Dagon, Monster of the Aphranche Sewers
Dagon was a murder ghost who lived in the Aphranche sewers and had killed over a hundred people. It would be wrong to say he had no circumstances of his own. Even Marhal saw his past as unjust and tragic. That didn't mean Marhal understood his twisted mindset. The only reason Marhal let Dagon live was that his abilities were useful to the West. That was it, nothing more.
"So, you were trying to analyze the drug's components?"
"I'm not the type to just swallow someone else's pills, am I?"
"Really?"
Dagon averted his gaze.
"Well, maybe I was tempted, maybe not."
"Whatever. Just check her out."
"Poison? Acid?"
"Poison."
"Lay her down."
Marhal laid Marin on the bed. Her eyes were glassy, and her skin flushed red. Dagon examined her pupils and breathing like a seasoned doctor, then checked her skin.
"It's a muscle paralytic. The whole body stiffens up, and eventually the heart stops. A normal person would've been dead, but she held on somehow."
"You can fix it, right?"
"Of course."
Dagon pulled out a few herbs and powders from the room, then reached for the black powder on the table. Marhal grabbed his wrist.
"What's that for?"
"Th-that... I know it sounds weird, but it's actually the perfect antidote for this poison. It counters the heart-stopping effect with something that forces the heart to race and excites the body. Total opposites, right?"
"Sounds like the work of one person."
"That's exactly what I was getting at! Anyway, letting this girl die wouldn't do me any good."
"Fair enough."
Marhal released his hand. Dagon mixed the rough concoction with water and trickled it into Marin's mouth. She swallowed unconsciously. Soon, her breathing visibly steadied.
Marhal sat in a chair. Dagon froze under that impassive gaze and retreated to a corner of the room.
"Why'd you try to take the drug even knowing its effects? If you wanna be a junkie, I can toss you in the trash."
She wanted to test its effects on her own body. Marhal could let that slide. For ordinary people, even touching drugs was deadly, but not for Dagon. Excluding the Hero Party, he was the best poison handler Marhal knew.
"What, you haven't checked the labor market yet?"
"Just got back."
"Heard they got mostly wiped out. Figured I'd taste it myself. That's where the junkies are thickest around here, right?"
Drugs weren't inherently evil. Some people lived with excruciating war wounds. Without drugs or booze, they couldn't function. In the Border, he'd only seen it in crowded spots, but across the whole West, their numbers were substantial. And there were apothecaries catering to them.
"Specifically?"
"It's still touch-and-go. Folks at the market say if it's left another month, city logistics grind to a halt."
"A month... There's just over a thousand people hitting the market every morning, right?"
Over a thousand meant ten times that coming and going from the city. Twenty times, probably. They load carts with goods, haul to destinations, unload, stay or return. Rinse and repeat.
"You'll see when you go. Even I, who's poked into every drug den around, was shocked."
"And the job I gave you before? You didn't miss any, did you?"
Kaban's subordinates who'd fled during the last land race. Marhal had tasked Dagon with handling them.
"All taken care of. Got proof right here if you wanna see."
Marhal stopped Dagon as he reached for the pouch at his waist. Proof of kills meant fingers, ears, noses. Nothing he cared to see.
"No need. I'd just be clueless anyway, and I trust you handled it. Right?"
"Y-yeah?"
"Nothing else you've heard?"
Marhal's tone was calm, no different from usual. But Dagon's skin prickled. He could feel it. This wasn't about what was or wasn't there. One wrong word, and he was dead. He lived purely because he was useful. The pros and cons of keeping Dagon alive. If cons outweighed pros, he could die anytime.
"You think I'd screw up like that? Didn't even give me time to talk—wiped 'em all out! Every time I heard a sighting, I ran without sleeping..."
"That's enough."
"Ah, yep."
As Marhal fell silent, Dagon fidgeted with his fingers. A quiet guy going mum was normal, but someone who rarely shut up doing so spelled trouble.
"When'd you get back?"
"Day before yesterday!"
He tried lightening the mood with playfulness, but no dice. The situation was dire. Marhal cherished his people fiercely. Even Dagon, who saw kids as not worth calling beast pups, endured Ena's nagging from Pioneer Village. He did Papuran's jobs for free. At Joseph's stables, he paid for horses instead of stealing. This city dwarfed Pioneer Village, and deadly drugs had flooded it. And he managed the city's riffraff.
"Not much intel, then?"
"N-nope."
"You know this isn't ordinary poison, right?"
