual bone-handled dagger high above his head. He began to intone a chant in an alien tongue, a cacophony of sibilant hisses and harsh consonants.
"Look at them," Jannis whispered in his mind, her voice vibrating with a delight that bordered on the erotic. "Exquisite preparation. They have nearly completed the labor for us. A life saturated in pure terror, nearly offered to their false master... it shall be a perfect appetizer for me. Do not let that blade touch her, Greywind. That life... must be ours."
The night air shuddered as Jannis hissed, "Yes... show them the power of a true patron."
With a movement born of lethality, Greywind rose from the ruins, hand outstretched. An unnatural, dark energy coalesced in his palm, pulsing with a hunger for ruin. He took aim at the Lead Cultist, who was utterly consumed by his focus on the victim.
An Eldritch Blast streaked forth like an arrow forged of pure shadow and malevolent intent, leaving a momentary vacuum in its wake.
The bolt of darkness struck the leader squarely in the chest. It was no mere impact, but a blinding detonation of eldritch force. The sickening crack of bone and the tearing of flesh followed, underscored by a final, choked scream. His body was hurled backward, colliding with the Gnoll before falling motionless beside the fire. Death was instantaneous.
"AAAAH!" Jannis's cry within his skull was not of words, but a wave of psychic ecstasy so intense it was nearly blinding. It was a sensation of deep, dark, and overwhelming climax, flooding every corner of his mind with a gratification that was not his own. For a heartbeat, his vision swam, and Greywind felt an alien euphoria wash over him—the residue of Jannis's pleasure.
"MORE!" she shrieked in his mind, her voice raspy and breathless from the height of her delight. "DO IT AGAIN!"
The Gnoll caught the scent of the leader's blood on the wind, its crazed, crimson eyes locking onto Greywind. With a low, hateful roar, it cleared the bonfire in a single, impressive leap, its great claws raised high as it lunged!
Claws and fangs snapped. Greywind managed to slip past the direct bite, but the sharp talons raked across his shoulder, leaving a searing, piercing heat. The Gnoll stood a mere five feet before him, snarling, bile dripping from its maw.
"Feel the fury of the wild, Greywind! But fret not... its demise shall taste all the sweeter!" Jannis whispered, still sounding breathless with anticipation.
The cultist who had held the tether drew a dagger from beneath his robes. Seeing his leader slain and the Gnoll engaged, he chose to circle around, seeking to flank. He moved in a wide arc, positioning himself fifteen feet to Greywind's right. He did not strike yet, perhaps paralyzed by a lingering fear.
Sensing the pincer maneuver, Greywind did not retreat. Instead, he planted his feet and threw his arms wide. A dark energy, distinct from his Eldritch Blast, radiated from his form—a primordial darkness, cold and filled with ancient malice.
"Feel the grasp of the Elder Dark!" he muttered, or perhaps it was Jannis's voice melding with his own will.
Arms of Hadar erupted. From the shadows surrounding Greywind, spectral tendrils of pure void and freezing wind lashed out, clawing and seizing everything within a ten-foot radius.
The shadowy limbs gripped the first cultist firmly, siphoning the color and warmth from his skin. He cried out in agony, appearing withered and broken. The Gnoll took the brunt of the lashing but managed to evade the worst of it, emerging merely agitated and enraged.
"Yes... feel the ruin I crave!" Jannis hissed, savoring every second of the suffering.
The cultist holding a torch, seeing his comrade wounded and the Gnoll in a frenzy, finally acted. He cast his torch to the ground and pulled a sling from his belt. With practiced speed, he loaded a stone and whirled it toward Greywind. The stone whistled past, shattering against the masonry behind him.
The wounded and increasingly feral Gnoll raged. It snarled, lunging with its jaws once more. Greywind dodged, and the bite snapped only at the empty air.
The echoes of Jannis's pleasure still rang in his head, but they brought with them a dark clarity. Greywind saw the second cultist sprinting toward the prisoner and the Gnoll before him, beginning to falter.
Jannis sighed in contentment, then whispered with an urgent, panting voice: "The Gnoll... or the human? The human is sweeter... but the Gnoll is wilder... CHOOSE! CHOOSE AND KILL!"
Watching the cultist dash toward the prisoner in a panic, a cold fury took root. The man was no longer a combatant; he was a transgression—attempting to seize "property" that might be useful, or at the very least, tainting the night's ritual with a wretched hostage.
"Do not touch her... she is not for you," Greywind thought, though the sentiment likely reached Jannis.
In a blur of motion, Greywind drew the rapier from his hip. In two long strides, he closed the distance to the cultist crouching by the altar. Firelight glinted off the needle-sharp point. The blade pierced the cultist's back directly between the ribs, puncturing the lung. The man gasped, eyes bulging, and slumped sideways against the stone. Blood soaked into the earth. Dead.
And then, it happened.
"AAAAAAAAAKH—!!"