Time, as a rule was a concept generally attached to one's awareness of mortality. In the beginning, the Edgewise didn't have a grasp of time. Tavern masters appeared, they carried on, they faded, another one took their place. The Edgewise did not remember attaining sentience. It might never have come to care about the passage of time in relation to itself, or gained a greater awareness if not for its brief brush with the final moments of Melvin Deacon.

Before Mack rose to the position of the Edgewise, in another time, under another tavern master whose name has been lost to the sucking void of time, Melvin Deacon appeared in the outer ways, his desperation a discordant hum the Edgewise couldn't ignore. Melvin drew the door in blood seeping from a mortal wound, leaning heavily on mildewed stone as he knocked three times....

The Edgewise opened the way, the rafters creaking as its nebulous awareness concentrated in a rare moment of intensity on the man who slumped through the doorway. The other patrons scrambled from their seats, pulling the man further into room, shutting the door against whomever or whatever pursued him. It was not Melvin Deacon's first visit to the Edgewise, the tavern recognized the taste of the man's essence from previous encounters, but never cared to know the man. Not until his lifeblood began to seep between the floorboards. For a terrible moment, the Edgewise connected with Melvin, grasped his fear, his uncertainty, and the knowledge he was dying.

The tavern shook on its foundations with the passing of Melvin Deacon, a man remembered as another patron secretly carved his name beneath the table by the hearth. The table had since been destroyed many times, but each time, as the Edgewise repaired itself, it left the carving alone. In that first brush with true mortality, the Edgewise felt the drive to expand its grasp of time, and so it began to attach its essence to certain individuals.

Mack and Calponia entered Arden nearly a month ago. The Edgewise had long established a connection to the realm through the sad lady, but the compacted time was an even harder concept to grasp. It knew time was passing as the old man healed in the upstairs room, the one who often asked questions to the walls, seemingly aware of the tavern but his questions made little sense to the Edgewise.

The tavern knew mere hours passed in the realm of Arden but through the tenuous connections to the others, it sensed the danger that dogged their heels. Someone had entered Arden through one of the forbidden ways. The other patrons were still occupied with matters in another realm. The rafters groaned as the tavern sought a course of action.

Calponia, the Edgewise felt her, felt her on the same deep level as it had Melvin Deacon, down to the foundation. It felt her mortality keenly in the curse creeping through her veins. It felt the danger she drew closer and closer to, unaware.

The fastenings of a particular brew on the bar popped, startling the old man who sat sipping a tonic water at the bar. He watched in mute fascination as the steel keg wobbled violently before toppling over and rolling with purpose for the door. The keg waited there, patiently.

"Oh," said the old man, clearing his throat as he rose and hobbled to the door, still favoring his newly healed injuries. He opened the way, watching the keg roll out into the surrounding fog without a word as he shut the door.

The keg accelerated through the fog, easily traversing the pathway to Sanguinheim. The Edgewise long held a thread of awareness in this realm, whose inhabitants frequented the tavern. The keg followed that thread now, pausing at the entrance of the same establishment that held Calponia. The massive metal doors were open, torn off their fastenings. The keg's progress slowed as it brushed against the aura of death that clung to the air. It paused searching.

He was here, the Edgewise felt him through the thread of essence it had attached to him decades ago. The keg continued forward, its path meandering through puddles of blood and fallen figures. He sat in silence at the center of carnage, the calm eye of the storm, a dripping blade resting on his lap. Violence permeated the air around him, crackling like heat lightning against the Edgewise's awareness. The keg rolled gently to a stop up against his boot.

A glowing red gaze settled on the steel keg. After a long moment, the cap s unscrewed, releasing the rich scent of blood whiskey into the air. That red eyed gaze didn't waver, didn't react as he rose to his feet. Gore dripped from his naked sword. He flicked the blade, spattering the saturated ground. Despite the sodden ground, his footsteps barely registered as he trod through the carnage to the closest building. Using the blade, the vampire etched a door into the metal wall. He rapped his knuckles three times, leaving a dent each time. The Edgewise opened.

The vampire froze on the threshold of the nearly empty tavern, glancing around until his red gaze fell on the old man polishing glasses behind the bar.

"Where is sh--where are they?"

The old man flinched at the promise of violence in the vampire's voice, keeping the bar between them as he spoke. "I am afraid I have not seen the tavern master nor another soul for the past month. You're the first patron I've seen cross that threshold."

The vampire's brows drew together. "Not another soul?" He repeated, glancing to a well worn empty chair by the hearth. He turned, opening the tavern door to the fog.

"Wait!" The old man abandoned caution, drawing up short when the vampire glanced over his shoulder. "Please, if you are going after them, ask the tavern master if he's heard from my boys."

The vampire nodded and vanished, the door snapping shut behind him. The old man released a breath and sat down hard in a nearby chair. "I do not envy whoever crosses that one's path."

The rafters whined in agreement.

Mack clasped his fists together and hammered a zealot across the jaw, forcing its head back with a satisfying crack. The zealot flopped to the floor, immediately replaced by another who swiped at his with one of those curved blades. Mack snarled as the blade drew a line across his shirt, delivering an uppercut that sent that zealot crashing into the far wall. Another popped up in front of him like a bloody daisy.

"Do these bastards never end," said Mack, grabbing the zealot and swinging him in an arc against a cluster surrounding Cesario. The other woman continued to fight steadily but was rapidly accumulating several cuts and a black eye.

