H130, Day 227, 9 AP [Wraith, Hilathic]

[Uathach Blackmantle]

"Hilathic?" Wraith called out as she descended into the darkness. Her glowing coin held aloft, softly bathing slick cold walls, and the first few steps ahead and behind her, this place was fast becoming familiar; and less daunting.

"I know it was only yesterday when I was here last, and I should give you time to find me in the Open Shell, but... I just couldn't wait." Alighting from the lowest step, onto the freshly swept floor, she peers into the gloom beyond her circle of light.

As was the usual in days gone by, her heart was aflutter, and she felt a little queasy. Her stomach gurgled in protest, even though she'd eaten a hearty meal of roast beef, mushroom cups and potatoes in gravy, and her pulse quickened. Her heart raced to stay just one step ahead.

Wetting her lips, and forcing herself to breathe slowly and evenly, she called out to Hilathic again; and silently prayed that he was home. If not... Wraith banishes the thought with a telling shake of her head.

"I've been doing some thinking, Hal, and there's still some things we need to discuss, arrangements to be made, and the appropriate tools to obtain for Marrak's interrogation." Pausing, she listens to the darkness beyond the light, hoping to hear the tiefling's breathing over the muted noise outside. "I don't know about you, Hal, but I'm just a poor embalmer... and some of the things we'll need won't be cheap. We may need to pool together what little resources we have at our disposal."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Her words were met only by silence. Not even a shuffle of feet or the telltale intake of breath beneath the background noise.

Wraith hesitates, beginning to think that coming here wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe he wasn't home. Maybe he'd ducked out on business. Maybe he'd gone looking for her. Maybe he'd grown so impatient he decided to look for Marrak himself. Or maybe...

"No. He couldn't have... Surely he's not...?" Wraith thinks aloud, shaking her head to cast the disturbing notion aside. She didn't want to think that the same fate had befallen her friend. Her heart races again. Her breath forms small white clouds in the dank, dark confines of the catacomb chamber.

Snuffing the light with her closed fist, Wraith's eyes slip into the infrared spectrum. Penetrating deep into the gloom, all she can make out are traces of blue, purple and a hint of green. Some dying moss clings feebly to the wall further down, and traces of heat still waft from the pile of rags, cooling rapidly. But aside from that... nothing.

Images of Hilathic's tortured body flash before her mind's eye.

Backing toward the stairs with a horrified cry, Wraith's foot catches on the hem of her cloak, tearing it, and she falls to the floor...

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Clambering to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest, threatening to burst out, Wraith clings to the wall for support. At last, after collecting her thoughts and allowing the dull patter of rain to soothe her, she returns to her senses. All around, darkness closes in. The silence was oppressive.

Relaxing her fingers over the glowing coin, light flares within the gloom. Making her way back to the pile of rags, she sits down and begins unpacking her writing materials; quill pen, bottle of ink, scrollcase containing a few sheets of papyrus, and her spellbook, just in case.

The old rags, smelling faintly of old sweat and a hint of dried blood, felt warm to the touch. So he'd been here not long ago, she mused, and popped open the lid. Taking out the curled sheets, Wraith shuffled through them. She curses under her breath. "Shit. Surely I have...?" Checking again, just be certain, she realised she wasn't wrong the first time. She was all out of papyrus. She must've used the last sheet when she took Aerin to the Gatehouse.

Wraith hesitates. Tears well in her eyes and slide down her cheeks. Aerin. Choking back a pained sob, she tears out a blank page from her spellbook, dips her pen into the ink, and begins to write. Her tears fall, fast and silent, splattering onto the page, blurring her words. Still she writes, driven by the call in her soul, the rhythmic scratching of pen nib on parchment, until all she wants to say has been disgorged, glaring back at her in reddish black ink.

It was a vile concoction, an amalgamation of Stygian squid emesis and the crystalline sludge obtained from the River of Salt. Stinking faintly of blood, brine and pain, it was a poignant reminder of who she was, and where she came from; a common bloodline she and Hilathic shared.

Signing off with a flourish, Wraith pauses to consider her letter, and heaves a melancholy sigh. She could only hope Hilathic would find this, and that he hadn't fallen afoul of the Cult.

Sniffling back her tears, and wiping her eyes with her fingers, Wraith packs away her belongings. Waiting until the ink dries, she folds it neatly, and slips it into the fold of rags. On a second thought she takes it out again, slices off a lock of her hair, and twines it about the letter, just so he wouldn't mistake whom the addresser was.

Tucking the letter beneath the cloth mound he used for a pillow, with a hint of parchment sticking out, she ascends the stairs once more. Again she prayed, as she slipped into the alley and followed the winding streets closer to home, that somewhere Hilathic was alive and safe...