"Obviously. Only freaks like me or real mages make stuff like this. Not your average joe. Probably experimented on hundreds..."
"An assassin showed up. Marin fought the assassin and got hurt."
Dagon's eyes widened. Ordinary assassins were just hired killers. The term wasn't thrown around lightly for more. But Marhal and Dagon didn't call them that. Only pros with specialized techniques and methods for killing earned the name. Save for the city's infancy, Dagon had never heard Marhal utter "assassin." He'd cleaned them up before it reached Marhal's ears. If word got out, it fell on him. Better to die fighting one than let Marhal hear it. But one had appeared. And fought Marhal's people.
Drip.
Cold sweat trickled down Dagon's cheek. He couldn't control the physical reaction.
"You got it?"
"Wh-what? What do you need?"
"Your usual carry."
"Which one?"
"The strongest."
Dagon rummaged through his clothes. He carried a dozen pouches of various poisons: killers, flammables, corrosives. He tossed Marhal a leather flask of instant-death drops.
Marhal uncorked the poison liquor for disinfection, dumped it all out, and drank.
Marhal drained half the bottle without a word. A normal person would've died ten times over. Dagon held his breath. Only Marin's breathing and the sloshing liquor sounded. The stench of poisoned booze mingled with room herbs and alcohol. The injury ward was twice the size of others, with five beds and stacked chairs in the corner. Marhal sat on the bed opposite Marin, drinking.
Dagon recalled his first meeting with Marhal.
Monster of the Aphranche sewers. His infamous moniker across Aphranche until its fall.
Dagon had killed many. He had a sister. Medicine to cure her. Money to buy it. But mages and doctors wouldn't sell. That was why he became a murder ghost. A common tale. What set Dagon apart: he had vengeance in his heart and talent. For killing and mixing poisons.
One talented man turns a routine tragedy into monstrosity.
Normally, he wouldn't have lasted. Monster of the Aphranche sewers—the name included the nation. Knights and mages would've crushed him soon. But the West fell, giving Dagon a second chance. War's perfect for criminals. He piled kill history, brewed stronger poisons, wielded mysticism freely. Knights and mercs ignorant of poison and magic couldn't touch him.
Living wild in the West, Dagon met Marhal.
Marhal sought him out, when the city now called Border was just rising. Marhal sat before Dagon eating at a tavern. Dagon spiked Marhal's beer to test fresh poison.
Marhal drank it all. Ordered another.
A huge wooden mug brimmed with cheap, floaty beer. Marhal stared, then spoke.
Got any more of what you spiked earlier?
As Dagon reached into his pocket, Marhal added,
Not here to fight. Just talk today. Wanted to see the monster terrifying Aphranche folk.
So? What do you think of the face?
Pretty ordinary. Though you can't judge a person by looks.
Before Dagon could react, his head slammed the table. His two missing front teeth dated from then. Much later, he learned the head-slammer had once been a general-knighted knight.
Blood gushing from broken teeth and gums, Marhal asked the same.
Really none left? Kinda disappointing.
Marhal shook the cheap beer mug, eyeing it disdainfully. Dagon might as well not exist.
They met a few more times over other matters, but that's when Dagon truly feared Marhal.
This was only the second time Marhal drank his poisoned booze since. So Dagon trembled. Past memory overlaid the city's crisis, shaking him.
Dagon's side hustle was brokering illegal jobs. He knew tons of mercs and crooks. They called him pitiless. Runaway screw-ups or desperate illegals cursed him, but he scoffed inwardly. They hadn't met the real deal. The man before him was it, and he looked pissed.
"That."
Marhal pointed to the black powder on the small table.
"You were gonna do it, right? Go ahead."
"Here? Now?"
Marhal nodded. No choice for Dagon.
He rolled paper, snorted it all. Reaction hit soon: incomparable bliss, omnipotent high. Don't fall for it. Body's lie. Succumb, and you're done.
"How is it?"
"Insane stuff. This dose would've wrecked a hundred men."
Dagon tested most on himself. He had strong immunity. Street drugs barely registered. But this hit hard, like his first time.
"Figured."
Marhal tapped the bed. Dagon's high crashed. Omnipotence fled skyward. Survival instinct trumped drug bliss.
"Can you do it?"
Marhal's always-sharp eyes softened slightly from the poisoned booze. Gaze somewhere between reason and emotion fixed on Dagon.
"N-no! I got this! All on me. Yeah, of course."