Blood, Banter, and Basement

Miller Bess’s cellar was exactly as appealing as it sounded. The moment Ronan heaved the heavy wooden doors open, a wave of foul air washed over them. It was a thick, cloying smell of damp earth, blooming mildew, and a sharp, acrid undertone of something rotting that Kael had no desire to identify. The stone steps leading down were slick with a greasy, green slime, and the oppressive darkness below clung to the corners like a physical presence, waiting to swallow them whole.

“Right then,” Ronan said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to be absorbed by the suffocating silence. He hefted his shield, its familiar weight a clear comfort. “Plan’s simple. I go in, shield up. Anything that squeaks, hisses, or moves gets smashed. Can’t go wrong.”

“An excellent way to get surrounded and devoured, you thick-skulled brute,” Nira countered, her voice tight with irritation. She already had an arrow nocked, her keen elven eyes scanning the oppressive shadows with a tense energy. “This is a hunt, not a bar brawl. We need light, a clear field of fire, and a strategy that involves more than just ‘smash’.”

“I can provide a light source,” Cyras offered, his calm, quiet voice a stark contrast to their bickering. He held out a pale hand, palm up, and whispered a single, syllabic word. A small, shimmering orb of pure white light bloomed into existence, hovering an inch above his palm. It pulsed with a gentle energy, casting their elongated, nervous shadows against the cellar entrance. He sent it floating down the stairs, and it drifted toward the center of the room, pushing back the darkness.

The light revealed a large, cluttered space filled with rotting barrels leaking dark sludge, cobweb-draped shelves sagging under their own weight, and piles of refuse. It was a perfect breeding ground for vermin.

Catherine clutched the silver holy symbol around her neck, its polished surface reflecting the magical light. “Please, everyone,” she urged, her gentle voice cutting through the tension. “We must work together if we are to succeed.”

Kael watched them, feeling less like a participant and more like an analyst observing a dysfunctional machine. He had taken the quest, which by some unspoken rule of this world, made him the de facto leader. It was a role he never wanted, but the alternative—letting them argue until a rat chewed off Ronan’s foot—was worse.

“Nira’s right. No charging in,” he said, his voice firm and level, surprising even himself. He cut his eyes to Ronan. “You’re the wall. You go first, but you move slow and steady. Cyras, keep that light centered so we have no blind spots. Catherine, you stay right behind Ronan. Nira, find some high ground if you can; those barrels look sturdy enough. I’ll be with Catherine, behind the shield.”

Ronan grunted, a sound of reluctant agreement, and took his position at the bottom of the stairs. His massive shield was held ready, a slab of wood and iron between them and whatever horrors lurked in the shadows. The plan was simple, logical.

It lasted about ten seconds.

The first rat exploded from behind a stack of mildewed crates. Greta hadn't been exaggerating. It was the size of a bulldog, a hideous creature of knotted, mangy fur, with a whip-like tail and teeth like yellowed daggers. It launched itself through the air with a piercing shriek, a blur of motion aimed right at Ronan. He met it with a deafening CRASH of his shield that echoed like a thunderclap in the enclosed space.

Before he could even counter-attack, a half-dozen more swarmed from the shadows. Their red, malevolent eyes glowed in the magical light, and the sound of their skittering claws on the stone floor was enough to make one’s skin crawl.

The cellar erupted into sheer chaos. Ronan became a bulwark of steel and fury, planting his feet and taking the brunt of the assault. His shield absorbed vicious bites and claws, while his shortsword jabbed and slashed at the swarming creatures. An arrow hissed from the darkness above—Nira, having already found a perch atop a stack of sturdy barrels—and a rat fell with a gurgling shriek, the grey fletching of her arrow sprouting from its eye socket.

Cyras chanted a quick, sharp phrase, and a jet of fire, small but intensely hot, shot from his outstretched fingers, scattering a group of rats that were trying to flank Ronan’s position. Catherine’s hands began to glow with a soft, golden light, her eyes scanning for injuries, ready to heal at a moment's notice.

And Kael stood behind Ronan, feeling utterly, profoundly useless. He had no sword, no bow, no magic he could consciously control. He was a spectator to the violence, a liability. He watched as one rat, smaller and quicker than the others, feinted left, dodged Ronan’s shield bash, and lunged for his exposed leg. Ronan roared in pain and anger as its teeth, sharp as razors, sank deep into his leather greaves.