Lady Agatha pursed her lips as she neatly severed one zealot's head from its body. It, thankfully, did not get back up. "There does seem to be an inexhaustible supply of them," she remarked. Her eyes widened as they took in the room. "Where's the Inquisitor?"

Mack looked as well, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach as he noticed who else was missing. "Where's Cal?"

There weren't that many exits, so she was either dragged out the door or.... Mack glanced at the open window. "No, really?"

"What is it?" Cesario gasped out between waves of assailants. Mack didn't have the chance to voice his theory as a fresh surge of zealots swarmed him. The ones he'd maimed weren't out for the count, rising from the floor to latch onto his legs, pulling him down. A knife sank into his thigh. Mack cursed viciously, blocking another stab aimed at his groin. This would not be a pleasant experience. He heard Lady Agatha cry out, but couldn't see through the press of bodies, grunting as a knife entered his side.

The zealots snapped back in a single movement and collapsed to the floor.

"Bugger," groaned Mack, crawling out from under the sudden dead-weight. "What the hell happened?"

Lady Agatha stood bewildered a few feet from him, panting as she wiped her cheek and left a smear of blackish fluid. "Their handler died."

"But he's not even in the room," said Cesario, leaning against the wall. The two women were worse for wear but neither were grievously injured. Cesario frowned at him. "Mack, those wounds don't look good."

"Merely a flesh wound," Mack wheezed, hobbling to the window. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but Cal wasn't a messy pancake on the ground so thank the Old Gods for small favors. There were a couple unfortunate zealots flattened to the cobblestones, but not a hint of his apprentice. "Where is she?"

"What a mess," said Lady Agatha, wincing as she pressed a hand to a shallow cut across her ribs. "Do you think Calponia managed this?"

"It's possible if that jackass Inquisitor provoked the bête noire," said Mack. The alternative might be worse,

Lady Agatha nodded, surveying the pile of zealots with disdain. "I cannot allow evidence of this incursion to remain. Pardon me." She pulled a thin silver flute from her pocket, blowing three low pitched notes that made the air pulse. The notes echoed between Mack's ears.

A trio of figures clambered through the window, clad in black that contrasted with the bone white bird-like masks they wore. The trio paused, hands clasped together as they peered down at Lady Agatha through opaque mesh goggles.

"We need a survey and cleansing of the area," said Lady Agatha, all authority despite her apparent exhaustion. "And one to attend the wounded."

They nodded in unison. One stepped backward, vanishing from sight. Another withdrew a vial of luminescent orange liquid from the depths of his robes. He uncorked the vial to liberally splash the fallen zealots, filling the air with the conflicting scents of penny-royal and rot as the bodies crystallized and collapsed into piles of off-white dust.

The third figure approached Cesario, producing mystery packets and gauze from his robes. "Permission to treat you?" A light male voice emerged through the mask.

Cesario nodded, watching the corpse disposal with open fascination. "What's he doing?"

"Changing them to salt," came the muffled reply. "A simple alchemical application."

Mack toed a pile of salt. "Nifty." He tensed as the third figure reappeared from the shadows, elongated mask tippling through the air. The figure bowed to Lady Agatha.

"Report," she said.

"The Inquisitor appears to have met his end in the alley behind this establishment," he said. "It was not a pleasant death, but a fast one. His spine was plucked from his body. The remains have been disposed of."

"Very good," said Lady Agatha, her brows drawn as she shared a glance with Mack. "Not Calponia."

"Definitely not Cal," said Mack, though that method of death sounded familiar.

"Ah, yes," said the first masked figure. "There is clear evidence of a recent scuffle outside as well. A surviving witness confirmed a young lady was discovered in forbidden clothing and taken away."

Cesario paled. Lady Agatha's frowned deepened. "Surviving witness?"

"Yes, my lady. The one who disposed of the Inquisitor has cut a clear path of destruction toward the town center. The survivor described him as a dark haired, red eyed male."

The group shared a loaded silence. The ladies appeared confused, but Mack knew what fresh hell they were facing.

"Oh, that's not good," said Mack, surging upright. One of the masked figures settled a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Sir, please allow us to treat your wounds. You risk infection."

"No time," said Mack, "We need to find her first."

"I know where she is," said Cesario.

"Good, you're with me," said Mack, turning to the lady knight. "Coming?"

"I'm afraid I must continue damage control here," said Lady Agatha, "And I am not in peak fighting condition." She raised a brow. "Neither are you, Mack."

"Nevermind that," said Mack, rolling his shoulders. "If you find anything of note, will you share?"

"Of course," said Lady Agatha. "Please, allow one of the doctors to accompany you, for Cal if nothing else?"

The third one stepped forward. "I am Yosepf," he said with a bow. "Allow me to provide assistance?"

"Fine, fine," grumbled Mack. He turned to Cesario. "Lead on. And best hurry."

Cesario took point, her expression worried. She pulled up hard when they exited the tavern, Mack hissing as he collided with her back.

"Did I not stress speed..." Mack trailed off as he caught a good look at the street. Lady Agatha's doctors were thorough in their clean up. Piles of blood soaked salt dotted the street, dozens of them.

"Who did this?" Cesario spoke in a whisper.

Mack cracked his knuckles, counting the piles of salt.  "No one you know. Let's go."