Ferl the gaoler staggered into my tavern stinking of the dungeons, ripe enough that even the Blacksmith playing pegs near the door caught a whiff through his greasy mustache. Ferl left the door open to the cold night winds cutting through the streets of The Capital, earning a scowl from the Blacksmith that died against the gaoler’s back. It was nice to have some fresh air to move the smell of him around, but I gave a tilt of my head to the Smith, who kicked the door shut with a grumble.
When Ferl was on the other side of the oaken slab—shaped by my own hands, thank you—I had to step back to keep my eyes from burning. The smell was unlike anything I’d experienced. If I hadn’t known every face in my tavern that night, I would have sworn on the Codex there was a daemon present. Ferl stared at something between us only he could see, the eyes of a haunted man. Continue reading The Redemption of Prisoner 945, Brutavious, and Baaracko