The Evil Within- Chapter 4 Karena and her friends, half-mesmerised by the yellow-eyed woman's animal magnetism followed dreamily as she led them down alleys and ratruns, circled from her destination of the river into the middle of the Rahd. The small part of Karena which remained self-aware continued in an undertone; My poppa will rescue me, he's the richest noble in Litz, everyone says so, he'll get me out soon and I'll be home and safe and warm in my snug room with the stuffed toys I'm always saying I'm too old for but never throw out and it will all be alright, I must believe it, I do believe it And the ratrun they were following led into a small, semi-circular court in what must be the centre of the Rahd. It was shabby and rundown, lined with old packing cases and crates. And people. Eight people, dressed in filthy, grease-sodden rags, with mad yellow eyes shining berserkly from their gaunt faces. And Karena thought; They are wolves. No, she thought heartbeats later, these were the human idea of wolves. A wolf did not kill except when he needed to, wolves had no concept of the idea of killing for sport. Wolves weren't cruel, they did not torture. Those eyes staring madly at her were all too familiar with the idea of torture. And the woman who had led her here spoke; 'It's time for sport' On the other side of the river, six distraught nobles whose little darlings had not returned made a deputation to the garrison. Ushered into the office of the commander. Shown to seats. Offered mulled wine, the warmth of the roaring fire within taking from the shrouded misty terror of the night they had braved. The garrison commander was a middle-aged, balding, harassed-looking Litzian. In fairness to him, the reports of a killing mist in the Rahd, a decapitated and desecrated (by no apparant human agency) statue, the death of the nominal governor of the city and now the disappearance of six scions of the most important Houses within the city, had combined to make this a trying night. His awareness of the fact that the pair of Disciples who sat behind him, officially guards, would be the ones who made any decisions did not help any. The Disciples, a race wise in the uses and abuses of power, knew that true power does not come with decorative uniforms and fanciful titles, so they allowed the balding Litzian remain as commander, a post which held no actual power in these days. He listened as the nobles, in between gulps of his finest mulled wine, told their tale of woe. Then he began. 'The Rahd is an area which, speaking plainly and honestly, holds certain difficulties for my troops. There are, ah, certain malefactors active in the Rahd and perhaps in the morning...a full investigation...proper reconnaissance...ah, assure you will not be parted long from your children....' The commander wipes his bald brow nervously. And behind him comes the scrape of steel from steel, as the Disciple unsheathed his blade and held it to the light. 'There are other ways. Make an example of the gutter rats' and seven large boats cross the still, dark river. Disciple soldiers and magi unload along with Litzian regulars. Others watch them, smugglers taking this intrusion as part of an attempt to stamp out their illicit trade once and for all. Ambushes are prepared, groups of silent, dark-clad men gather in the alleys. The Disciples are so confident in the invincibility of their legions and their magi's powers, they do not yet know the darker, shadowier sides to warcraft where you strike at your enemy and run back into the shadows, city-fighting. Karena watched, her eyes kept open by splinters pressed into her eyelids. They had taken Darik and spreadeagled him out on top of the burrow of a fox. They then smoked the animal out, watching with childish delight as the fox chewed it way through flesh to escape its fiery burrow. The others had long since met their fates. A mist rolled in from the bay and settled over the city of Litz. With the mist came witchfire hatred, and I. Or perhaps the mist followed me, the omen of evil dreams and forgotten horror tailing me like a hound of all vile in the world. Under the ghostmist's baleful influence, men went mad. Little children awoke from their innocent dreams and snatched knives, slashing down parents and siblings in frenzied bloodthirst. Beggars in the canvas city of shacks and shanties outside the city proper wandered the streets, savagely tearing apart and consuming any wanderer they met. The Disciples, the self appointed guardians of the city were helpless, for as many of their own were struck by the madness as the wetlanders. Those who remained asleep were in no less danger. The mist that settled around their houses trapped them in shadow cages of horrific dreams. More died by thrashing around until they were suffocated by their own bedsheets than by any other way that long night. Only one area of blackness wandering the streets was unaffected by the mist. I, Mordecai, walked the alleys and paths of Litz, the eye of the erupting storm of hatred. And, the eye of that dark storm, there was calm around me. I strode through the shadows to the church. Sur Sylvain was there. I could sense his fear