Shadow Slave: The Four Horseman of Deviants

The two figures dashed through the twisting sewers, each step splashing through murky water as they squinted into the dim light ahead. Shadows stretched and warped along the damp walls, the flickering glow barely enough to reveal the path. Suddenly, one of them stumbled, his boot catching on jagged stone.

"Oi, what are you playin' at?" hissed his friend, grabbing his arm and yanking him up. "They'll have us, sure as anything, if we keep muckin' about."

A glow rounded the corner—a line of lamp lights, steady and cold, sweeping slowly through the dark. They held their breath, eyes locked on the lights edging closer, steady as a hunt.

"Check the sewers— they'll be down there somewhere," barked a voice from above.

One guard muttered, "Do we have to? Can't we just get an Awakened down here?"

"Rubbish!" snapped the lead guard. "What would this city need us mundanes for if we ran to them every time some gutter rats crawled into the dark?" His voice rose, ringing through the damp tunnels. "Awakeneds handle the Night Crawlers— we handle the rest. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" came the reply in unison, followed by the stomp of boots as the guards moved toward the sewer entrance.

In the shadows below, the two men tensed, catching every word. They held still until the footsteps faded, then one man tugged his friend up, his voice low and urgent. "Right—come on. We've got to be quicker than that lot."

They hurried as best they could, one man half-dragging the other. Every staggered step splashed through the murky water, each one seeming louder than the last, echoing down the stone tunnel as the guards' footsteps closed in. There was no place to hide, no side passage to slip down—just the endless stretch of tunnel with nowhere to go.

"Go on without me," the injured man urged, his voice strained. "You've got to make it."

"Not a chance," his friend hissed back. But before they could argue further, a shadow shifted up ahead, a figure moving towards them with a quiet, measured tread.

"Bloody hell—an Awakened?" the injured man whispered, his voice tight with panic. "They're boxing us in!"

Just as they braced for the worst, the figure grabbed hold of both of them, hauling them forward with sudden, unstoppable strength. The two men stumbled, eyes wide as they recognized the face in the dim light.

"Awakened Stallone, we swear, we're clean this time! We swear!" Their voices rattled out between gasps as they were whisked through the dark at an incredible speed, barely able to keep their feet.

The echo of the guards' footsteps faded as the three figures sped deeper into the winding tunnels. At last, their rescuer eased his grip and released them, and the two men stumbled slightly, catching their breath.

"You two alright?" he asked, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "And I ain't Awakened Stallone. Name's Wind of the West."

Derrick and Zott stared at him, thrown by both his words and his calm composure. After a moment, Derrick found his voice, glancing down at his injured foot before looking back up. "Thank you, sir… My name's Derrick. And that's my friend, Zott."

Zott nodded, still looking at Andrew with a mix of awe and bewilderment, his mouth half-open as he tried to make sense of their unlikely savior.

Zott cleared his throat, his voice a cautious murmur. "Begging your pardon, sir, but might I ask… what's in it for you, for helping us?"

Derrick, glancing warily at Andrew, chimed in, "Right, what's your angle here? You with the guards, by chance?"

Andrew rubbed his chin, his expression unreadable. "Nah, nothing like that. I'm a bounty hunter. Brawn Knuckles mentioned someone ran down here last night. Figured it'd be you two?" He pointed at them as he asked.

Zott's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, Mr. Knuckles? We've… crossed paths," he said, the words slow and measured. "But why're you asking about him?"

"His place got trashed," Andrew replied. "He thinks who did it might be lying low down here in the sewers since last night."

Zott and Derrick jerked back in sync, their voices rising in unison. "No, we've got no clue about that! Really—sorry, but we should be going!" Zott had already turned to flee when he glanced back and noticed Andrew's firm grip on Derrick's arm.

In his mind, Andrew was on to them. In fact, he probably was already suspecting them. He had a calm face, so it must mean that he's going to do something to do. Zott needed to do something.

Clearing his throat, Derrick managed, "Uh, Mr. Wind of the West, could you… perhaps… let my friend go?"

Andrew's expression barely shifted as he gave a slow blink. "Nah I think I'll keep him close. Just 'til we reach Brawn's place."

Just as Zott could react— with a swift and precise manuver, Andrew hoisted Zott onto his shoulder as if lifting a sack of sand. "Matter of fact, I'll bring both of you to him. Let's see if he buys your bullshit of a story."

….

Brawn Knuckles stood over Zott and Derrick, casting a shadow that seemed to double his size. He cracked his knuckles slowly, the echo filling the cramped room. "So," he drawled, his voice threatening, "you two were the ones who tore up my place."

Seated at the dinner table, Zott and Derrick shifted uneasily, their eyes darting around, beads of sweat forming on their brows. Zott tried to avoid Brawn's gaze, while Derrick's fingers fidgeted, twisting and untwisting a fold of his shirt as if it might keep him out of Brawn's line of fire.

Across the room, Andrew leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a quiet, unreadable expression.

He opened his runes, he got something from killing Klaus, he was curious to what it was.

…

Name: Andrew Harkon

True Name:

Soul Core: Dormant

Memories: [Sea of Nothingness]

Echoes:

Attributes: [Man of the Hunt], [Feral Command]

Aspect: [Huntsman]

Aspect Description: You are a hired mercenary who kills their targets with a cost. A lone weapon that never wavers from their tasks. 

