Jasper hadn't eaten in five days but would've bet his only mutated rabbit that something else had survived the chaos. Something had to win the fight, human survivors or more monstrosities, his bet was both.
The last drops of a canteen wet shriveled up husks of mouth flesh. Dry flaking finger skin gripped a halberd.
The closest entrance was covered by a half-fallen bridge with mutants hanging like a bead-curtain from the broken ropes. The kind you find between doorways at a fortune teller's. The mutant that he chose to push aside was old king three eyes himself.
It wasn't a symmetric deformity like your mind would have you think. Instead, the right eye socket held two smaller eyeballs stacked atop each other. An ivory and steel crown was nailed to his forehead. The long graying hair of an old leader brushed against Jasper's neck and gave a spine-tingling chill. The king's body swung into the other hangers with a dull slap; nothing regal about it. The smell was just as putrid under the curtain as it was anywhere else on the beach.
Darkness stole the world.
Small resting huts and workmen sheds came slowly into sight. No torches lit the underbelly of the Village on Stilts. A large wooden staircase like an attic hatch hung loosely open and let a stream of moonlight cast over a figure before the buildings.
It was gone as the stairwell creaked and shook in the wind. Jasper leaned his halberd against a post and let his sword's blade slide free. Both hands fit in a crude and damaged basket akin to a rapier's, but as large as a small shield.
Sometimes even a shield matters little.
The weight of an anvil slammed into his shoulder from behind and sent him spiraling to the earth. His sword lost to the shadows.
It was a gangly humanoid demon that stood over him. A blacksmiths apron bleeding of its own accord hung over a severed neck. A collar and a plate of steel held the headless neck together. Its weapon, a rusty anvil chained to the stub of an arm like a flail. It scraped the ground as the demon approached. It's other hand was replaced by a crude and bulky blade.
That blade came down to Jasper's throat. He kicked the halberd over onto himself just in time to block the blade and proceed to stick the spear point in the blacksmith demon's chest.
It cared little.
A bloodied and yellowed foot, half humanoid and half birdlike, as if a talon were flatfooted. With a nonchalant gait stepped on his chest. In the same uncaring manner, the demon lifted its anvil over Jasper's head.
Five lines of tattooed text hovered just above the anvil, the Elysium Language, but it hardly went noticed as the anvil slowly rested on his face.
Jasper knew he was dead when he saw the feet of another creature approach. The crushing anvil rested partly on the ground and the blood filled his head, but it gave a better view of the newcomer.
A fully bandaged hand held a large thunderbird feather aloft, balanced on the air above her palm. The other hand forced a liquid encased flame into the feather. It came out of the other side bathing the area in flames.
Thunder broke in the air around them and lightning streaked through the cone of flame in a brilliant display that caught the headless blacksmith demon and sent it burning to the ground.
The hovering tattoos spun wildly around the anvil and exploded in a burst of color. What seemed to be spirits dissipated from the arcane text.
She was obviously a tribal woman. Her skin a deep maroon. Jasper had only met a few tribal groups in his time traveling by, and once traveling with, but if she wasn't a shaman or a druid from the north then he was a four-eyed snake-toad. Her animal hides rippled as she lowered her arms. The bird feather flashed red and fell into her hand as ash.
They locked eyes and perhaps he had been lonely for too long, but he felt something deep in his chest. The tribal woman might have felt it too, but she was gone as quickly and quietly as she had appeared.
Jasper rolled to a seated position after multiple attempts and fumbled through his bag with one hand. He pulled out a thin metal glove and a dark purple paste that he rubbed on his broken shoulder. Then he put the glove on and pressed it to the paste.
The entire world flashed white and red as the glove burned away and the paste hardened.
Now he was out of supplies and what little magic he had, at least until the sun rose. If the sun ever rose.
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Jasper made it to one of the wooden posts not supporting the bottom platform. Ladders lined all four sides and jars usually filled with Flame-Flys were mounted on the corners. The Flame-Fly jars that lit most of the village above, minus the Flame-Flys. Judging by the clusters of myst-bugs the jars had been filled with blood instead. Luckily, they we're only normal sized myst-bugs. Contrary to popular belief, the larger ones secrete more radiation.
Normally townsfolk would pulley people up on a platform, but there was a fifty-fifty chance that meeting the new townsfolk was a good idea. That's if you didn't factor in that a monster had been sitting on the throne not too long ago. Jasper started to climb but failed to hold onto the slick steel bar. He pulled away and brought his hand close enough to see the blood in the dark. All of the bars were that way. Clever tricks would only elicit a dark chuckle from the seasoned barbarian.
With a few stretches and a pop of the back he was ready for another try. This time using the elbow's crook, so that it was only strength required and not grip. Despite having a right foot once been impaled by a cannibal's sword it wouldn't make a terribly painful journey, as long as it was set on the ladder at the ankle. Stretching alone was agony on the shoulder though, and every rung climbed offered another teeth-grinding moment.
Once above the first platform enough to see a few huts in the darkness Jasper contemplated the small gap from the ladder to the floor as if it were a canyon.
Instead of trying to land feet first only to stumble and fall all the way to the ground he jumped to his back and laid on the wood until the strength to move returned. It wasn't much of a pleasant nap, even though the pillow of gore was quite soft.
The main street was wide enough for a cart plus four people. Most side alleys could fit one or two mutants, maybe even three depending on the size of the person. The buildings on this level were anything from small stores, delis and bars to whorehouses and black market shops. Most of the later two were built away from the main street. It had once been a thriving village despite its current state.
Even up here the Flame-Fly jars had been systematically emptied or filled with... well, no one in their right mind would check. Now it was only darkness here between decks without even a moon for guidance. Every building was a rundown heap of random wood and nails. Many had roofs of branches layered with straw or weeds, some buildings were built to the top of the next platform and some just didn't have roofs.
Today the bottoms were even worse for wear, without the people who usually care for them. Broken bodies littered the ground and hung from loose planks on the roofless buildings. One building had the straw roof replaced completely with limbs. There was no gap between the appendages; something had put a lot of time and effort into making it perfect.
An arm flopped out into the street from a pile of corpses and trash in an alley. The attached person gave a slack-jawed stare to nowhere in particular. Four red beads peered up from the dark mound.