Instinct, born of pure desperation, took over again. There was no time to think. Kael's eyes darted around and found a loose, jagged stone on the filthy floor, about the size of his fist. He scooped it up. There was no room to throw it, no time to aim properly. He saw the wound, the blood, and the monster latched onto his teammate. He looked at the stone in his hand, then at the hinge of the rat's jaw.

His mind screamed a single, clear command. He didn't just imagine throwing the rock. He imagined the rock as a high-velocity projectile, a tiny cannonball. Concept: Inert Stone. New Concept: Precision Strike.

He didn't throw it—the word is too clumsy for the motion that followed. He willed it forward. The stone shot from his hand, not in an arc, but in a dead-straight, impossibly fast line. It wasn't a bullet, but it was just as deadly. It slammed into the side of the rat's head, right on the jaw joint, with a sickening, wet CRACK.

The creature's jaw shattered. It went limp instantly, its body twitching spasmodically before falling away from Ronan's leg. Ronan stared down at the fresh kill, then at the bloody stone lying beside it, and shot Kael a look of bewildered shock over his shoulder.

“How—?”

“No time!” Kael snapped, his mind racing. He saw another rat scurrying along a high, rotting shelf, positioning itself to leap down onto Nira from behind. He focused on the shelf, on the very concept of its structure. Unstable, he thought, pouring his will into the idea. Rotten. Break.

With a loud groan of protesting timber, the wooden shelf beneath the rat splintered and collapsed. The creature tumbled to the ground amidst a shower of dust and debris, landing in a stunned heap right where Ronan could dispatch it with a single, swift, brutal stomp.

The fight was over in less than a minute. The cellar was silent again, save for their heavy, ragged breathing and the drip of water from the ceiling. Five grotesque, oversized bodies lay on the floor, their blood dark on the damp stone.

“My leg,” Ronan grunted, leaning heavily against a wall. Catherine was at his side in an instant, her hands hovering over the bite wound. A warm, golden luminescence enveloped his leg. The torn flesh and muscle, visible through the hole in his greaves, began to knit itself back together at a visible rate. In seconds, the bleeding stopped and the wound closed, leaving behind only smooth, unblemished skin.

Ronan stared, flexing his leg as if he couldn't believe it. “By the gods… I’ve been healed before, but I’ve never seen it that fast.”

Catherine simply smiled, a little breathless from the effort. “The Goddess provides.”

Nira dropped down from her perch, gracefully landing in a crouch. She inspected the fletching of the arrow she had recovered, wiping the blood from it. She gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod in Kael’s direction. “Your plan was adequate, Kael. And your… interventions… were effective.” It was the closest thing to a compliment she was mentally capable of giving.

Cyras, however, was staring at Kael, his scholarly curiosity having morphed into pure, unadulterated fascination. “That was not elementalism,” he said, his voice hushed with awe. “You did not conjure force, nor did you manipulate the element of decay. You simply… willed things to happen. You altered their state of being. What is that power?”

“I don’t know,” Kael said honestly, looking down at his own hands. They felt no different. There was no exhaustion, no feeling of spent mana like a mage would feel. There was just the memory of a thought, and then the result. The terrifying, exhilarating result.

They collected the grisly rat tails as proof of the job and ascended the slimy steps back into the clean, fresh air of the city. After collecting their 36 cirens each from a thoroughly bored-looking Greta, Ronan suddenly clapped Kael hard on the back, nearly sending him sprawling onto the sawdust floor.

“Alright, Tricksy,” the barbarian boomed, a wide, toothy grin splitting his face. “You’re a weird one, no doubt about it, but you’re not useless. The first rounds on me!”

They found a cheap table at the Gilded Gryphon. The ale Ronan bought was watery and the bread was stale, but as they sat together—dirty, tired, and victorious—the sharp, defensive edges they had all shown earlier had softened. They had fought together. They had won.

It wasn't friendship, not yet. But as Ronan argued with Nira about the proper way to cook a rat, and Cyras tried to subtly question Kael about his "conceptual manipulation," and Catherine offered everyone a piece of bread with a genuine smile, Kael realized it wasn't just a business arrangement anymore.

It was the beginning of a team.