The disturbingly calm appearance of the gatehouse leading into the city provided a strange contrast to the blazing inferno engulfing the forest outside of Drassington. Clouds of dark smoke and ash choked lookouts still prowling the battlements, but no cries of challenge or probing questions were thrown towards the motley group that approached from the forest. Instead, as the group led by a rather disheveled half-elf in battered scholars’ robes grew closer and closer, mute sentinels clad in dull iron armor simply observed the suspicious group. An arm limply jerked upwards, signaling for the gate to open, and one by one the group of demons, gangsters, and various other public enemies were waved through.
“Now now, didn’t I say it would be a piece of cake?” Tim cheekily grinned at the confused demons.
“Dimitre did mention you had some influence in the guard of this city, but…” Mavier shook his head with a wry grin. “I admit that my expectations have been surpassed. How much of the guard do you have under your control? How were you even able to convince them to overlook us, who they see as sworn enemies, walking inside of their very walls?”
Tim grinned, tapping his nose. “Now that’s a trade secret, my friend. All I can tell you is that it has something to do with why I was at the Bastille that day.” Then, winking at Mavier, Tim sprinkled a few stale cookie crumbs into his breast pocket, grin only widening as he felt the sensation of a paw tapping his chest in thanks.
Tim and Mavier looked at each other, their shoulders gradually shaking more and more in hysterical exhaustion. Behind them, Bert, Dimitre, and Santet could only watch on in confusion as they followed the two towards the twisting alleyways of the slums. The surroundings became darker over time, but it was not until the group finally reached a door that stank of fresh green paint that Tim and Mavier’s mirth came to an end.
“Hm. Green paint. Bert, I could have sworn that this was the right door for the hideout you lot had in the slums. Did we take a wrong turn back there?”
Bert stepped closer to the door, stroking his long beard as he examined the frame around the green wood. “No, this is the place.” He stroked a set of peculiar scratches halfway up the door frame. “These are our marks. One of the lads we left behind must’ve painted it for some shitty reason.”
“Odd. Well, since this really is the right place, lets head in and get some rest. We can wait for the cover of night to head to my main hideout so we don’t have to worry about citizens spotting us.”
He nodded to Bert, who pulled open the doorway, screaming girlishly as a small bundle was launched at him. It attached to his beard and would not let go. Then Bert too began to roar with laughter as he threw the singular blanket, revealed to actually be a poncho covering a familiar face, into the air as she clung to him out of joy.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Tim brushed past the reunion with a slight smile, motioning for the rest of his motley crew to follow him inside, where the few Blinders members on lookout had begun to set out rather smooth chairs at a freshly clean table in the middle of the common room.
“Boss, would you like some refreshments? Some pastries for your… companions?” The burly orc awkwardly stepped forwards, visibly hesitated upon noticing Mavier, but powered forward nonetheless. “They are freshly baked by Forten and our little chef!”
Tim’s eyebrows raised, but he ultimately hid a smile and nodded at Forten holding a platter holding extremely rough-looking pastries. Someone produced alcohol, and as conversation slowly restarted another man produced a game of cards. The pastries were quickly distributed to the assorted mix of demons, gangsters, and wanted criminals crowded around the table and disappeared just as quickly, all under the proud watch of a small girl on Bert’s sturdy shoulders.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“Ahhh, for fucks sake!” Vort buried his head in his hands as he sat in his uncomfortable wooden chair in his office. “I know none of you could ever hope to do anything in a fight between those monsters, but none of you thought to leave the city and try? Just what the hell am I paying you lot for!” Vort stood up in rage, throwing the ashtray at his desk at one of the silent guards standing at ease in front of his desk.
“Come on! One of you better fucking answer me, or by the great heroes themselves I’ll have all of you on your asses in the streets with no! Fucking! Job!” Vort screeched, ignoring the clattering sounds of the metal ashtray bouncing off the closest guard without the man even making a single reaction.
“Really? None of yo-“ Vort paused as the clanking of armor rang out, watching as the leftmost guard stepped forwards silently to stand next to him.
“What, you got something to fucking say to me?” Vort leaned forwards, ripping off the helmet of the guard and suppressing the instinctive revulsion he felt as he stared into the lifeless eyes and clammy skin of the man before him.
Vort threw back his head and unleashed peals of mocking laughter. “The lot of you found a new fucking drug! You don’t even have the balls to say anything to me, don’t you!” The captain of the guard continued to laugh, but as the silent guardsman reached up to his own jaw and started to drag it downwards, Vort’s laughter abruptly ended and turned into shouts of fear. Inch by inch the silent guardsman’s jaw was opened by his own hand, not even stopping when snapping noises cracked out from the tendons in his own jaw breaking under stress. Not even stopping when his other hand grabbed his own jaw, tearing it away from his face until finally, his lower jaw came free from his face in a bloody mess of tendons and shattered teeth.
“What the hell has gotten into you!” Vort gasped out, his horror only increasing as the guard leaned his head back, and his throat pulsed, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down to the rhythm of some unknown force pushing its way up his throat. The captain turned, dashing around his desk and crashing into a solid wall of armored guardsmen who moved to block the door. Vort cried out desperately, but his body crashed to the floor, revealing the jawless guardsmen approaching with the heavy clunk of iron boots. Each step felt like an eternity, but one that was paradoxically over much too soon.
“Please! I won’t fire you! You want a raise? It’s yours! Just plea-“ Vort’s screams became more and more incoherent as his mind finally registered the squirming rats held in the guard’s hand.
Seconds later, the guardhouse was silent