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Claws & Crimson (Gortash x Durge)

"Shit."

Tonight, Gortash had truly outdone himself, indulging in a few too many glasses of a potent vintage Ithbank and washing it down with a meal already causing his stomach to churn. It served him right for deciding to prove himself against the gout-riddled Lord Beasley and his portly advisor. He should have known better, his stomach and liver not yet used to his new status.

With each laboured step, he could feel his belly sloshing painfully and his head swimming, causing him to press a hand firmly against the cool stone of the Elfsong to steady himself. The intense heat radiating from his skin made a sizzling sound as it met the stone, and soon he was pressing his entire face against it, taking in a sharp yet blissful breath as the coolness enveloped him.

It was all he could do to stay upright, everything spinning so fast that he feared the ground was about to swallow him up.

"By the Gods," he slurred under his breath, feeling his nose crinkle and bend as he nuzzled his face into the cold stonework. The sharp edges dug into his skin, leaving small red marks behind. Another glass (or three) in his system, and he might have stripped to his breeches, desperate to cool down the fire under his skin.

Unbeknownst to him was the heavy thud of boots against the dry dirt, and the glint of daggers rapidly approaching. There were three of them, judging by the wide cast shadows creeping down the alley, with six teeth between them and broken noses pointing in different directions.

You see, what the gentry despised more than taxes is an upstart prick who reached for more than his status. Gortash made a mockery of their weak chins and inherited wealth, putting down more gold on wine and food than the rest of them could scrape from their coffers. Whether he meant to or not was of no consequence. He wasn't raised in their world, didn't grow up in their society - the only real difference between them being that half the gentry needed ointment for their undercarriage, and all shared suspiciously similar features.

Bane might have been his guiding hand, but his God could do little to stop a dagger in the back - or could he?

Closer they crept, the men so close that they could smell the alcohol permeating Gortash's skin... as well as a sickly scent beneath it, like fermented cherries. The stench was so sickly that it made their eyes water, stinging the edges of their visions and causing tears to stain their dirty, soot-stained cheeks. How Gortash was still standing was a miracle. He should have been foaming at the mouth, spewing his guts up and burning from the inside out. But he looked no worse for wear than any other drunkard stumbling out of the Elfsong.

The Lords had told them to wait until he further down the alley, out of sight of the Fists, and well past the Candulhallow's shop - its smashed windows and half rotted door hanging by its hinges. No one was entirely sure what the shop sold, or who owned it, only that it smelled of rotten fish and decay - an easy place to dispose of a fresh corpse.

But they weren't the only ones looking to spill blood.

As they clumsily made their way towards Gortash, they could feel the weight of predatory eyes watching their every move from the shadows, while the sound of saliva dripping from a sharp-toothed maw echoed in the silence. Superstition and instinct begged them to run, but the allure of gold kept them moving - even as their hairs stood on end and an unnatural cold chill swept over them.

"Boss, I don't like this," one of the men whined, his voice trembling as he spoke. The sound of his dagger rattling against his filthy fingernails only added to his nervousness. He shifted on his feet, the metal plates on his knees clanging together over his patched trousers. His fear was palpable, colouring the air with a mouth-watering aroma.

"Pull yourself together, you prat. Are you scared of the dark or some'fin?"

"Something's not right."