His work complete, he stood up from his subject. Blood and effluvia lay in thick layers on the rough stone floor of the modest shed, but none stuck to Jakob. After all, his attire was purpose-made for such a task as he had just committed.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Heskel grunted in response.

“Quite right. It is far from my best work, but the sample is healthy enough and he will prove his worth I am sure.”

With the materials provided by his dead comrades, the captive guard had been modified by Jakob. He had grafted two additional sets of bones and muscles onto the ruined man’s arms and legs, using the improvised tools that Heskel had created from the items and materials they had harvested from the guards: sewing needles from bone splinters; string from interlaced and twined hair; rough, though not entirely dull, blades of various sizes from the broken fragments of two swords; as well as a small amount of magic.

The magic was a relatively new addition to Jakob’s skillset, as Grandfather had not taught him the pertinent spells until he had turned ten. Mostly, the spells were of Necromantic tomes and Demonological ritual scripts.

Using the Rite of Prolonged Life Jakob had ensured the man’s body would last far longer than naturally possible, as the kind of shoddy combination of materials drawn from incompatible donors as well as the terrible work conditions, would result in eventual rejection, necrosis, and sepsis.

To ensure a firm and instantaneous bonding of the forced grafts of bone, skin, muscle, and flesh, he had employed the Amalgam Hymn, which was a spell Grandfather had created himself through his long study of chimeric creations and spell tomes so ancient that natural light would erase their writing.

Without needing to be commanded, Heskel had gathered the blood of the captive man in an improvised waterskin crafted out of the guards’ leather armour. Jakob took the proffered leather satchel, the blood within sloshing about merrily, then he pulled out a necklace he had been allowed to bring from under his apron. It was a simple chain cord, though it had been crafted well, and was connected to a long and slender glass vial. The vial contained a tar-like substance that was so dark that it seemed to draw in light.

With practiced ease, Jakob pulled free its stopper and teased a tiny droplet from it and into the captive’s blood. Then he put it away and took off his scent-mask, savouring the flavour of the stagnant and copper-tangy shed air. He bit down on his lower lip, until blood welled forth, and then let it fall freely from his chin and into the blood mixture as well. He wiped his mouth and chin, before putting the mask back on.

Stirring with a frayed bit of a leather strap, the mixture suddenly grew to a thick treacle-like consistency, and the red seemed to intensify.

Jakob knelt before the still-unconscious man, whose arms and legs bulged with newly-wrought potential. On the skin of his hollowed-out stomach, wherefrom liver, intestines, kidneys, and other non-essentials had been pulled, he painted with the frayed leather strap like a brush. With the blood mixture, Jakob drew the twin pentagrams and the twin signs of the Obedient Squire within them so that they overlapped. Given its usefulness for instilling a simple obedience within a subject, this was a Demon sign that Jakob had already drawn many times before, to the point that he didn’t need to check any of his linework.

“Was it the symbol of the Lord next?”

Heskel grunted disapprovingly.

“You’re right. I forgot about the Contract symbol, didn’t I?”

He moved on to the captive’s bare chest and drew the Eye of the Watcher, which symbolised the unbreakable covenant between two parts. Grandfather told him that none could lie or cheat under the gaze of the Watcher, and thus its likeness was oft invoked in many Demonological rituals. It was drawn as a symbolic eye within two triangles that overlapped each other so that they formed a hexagram.

The Sign of the Lord he drew on the forehead of the man. Unlike the other two symbols, this one was quite simple: a trident with a circle halfway-down its length. Its simplicity was becoming of the irrefutable and undeniable power of the Lord.

Jakob stood back and observed his work.

“Heskel, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The Wight grunted his assent and knelt before the captive, ensuring each sign sat where it should and was drawn with proper linework that showed no deviations nor breaks. After all, such errors could have devastating effects, with a backlash affecting the Invoker whose blood infused the paint.

After a few minutes, he stood back up and gave an affirmative nod.

“Excellent.”

Jakob took off his skin glove and brought out the knife he had used to part the flesh of the subject prior. As he drew it slowly across his outstretched palm, he chanted in the lilting tongue of the Hellspawn.

“Watcher, I beseech thee observe this rite. I beseech thee ensure its claim.”

“With this rite I lay claim to what I am owed as Lord. With this rite I enslave this soul to me.”

“Drawn in the blood of the Lord, the Watcher, and the Squire, render this my subject absolute.”

Standing above the captive, Jakob felt the blood getting sucked out of the cut on his palm. Not a single drop hit the dirty stone floor as the Blood Toll was exacted. Though it felt like a spiked tongue was slithering up through his entire arm within, he bore the act with little issue, knowing that the ritual would not require more than a cup’s worth of his lifeblood.

