XVII. The stars burned bright in the clear night sky over Morroc. There was no moon in sight. For tonight, just as on each Day of the Dead of years past, it was a new moon, and Luna hid behind a dark veil.
Festive music filled the air from a hundred instruments played by bands scattered through the streets of Morroc. Costumed revelers filled the streets, singing songs, dancing to the music, imbibing the mulled wine Morroc was famous for. No nook or alley was spared by the celebration, as Morrocans and visitors alike caroused upon sand-filled brick roads, bounded by square plastered buildings.
The Day of the Dead had always started out somber, a morning of reflection and remembrance on those who have passed before. Towards dusk, the celebration began, a feast for the dearly departed. People dressed in assorted costumes and varying masks went out as night fell, to partake in the festivities that would last till dawn.
Fynn walked through the crowd, wearing the phantom of the opera mask he had filched earlier today. Around him, people laughed and talked, danced and sang. He didn't really belong to this crowd; he knew none of them. And yet, for tonight, only for these few hours, he felt like that didn't matter. It was one of the things he loved about holidays, especially those that gathered a lot of people with an air of joy.
His investigation of the Door's site had uncovered nothing, and he had parted ways with the swordsman Alric by mid-afternoon, and slept for a few hours. He had woken in the dark of the rented room, on the inn's second floor, to the sound of acoustic music being played outside. That had been a couple of hours after dusk by his reckoning.
Now, he stood in the dancing crowd, enjoying the festive ambiance. The air carried with it the aroma of roasting meat--a Morrocan delicacy called Monster's Feed--and a grumbling stomach reminded the assassin that his last meal had been at midday. He followed his nose.
Alric said that the Sword of Valor would be joining the festival tonight, but so far he had seen only one member: some dark willowy guy who wore an outrageous poring costume. Compared to that, Alric's pointy-nosed mask had taste.
Beer and wine flowed freely, poured from casks and barrels rolled outside of taverns by obliging barkeeps. Fynn was never good with alcohol, and avoided when he can. There was something about enjoying one's self without making the whole world spin, too. So he stood on that corner beside the stall selling Monster's Feed, munching on salty meat stuck on a stick and sipping a bottle of iced grape juice.
Somewhere not far, the celebration seems to have reached fever pitch. Fynn heard the screams through the collective drone of music and conversation. And then the crowd panicked. Fynn almost dropped his food as people rushing past jostled him. Something was happening. The screams were tinged with fear.
He tried to see through the crowd to find out what was wrong, but the wave of people was like an impenetrable wall. It was all he could do to stand his ground. He gulped down the remaining Monster's Feed and grape juice, and then grabbed an old man by the shoulders.
"Pardon, grandpa," he said, catching the old man's wild eyes with his. "What's happening?"
"They're not costumes! Monsters! Monsters in Morroc! Flee while you still can!" came the almost incoherent reply. The man twisted from his grasp and was carried away by the stream of people before he could clarify.
Fynn stood on tiptoes, trying to look over the heads of the rushing crowd. But he was too short. He fingered his pair of katars, hanging from his belt, and was thankful that he decided to carry them.
Is this related to the Door? Morroc was a walled city and had stood strong against previous invasions of monsters. Surely, the City Watch would have given advanced warning if this attack had come from the outside. He had to locate the source.
With haste, Fynn began to climb up the nearest building, a three-story square house. His hands grabbed on anything and pulled him steadily up. Within moments, he stood atop the flat roof and looked down on the street towards the source of the commotion. It did not take him long; the sea of panic avoided the site, a wide clearing where he can see dark splotches of blood, prone costumed bodies, and among the corpses were...moving shadows.
He ran across the roof, jumping to another roof across a narrow alley and from there, leaping to yet another, heading for the site. It would be useless trying to fight his way through the mob. Soon, the grisly scene was right below him.
They were shadows, six of them. And they moved with a kind of irregular, unnatural gait as they stalked among the fallen bodies, maiming and killing with limbs that ended in scythe-like appendages. A dark aura surrounded them, heightening the sense that they did not belong in the natural order of this world. In all his wanderings in Rune Midgard, Fynn had never seen such monsters.
Time to earn your keep, Fynn Elenium.
Strapping his twin katars onto his arms, he somersaulted down to the street below, nearly slipping in a puddle of blood as he landed.
Okay, there're five of them.
The nearest shadow creature had its back to him, hacking at the lifeless body of a young woman. Pieces of the corpse's limbs littered the creature's feet. Fynn sped towards it, looking for some weakness. Assassins were trained to exploit an enemy's weakness, but these were creatures he had never fought before. Could his katars even slice through shadowstuff? He hazarded a guess, bringing the blades around the creature's neck, scissoring through.
His katar bit through sinewy substance and Fynn exhaled a sigh of relief as he finished the killing blow, lopping off the creature's misshapen faceless head. The rest of its body collapsed. Even as he turned to face the others, the separated head and body dissipated in foul-smelling wisp of smoke.
Four to go.
Two of the shadows came at him from both sides, moving at blinding irregular speed, brandishing their bladed appendages. Fynn spun, lashing out with both katars. Both shadows erupted in twin clouds of smoke. Fynn coughed in the acrid fumes, blinking back tears.
Only two left.
He looked around, and saw the blade descending just in time to step out of the way. He faced one of the squat creatures now and it followed him, slashing at him alternately with both blade-arms. He skipped from side to side to avoid the scythes, and then, seeing an opening, ducked inside the creature's reach and stabbed with both katars. He sliced outward, opening the shadow's gut, but nothing spilled. Shadows do not bleed.
One more. Where is it?
Wildly, he cast around him, but the creature was nowhere in sight. And then he looked up. The shadow was dropping on him, scythe-like arms held before it. Moving with reflexes honed by his assassin's training, he twisted and back-flipped away.
As soon as the creature hit the ground, it leaped for him, its form blurring with its unnatural speed. Fynn stood his ground, drawing the shadows--real, natural ones--around him, and vanished.
The shadow creature halted its charge, puzzled.
"Time to get a little taste of some Assassin magic, Door-spawn," Fynn called out. The shadow turned at the sound, but before it can locate where Fynn stood invisible, the assassin called upon the very bones of the earth.
"Grimtooth."
Sharp spikes of stone erupted from the bricks of the street floor, skewering the shadow creature. It twitched, transfixed in place, then disintegrated into smoke that was quickly dissipated by a slight breeze.
Fynn reappeared. He shook his head sadly at the bodies of the slain innocents. Somewhere in the city, a Door had opened. He had to find it.
He turned away from the massacre, leaving behind the maimed corpses, the drying pools of blood, and the sharp fangs of stone that even now were beginning to crumble.
