The tobacconist moves to the shop's window and leans out to forcibly shut it.  He pats his hound goodbye and leads The Nameless One out of the shop.

They pass through a portion of Flint Court that The Nameless One has yet to trod.  The streets are busier, and there is a decidedly higher density of children about, either lounging or barking out sales of flowers, grapes, and phosphor matches.  There are fewer tieflings and giths here than there were near Clapper and Sighs.

A harmonium patrol approaches from the opposite way, fitted in their characteristic spiked red plate.  It's a trio, and the creature that leads them is a rilmani, identifiable by the metallic skin showing between plates on the upper arms.  They look continuously about themselves, but do not stop.

They enter an alley where clotheslines span the gap between second-and-third-story windows of tall wooden tenement structures. The soundness of the architecture is dubious, and the gables are rounded and uneven.  A majority of the signs and advertisements are pictorial, though they pass one saddle-shaped sign that reads simply “GOOD BEDS”.

They come upon busier streets, and then after a few hundred yards, turn once more outside the flow of foot traffic.  They cross under a masonry arch beside a brick facade with broad, iron-barred windows.  As they emerge on the other side into the compound, one member of a gang of street children nearby suddenly turns and runs off, their loose shoes flapping against the cobblestone path.

The Nameless One notices the iron water pump as they pass.  They are moving now upon narrow lanes between apartments.  They come to a T-intersection and turn right, then follow a narrow lane that bends first left, then right.

They reach the place with a jarring suddenness.  The sounds of children playing are still audible in the distance.

The space extends backwards thirty feet between two walls of brick, with two ground level doors standing flush on either side.  At the end is a shear brick wall splattered with an ominous mix of red and black detritus.

A cloud of flies has discovered the remains and is presently feasting on piles of unidentifiable gore in the corner where the street meets the wall.  Even from this distance it appears oddly textured, as if blood were mixed with some sort of mortar-like adhesive or fixative.  It forms small folds.

The wall stains above have a composite pattern about them that calls to mind either multiple violent blows or explosions, rather than the spilling of a liquid or the emptying of a bucket of paint.

The telltale iron smell of slaughter is there in abundance, but after a moment an undercurrent of something else hits his nostrils.

ENEMY.  DEATH.  FLEE.

His breath catches and he feels his stomach retch convulsively. He tastes bile, but nothing further comes up from his innards.

He coughs. “Yes. That is the enemy.”

His eyes quickly scan the ground from his feet to the far wall.  Are there any residues of the carnage spread elsewhere in the alley?

There are no large heaps of material save for in the far corner.  The stones and exposed earth underfoot are dark in color, making it impossible to tell from a distance where blood or other material may have been spilt.

He asks the tobacconist, “Did you observe any bits of blood or black matter earlier in the lane or outside this place?”

“Hm?  Can’t say I did.  We could certainly smell it, though.  Even as far out as the pump.”

He steps slowly towards the wall with his eyes cast downwards. He does spy some spilled blood further out, at least, even if there is none of the ridgy stuff.

Is the darker material the innards of his enemy? Or could these leading blood spatters have come from either himself or the enemy? There was hostile contact, at least, away from that corner. Since he was ultimately the victim, presumably it was he who was wounded and was fleeing pursuit until reaching this unfortunate dead end.

He approaches the gore gathered about the wall. Using the spike end of his axe, he lightly taps into one of the larger bits.

What is it? How does it respond to the spike?

The material is spring-like and elastic.  Where he has pierced the surface, he reveals blood still wet underneath.

If he pries up a section of the outer layer he’ll see that scattered within are fragments of bone and what he thinks is brain matter.

So the material is a mix of his own body’s flesh with something foreign: either a weapon of the enemy or the ichor or vital stuff of it. 

Well. Not for certain. It could also be some final self-immolating strike of his own powered by the Art… though if he had known last night a technique that would create such results (it’s definitely not Fireball, Snilloc’s Snowball Swarm, nor Blight or any other lesser necromancy), he has since forgotten it.  

“Describe what happened after you wiped down my body.”

“Well, sir.  I had to drag it out of the corner by the arms to have any shot of getting it clean.  Thought there might still be danger about us, so I had my man draw arms and keep a lantern held high, watching the way behind us. I suppose he sent off the boy with a few commons and a scolding.  

“Once you were clean enough, with more dirt on you from the turning than blood, we loaded you up.  Had to unload the other deaders there,” he points back to the corner of the lane they turned in upon, “on account of you being too big.  Wouldn’t have stayed atop that pile a yard with how slicked down you were.”

“When you were moving my body did you feel anything that was either too hot or too cold to be a recently killed man?”

“Water was cold, and my hands were stiff by the time I’d wiped you down.  I don’t rightly remember noticing anything else about it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“And this ‘foundry’ odor about us, as you describe it. Did the scent cling more strongly to this place when you first arrived than it does now?”

“Oh, to be sure.”

He nods.  “Well then.”

He points down at the mass in the corner. “Look here. The flesh parts of the enemy, mixed there with my own, even now they are still alive.”

“I will have to treat the mass,” he says absentmindedly.

Turning back to the tobacconist, he says, “When you touch it, the more that you feel it, the more that it feels you. That is the better part of how it makes its mark.”

He gives the man a very grave look.

“I will not yet call you fortunate, though you may so prove to be. The sensible course upon stumbling into a scene as unnatural as this would have been to not pry further, and to have let the corpse alone. You may be relieved to hear that it is unlikely you were marked.  Nevertheless, we should not be too dismissive of the danger when the cost to confirm it is not dear.”

“I must stay here a time and treat the mass.” He gestures at the material in the corner.

“I will return to my rooms and then to your shop by nightfall. In the meantime, you should not stray far from your place unless it is a dire emergency. If by some action of the enemy I do not return to you, here is what you should do.”

“For this night and the following two, sleep with a slight crack in your casement, enough so that you can smell the air of the street. You must also have a flame within the room. A hearth is best but a lamp will do if it can be trusted not to go out while you sleep. If you ever wake in the night and smell this particular scent - remember it well - you must rise immediately and go to your flame.  Build a roaring fire. Do it in a hearth or in a bowl or burn your own furniture if you have to, but keep a sizable flame beside you. If the thing comes, it will come fast, and you will not have time to stoke a fire from embers. It may take a form that you find surprising, but know that it is a thing of darkness."

“Keep the flame between it and you. The thing cannot cross fire, though fire alone will not destroy it. Do not by any means go to sleep after you have first smelled the scent. When morning comes, send for me. You may ask for Renault at The Heron in Clerk’s Ward. If after three nights, no such thing occurs, then you are safe. At least as safe as any mortal in Sigil.”