When the Toll had been exacted, the symbols drawn on the captive lit up in turn, starting with the sign of the Lord, then that of the Obedient Squire, and finally the Watchful Eye.

The very moment the glow subsided and the signs vanished, the captive spasmed awake.

“Your name,” Jakob demanded.

As though some demonic entity lived within his throat, the freshly-wrought servant croaked out: “...CALLUM.” The bassy timbre of his new voice made gooseflesh ripple across Jakob’s skin. It was an uncontrollable yet automatic response, as it recalled to him the guttural monotone of Raleigh, Grandfather’s first successful grafting of a Demon soul to a human corpus.

Keeping his momentary discomfort from his voice, he continued his interrogation.

“Where do you live?”

“…SLUM.”

Jakob sighed. He had planned to use his new servant’s home as his temporary base, until he secured a better foothold in Helmsgarten.

“If you live in the Slum, why do you work guarding it?”

“…MONEY.”

“Do you think it is too late to find another?” Jakob asked to Heskel, who, despite wearing the timid mask shared Jakob’s body-language of frustration.

The Wight grunted indifferently.

“No, you’re right, it would be a waste of time already invested… Callum. You will help me find a place nearby where I can work undisturbed.”

“…YES.”

The servant immediately started out the door of the shed, Jakob and Heskel followed close behind.

Still dark out, the trio worked their way through the residential district, until suddenly they were hailed by a large group of guardsmen, numbering twelve in total.

“Who goes there!?” yelled the frontmost one, raising his torch above his head to cast its light towards them.

“Too many,” warned Heskel before Jakob could even give the order to attack. Without questioning the Wight’s judgement, he made a quick decision.

“Callum, you can repay me by ensuring none may follow us. If possible, drag their attention away from us and towards the Slum.”

There came a grinding and gnashing sound from the Servant, before he acknowledged:

“…KILL.”

As Callum charged the dozen guards, Jakob and Heskel hurried away down a nearby alleyway.

The Wrought Servant strode with thundering steps towards the guardsmen, each of his strides shattering the cobbles underfoot with their powerful tread.

As the naked monstrosity drew fully into their light, the guards drew back with muttered curses and prayers, before quickly recouping and meeting the stitched-up-and-twisted former guard with their swords. Some might even have recognised his disfigured face.

Striking one of Callum’s reinforced arms, the first guard’s blade bounced off on contact with the enlarged bone-mass that lay just beneath the tightly-wound skin. As the Wrought Servant flung out its other arm, one guard immediately collapsed with a shattered ribcage.

Without needing to communicate, the guards ringed around their foe, even as more of their numbers fell to its devastating punches, swings, knees, and kicks. Though the guardsmen only served the lowly Residential District, they had trained beyond Helmsgarten’s walls, and fought sewer monsters before. Granted, they had never seen one so alike a human and yet so alien all at once, and the hesitations that caused led to the deaths of over half their group, before the Monstrosity lost its head to a well-timed sword swing.

Only an hour later, many Adventurers’ Guild officials were on the scene, and guards from the Noble Quarter and Newtown were sent to reinforce the nearby barracks, as well as locking down all river crossings and gates leading out of the district.

“It seems I underestimated the city and its resources,” Jakob considered, from their vantage on a nearby belltower of a modest church. Steam vented from his scent-mask, casting a stagnant smell of nutmeg and pine-resin into the wind, as he put away the telescope. He had swiped it from the windowsill of a nearby fisherman’s house, demarcated as such by a sign that was halfway flaked off, but still legible read “Siber Str… Fishmonge… Karl”, as well as by the tools of the trade strewn about his porch.

“Who do you think those people with the hats and capes are?” he asked Heskel, as he handed him the telescope. Though looking like a brute and certainly having the strength of one, the Wight was intelligent enough to operate tools and had an eidetic memory that made him the perfect attendant for navigating the city, not to mention as a laboratorium assistant.

“Adventure Guild.”

“What do they do?”

Instead of replying, the Wight pointed to a building beyond the river and gate-bridge leading north of the sewers and residential district. Jakob did not need a telescope to spot it, as it stood three stories tall with four large spires, each adorned with a green banner.

“So, they’re an organisation of some kind?”

Heskel grunted affirmative.

“Why didn’t Grandfather warn me of them?”

Another grunt, this time a disapproving one, returned to him.

“You’re right. This is of course part of my training. Grandfather didn’t warn me, because I need to learn things the hard way.”

