A Pain in the Neck

[Alain the Carnedge]

The Werewolves practically flew across their cell at the smell of fresh meat, the reanimated skeletons merely standing there without orders from their masters; orders said masters could not give as their beastly nature had taken over what shreds of humanity they used to have. Alain disabled his invisibility since there's not much point to not being seen when your foes could smell you out like bloodhounds. He ran low across the stone floor, his blade shifting into the farming tool again; though it wasn't exactly harvesting wheat this time. The first group leapt into the air, ready to kill without a moment's hesitation, but the reaper's scythe had already cut through their bodies before they hit the ground. Of course, the few lycans that jumped were far outnumbered by the ones who just kept running, so their numbers were not only barely affected at all, but there was a wall of angry wolves that wanted to tear him to shreds. Alain jumped back to give himself some space, swinging the scythe to cut through multiple members of the horde at once, but it wasn't enough; they just kept coming. Eventually their extreme numbers started to overcome his power, the scythe getting stuck in one of the werebeast's bodies instead of cutting right through, which gave his friends the opportunity to claw at their foe. The slashes tore apart not only Alain's cloak but the skin underneath it, practically lighting his body on fire with the pain. But as they got the smell of blood, the werewolves started tearing at themselves in their bloodrage, their meat disappearing through a hole in their defenses. The Lycans annihilated themselves in their fury, the horde's numbers thinning within seconds as they ripped their own apart. The fight soon came down to five of the beasts, all shredding each other in a fury of claws and fangs until there was one who stood above the corpses of their brethren, their fur, skin, and bone scattered along the bloodsoaked floors of the prison. The wolf let loose a howl of victory or, perhaps, sorrow that echoed through the halls of the prison and went outside of the open doors, the skeleton legion outside raising their weapons in the triumphant call of their new master. The undead's bones and weapons then fell to the ground as the howl abruptly stopped, cut short by the crimson blade that had pierced their master's neck, the lycanthrope dropping to the floor with the last sight they saw being the sadistic grin of what used to be their prey.
And then, there were none.

Alain tore his blade out of the Werewolf's throat, took one of the torches from it's place on the wall, and begun walking back up the stairs to investigate more of the prison. The light was as helpful as expected, illuminating the dark room that was previously an issue. The stone of both the walls and floor were cracked everywhere, it was a miracle that the building was still standing, really. In any case, the ladder that led further up the tower was directly to the side of the door, likely to keep it from being discovered before the Werewolves were. Or maybe they were the actual problem and not vampires. He didn't really know or care, and he continued up the ladder anyway. As he climbed up the ladder he heard distinct snarling, the sound of a starving beast. Guess that's one of the monsters that were mentioned. Alain continued on, confident in his abilities as he was, though his confidence disappeared into nothing quickly when he looked up, just before he got to the next floor, and was greeted by a gigantic dog's head that ripped apart the hood of his cloak as he jumped off the ladder. The dog's drool covered what he was just climbing, covering it entirely in it's saliva. "Yeah, screw that." He mumbled to himself out of exasperation, moving for the entrance. I have a better plan.

He kicked the door open and walked outside into the forest of bones, the skeletal remains and weapons littered around the entire thing. Alain chose to ignore this and got ready to run, aiming for the top of the tower in hopes he could ignore whatever that dog thing was and whatever was above it. He sprinted at the wall and ran up, passing the gigantic hound's cell and others that he didn't care to look in. Running up the side of a tower and reaching the top wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do, however, though for someone with magic at their disposal, that was a different story. Well, here goes nothin!" Alain used his magic to double his speed for a split second. To someone who didn't have a clear view, it'd seem like he was teleporting, but no; he reappeared further up and disappeared again and again until he got to the end of the road, at which point he kicked off the wall and summoned Sresveltr in the scythe form, doing a half-front flip while swinging his blade overhead to smash it through the top floor's window. He held on despite the glass flying into his face and immediately started climbing his way up, his tool threatening to come loose at any second , which would send him plummeting to his death. Thankfully, it didn't, giving him a nice safe journey into the topmost room of the prison, which was actually pretty clean, at least compared to his expectations. The walls had held up well, there wasn't any blood nearby, the death stench was an ungodly amount of floors below, and, not to mention, that there was some pretty fancy victorian-era furniture that didn't exactly look common in the Moors, or most places for that matter. Alain, however, wasn't complaining. He immediately sat down on one of the chairs and recovered his breath, the sheer amount of times he "bursted" completely wearing him out, though maybe getting nearly ripped to pieces had something to do with that.

Either way, Alain eventually regained his composure and stood up to examine what he could, the completely out of place victorian furnishings being a deciding factor in his curiosity. It was the same reason that he was genuinely surprised that the place hadn't been ransacked yet, though that surprise faded very quickly once he remembered that anyone who wanted to get up there had to go through the Hundred Layers of Hell. He searched through the entire thing, and while he didn't find a diary as not everyone keeps one of those, he did find a record of what was jailed there. Guess this is the Warden's room. Man if he didn't spoil himself. He pocketed the records in hopes he could sell it to Darkshire, before taking a few minutes to envision and summon a parachute, then leaping out of the previously smashed window. Upon touching down, Alain collected a few of the skeletal warrior's bones as proof that the deed was done before walking back to his horse unimpeded, riding the steed back on the uneventful trip back to Darkshire. A guard approached him as he got closer, holding a small purse of what he assumed to be money. "I'm assuming that you're our new mercena-What the hell happened to your face!?" the guard exclaimed, stepping back. Alain's hand reached for his head and it got even more blood on it than it already had, which was almost impressive considering the adventure. "Don't worry about it. I just hope I'm still handsome." He grinned at the guard and did a mocking salute. Guess this is my new job. Could be worse, I guess.