Sent to Zobeck by
The stench of charred mindbending bloodlust fills the chamber, but the hooded figure doesn’t seem to mind. He crouches in the mud, dirt, and decay, his fingers rooting deep into the earth. His fingers pull out a long curved spine. He brings it to his nose and sniffs. The figure stands, a blade on each hip and a crossbow hanging low across his back. He walks over the remains of dead rats, bodies removed but innards left behind. He crouches again, drawing up a cracked arrow, twirling its bladed broadhead in his fingers, watching the metal glow in the light. He stands, noting the scorch marks on the walls and the deep cracks in the floor.
“What have you found, my love?” Whispers a voice in the darkness. “Have the Kings betrayed us?”
“I don’t think so,” echoes the hooded figure’s deep voice. “They have their own supply, but they’d not be so bold as to burn this one. I think more players have entered our game.”