The pair sat in the belltower and watched the streets below and the commotion the Guild and new shiny guardsmen were causing within the district, as they tried their best to root out other creatures like Callum.

Half a day passed, until the sun was past its zenith, before some sense of normalcy returned to the streets of the Residential District, though, from keeping track of the gate-bridges with his spyglass, Jakob could tell they would be unable to leave this part of town by conventional means.

They eventually climbed down from the tower and church roof, in search of food, as Jakob’s stomach was starting to hurt. He was not unused to the sensation, as part of Grandfather’s training had been withholding food until he completed a certain task or as punishment if he erred in some way and earned his scorn. Nevertheless, he felt it imperative to nurture his body, lest its worsening state distracted him at an inopportune moment.

Heskel, being his superior in terms of not only physique but also the senses, easily steered them towards a part of the district that served as a large marketplace. Jakob took off his scent-mask so that he could register the smells on the wind, stowing it under his bruise-hued apron, where he kept the makeshift blades, as well as some choice materials he had harvested, as well as a few curious finds looted from the guardsmen the night before.

Letting his nose guide him, he eventually found his way to a stall outside a brick building wherein foodstuffs were made. On offer were both warm bread with a thick helping of jam, as well as some sweet-smelling hardtack-like crackers.

Jakob helped himself to a slice of warm bread, biting into it immediately, while grabbing a couple of the hardtack and stowing them away under his apron. The sweetness of the jam was almost too much for him, as he was more used to eating the bitter fungus that grew underground, as well as the fatty-and-spiced flesh of overgrown rats, and the bland corpse-meal which was the basis of his diet.

“Hey! You have to pay for that!” yelled a man in the crude Novarocian tongue with all its plosives and rough pronunciations.

Jakob looked to Heskel, hoping for an explanation. The Wight got in front of him instead, holding out an arm to stop the large baker from reaching Jakob. Even tall and fleshy, the baker was still a head below Heskel, and the large, scarred, and discoloured giant made him halt immediately.

Poking his head out from behind his Lifeward, Jakob asked the baker, “What do you mean by pay?”

The baker sighed, but then explained. “I don’t know where you’re from, kiddo, but we use Novarins here. They come in four variations and sizes, with their value on the face of the coins.”

This sparked a realisation in Jakob, and he quickly withdrew a sack from under his apron. It jingled with the metal bits inside. As he held out the blood-spattered sack to the man, he reached in with a meaty paw and withdrew four coins, three of which were small and one a bit larger.

“The bread is four Novarins, the hardtack is two. Since you took one slice of bread and two hardtack that makes eight. These are three Ones and one Five value coins.” He then held up the coins, pointing at them, and repeating, “Eight.”

Jakob nodded thoughtfully. “What an amusing system,” he said to Heskel in Chthonic, startling the man before them. It was a forceful language, so the reaction was to be expected from a lowborn creature such as the baker was. The man ought to consider it a privilege to hear it spoken before him, but alas its greatness was lost on his simple mind.

Grandfather had taught him many things, least of which were the many languages he could expect within the Metropolis and beyond. The common Novarocians apparently only spoke their own language, but people of higher standing could be expected to speak as many as four, as they often had to deal with the peoples beyond their nation’s borders. Chthonic was however considered to be a dead language, but Grandfather had insisted he learn it first and make it the core of all the others, as they stemmed from its roots. He had been fluent in it since the age of nine. By the age of ten, he could speak twelve additional languages, as all were like child’s play when compared to the Chthonic tongue. If learning the languages of this world were like solving puzzles, then Chthonic was a skeleton key.

Jakob did not give much thought to the fact that his mother-tongue had been lost to him. It seemed an easy compromise in the face of survival, and he had learnt quickly that adaptation was paramount to endure Grandfather’s lessons.

They wandered through the market, taking in the many stalls. To Jakob’s chagrin, none dealt in the sort of wares he sought most: demon’s blood; bloodsuckle root; bones; organs; slaves; or anything even remotely useful. There were crude trinkets aplenty however.

“How fitting,” he said acidly.

Heskel grunted in amusement.

“The metal is worth more unworked than what they reduce it to. Rings, necklaces, earrings, and so many other meaningless baubles. What worth is there in such items when they have not a spec of magic to them?”

“Blame not the beast…” Heskel intoned, as though reciting some poem. But it was not a poem he was reciting, rather, it was a phrase that Grandfather was wont to say.

Though momentarily wrongfooted by Heskel’s talkativeness, Jakob finished the sentence: “…for its beastly flesh and beastly ways.”