Needless to say, Azrael and the driver were more than willing to part each other’s company.

  The sounds of rumbling carts, and busybodies, had earned his attention. He dove into the familiar rush, with a sense of intrigue, hoping to meld into the crowd, easily. It wasn’t long before he cocked his head to the side, raising a questioning eyebrow.

  He scanned his surroundings, finding a strange observation over the people passing by. There were all sorts of people of varying sizes, shapes and forms, bustling about. Size was nothing strange even back in his village. But even then, he’d hardly seen the locals scaling from a toddler’s height to a mammoth on hindlegs.

  Worst of all, were the faces they wore, shaped from grotesque animal heads and weaponry to mishappen forms he couldn’t put a finger on. Perhaps the rooster he’d parted ways with, was easier on the eyes than he’d realised.

  Though the unearthly appearances kept his eyebrow raised past a clammy forehead, he managed to find a couple of relatively human faces mixed in amongst the bunch –a fleeting familiarity that brought a sliver of comfort, while traversing uncharted territory.

  A shudder ran down his spine, wandering about the bazaars, observing the company he would have to suck up to, if he was to survive in his newfound adversity.

  “Best prices ‘n all o’er Zenith,” said a merchant, motioning towards passers-by, raining attention to his wares.

  “Zenith?” Azrael tried recalling the books he had poured over in prison, the ones apart from anatomy.

  Wracking his brain, he realised he had limited knowledge of the Abyzz. All he had managed to find out about the place was it’s a land where a race known as demons dwelled and humans were rarely found amongst their midst, except as slaves or commodity -–a revelation that urged him to keep his lips pursed, while passing through the city.

  Nabbing a loose cloak and two bread rolls off a stall, he eyed his surroundings, careful of any patrolling guards.

  “Over there!” came a screech, behind a gnarly finger, pointed his way. Past the source of the voice, a pair of handymen were dispatched, after the bread thief.

  “Nice going.” Scoffing down the rolls, Azrael ran with all his might. The combination of sprinting and scoffing down his meal, made his head spin and stomach churn, but he’d hoped he could keep the grub he had nabbed within him. At least till he put on a bit more flesh on his frame.

  He missed the muscles he had built, but it was scant consolation to the fact he was still alive. A foreign notion after all he had been wrung through. Even running from pursuers would have been a pipedream, not too long ago.

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  His gaze shifted to a set of wooden doors as he darted past. Kicking off towards the run-down shack for a building, he swung past the wooden flaps, stumbling into a bar of drunkards, his nares reeling from the heavy puffs of pungent smoke, and ears ringing from the blaring, out of tune music. Despite it being a long afternoon, the debauchery marched on.

  Stifling his disgruntled breath, the redhead pulled himself to the side, plastering his back against the wall beside the wooden flaps for doors, rather than gunning for the bartender, and seeking cover behind the counter. Heaving in heavy breaths, he tried steadying his pounding anvils for breath, awaiting the two handymen.

  On cue, his pursuers arrived, ploughing on ahead. Azrael waited five heartbeats. Then, he slipped back out the wooden flaps.

  One perk to all the sound and smoke, was how well it hid him from dogging handymen.

  Flipping the cloak he had snagged inside out, he draped the lighter shade over his shoulders, hoping he’d blend seamlessly into the sea of bustling demons. His eyes darted about, his cloak sticking to his drenched back, as he kept his head low.

  That’s when his lingering eyes met a pair of dusty ones, tracking him. Snapping a forked tongue past dry lips, his latest run-in had a wild look. Perhaps this is the end.

  A buzzing fly whizzed past, garnering the forked tongue’s attention, leaping past a cautious Azrael.

  Shaking his head, he felt his heart was about to burst out his chest and spill all around. He could feel the crowd’s gaze linger on him, weighing his every step, as he fought for survival.

  “Should have grabbed my fill for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow,” he said, cussing under his breath.

  Lost in his reverie, a sharp tug reeled him backwards, pulling him off his feet. “Well, well, what do we have ‘ere?” said a gruff voice. A bald head with a bushy moustache and goatee framed an ogre’s visage. He eyed the redhead voraciously, a pair of golden incisors glinting amongst a row of decaying teeth, reflecting Azrael’s alarm. The ogre was more than three heads taller than he was, wrapped in a loincloth. His single eye, set high in his forehead, was savouring his lucky coincidence.

  “C-Can I help you?” he asked, painfully aware of how shrill his voice sounded.

  “Ya aren’t from around ‘ere, ‘re ya?” said the ogre.

  The rest of Azrael’s words were caught in his throat, barely squeezing out a feeble squeal.

  “I take it ya don’t ‘ave a patron.” The ogre broke into a toothy grin, grabbing his lucky catch, who was slightly heftier than a toothpick.

  Dragging his feet through the hotchpotch road, the redhead could feel the soles of his feet turn raw, his resistance futile. Clawing at the grip round his chest, he bit into his fleshy restraint. His teeth ached and his head shook from barely leaving an indentation on the ogre’s tree bark skin. He gagged at the aftertaste lingering in his mouth, holding back an upsurge of bile.

  “Throw up ‘nd ya’r head won’t have a body no more!”

  Swallowing back a wave of nausea, Azrael caught a blurring headless corpse and a pair of heads glaring at him. Can’t let it end so soon. Focusing his voice inwardly, he mustered all his strength. In a hefty billow he shouted, Requiem, a little help here!

  He knew he had gained ‘gifts’ after the procedure Mol’okh had wrung him through but he wasn’t sure what his ability was, except he needed to convert death energy to miasma –whatever that meant. He tried again, whispering out loud.

  “Psst, Requiem. A little help here.”

  He got no reply.

  No difference, huh? If only I could use the ‘Carnage Room’ now. He slumped his shoulders, devoid of any say in his abduction.