…

There was something alright, and it was a bad ass name for Andrew. 'Shit, I gotta check this out, this gots to be something.'

"Hey Brawn, I'll be in the other room, Aight?"

"Do what you want lad, I need to make this right."

He went to the other room, and summoned the Sea of Nothingness. Dual daggers produced on the both of his hands. Its color had a streak of green and its hilt is made out of scales.

"Shit… This damn thing is aesthetic as hell." He looked at it in awe.

He looked at the description of the Sea of Nothingness.

…

Memory: [Sea of Nothingness]

Memory Rank: Dormant

Memory Description: Beneath a sky stripped of stars, an endless horizon stretches, swallowing light and sound.

…

As he marveled through the intricate possibilities he could do with the dual daggers.

All of the sudden, Brawn Knuckles slammed his fist down on the table, the force rattling plates and silverware. The wood groaned, the shock traveling through Zott and Derrick, who both flinched.

Leaning forward, Brawn's voice dropped to a deadly growl, "Explain to me why you wrecked my place."

His eyes held a fierce gleam, each word heavy with menace. "I warned you-one wrong move, and l'd make sure you'd remember it for the rest of your miserable lives."

Derrick swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke, "We... we're sorry, Mr. Knuckles. Didn't mean to. We were forced-threatened, even. They had swords to our throats."

"Yeah," Zott added, his voice barely steady. "They... they made us do it, said they'd gut us if we didn't."

Brawn's gaze sharpened. "And just who the hell put you up to this?"

Zott's mouth opened and closed, the words caught somewhere deep, until finally he forced them out, barely more than a whisper. "Gallighar Demitra."

With a sudden, resounding smack, Brawn Knuckles slammed his fist onto the table, sending one of its legs cracking and the whole thing pitching slightly toward the ground. Zott and Derrick jolted, barely holding themselves together as the table wobbled beneath their arms.

"Demitra?" Brawn growled, his eyes narrowed with a dangerous edge. Muttering under his breath, he stomped to a small cabinet, yanking it open to pull out a beer, his grip around the bottle tight. "After everything I've done for him… Why?"

His gaze shifted to Andrew, who was leaning back, fingers idly tapping against each other. Brawn nodded toward the pair, his tone probing, "What do you think, lad? Are they telling the truth?"

Andrew's eyes flicked over Zott and Derrick, both visibly shrinking under the weight of the question. They looked ready to leap out of their own skins if it meant getting away. He shrugged, eyes calm. "Yeah, they seem like the sort who'd fold quick if it meant keeping out of trouble."

Brawn Knuckles barked a laugh at Andrew's interjection, clapping him on the back. "You're bloody serious, aren't you?" His face, once hardened, softened just a touch, his glare shifting to a faint smirk. Meanwhile, Zott and Derrick sat frozen, swallowing every ounce of embarrassment with clenched teeth and downcast eyes.

With a final huff, Brawn Knuckles stepped closer to the pair, resting a heavy hand on each shoulder. "Alright, I'll let you two go," he growled, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. "But hear me—next time, you're getting worse than a scolding."

"Yes, sir," Zott blurted out, glancing nervously at Derrick. "Right, Derrick?"

"Aye, we understand, Mr. Knuckles. Not a step out of line, promise." Derrick nodded quickly, the color draining from his face.

With a flick of his fingers, Brawn Knuckles pointed them to the door. They scrambled out, barely catching their breath before he hollered, "And don't come back!"

Brawn Knuckles turned to Andrew, a glint in his eye. "Fancy keeping an eye on 'em for me, lad? Twenty-five coins and a beer."

Andrew raised a brow, shrugging. "Not much for a drink, but I'll follow them." Without another word, he slipped out, the door creaking shut behind him.

….

Andrew slipped into the shadows, following Derrick and Zott down a narrow, dimly lit path. Ahead, a staircase spiraled down to a steel door, worn and scratched. Derrick stepped up, giving a sharp knock. A small panel slid open, and a pair of eyes squinted through the gap.

"Oi, what's this, then?" came a voice, rough and gravelly.

Derrick straightened up, speaking in his most polite tone. "We'd like a word with Mr. Demitra, good sir."

The door creaked open, revealing a dark corridor stretching into the depths. The doorman grunted, beckoning them in. Andrew moved in silence behind, blending into the shadows as the door swung shut behind them.

They walked deeper, the corridor widening into a dimly lit underground market. Small stalls lined the walls, hawking strange wares Andrew couldn't make sense of. Odd trinkets, smoky vials, and gleaming metals caught the faint light. Andrew barely gave them a glance, focused on his target.

Andrew's gaze darted around the crowded underground space, taking in the dim lights and shadows clinging to every corner. 'Man, this place is sketchy as hell,' he thought, his unease growing with each step.

As he wove through the crowd, a raised platform caught his eye. Several people stood there, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, each with a weathered cardboard sign hanging from their necks, scrawled with something Andrew, he knew what was going on in that place.

His jaw tightened. Every instinct told him to get involved, to tear this whole operation apart. But he forced himself to keep a steady pace, his gaze fixed on Derrick and Zott up ahead.