“Are you two sure about this?” Skrakch asked as he nervously stared down at the crimson jewel resting on the flat of his palm.

“I still think Winifred deserves the first crack at using the Artifact.” He added, nodding towards the fighter. She was still sitting backward on the only chair in the small warehouse backroom, her arm resting on its back as she gazed at him impassively.

“C’mon, Squeakers.” Zach half-whined, half-mocked. “Just do it already before I change my mind.”

“Ignore him, Skrakch.” Winifred scoffed at the Halfling. “This way everyone is happy, so feel free tae test it… I mean, use it first.”

After the Rogues had finished their little disagreement, the group of thieves had easily settled in to use the artifact immediately.

‘Quick tempers, and even quicker resolutions.’ Skrakch tried to distract himself from the fact he was holding the most expensive object he’d ever seen in his hand. ‘Though some of these idiots are a little too relaxed.’

While Winifred was closely watching Skrakch as he slowly turned the Purene Ruby over in his hand, Meekknuckle and Zacharias had elected for a… different approach.

Once Zacharias had agreed to Winifred’s plan, the Halfling had hopped to his feet and hurried into the main area of Kristoff’s warehouse.

At first, Skrakch had wondered if the Halfling was aiming to protect his merchandise or the Iskrin workforce he’d mysteriously acquired… only to be disappointed when the Halfling sauntered back in with an entire barrel of booze.

Which was how Zacharias had ended up another few tankards deep, all while egging Skrakch onwards. He was now sitting atop the oak barrel, his shirt half open, spilling ale all over the place as he cajoled Skrakch to just ‘get it done’.

Worse yet, the tipsy lout had managed to convince Meekknuckle to have a sip of the so-called ‘Dwarven Ale’ which had immediately gone to the short statured Goblins head.

“Yeah, you do it now, little Ratman!” Meekknuckle cried out, spilling his drink all over his already ragged tunic. The diminutive creature was jumping up and down on his small cot, giggling and yelling with all the exuberance of a first time drunk.

Skrakch let out a slow breath as he tuned out the two morons and their brainless carousing, and appreciated the feeling of the artifact in his hand.

While artifacts were a rare enough item that most citizens of Dray’Mel would never hold one in their hands, this was the second artifact Skrakch had held with the intent to use.

"It was breathtaking, really. And of course, he couldn’t forget what this could mean. Two artifacts that he’d found and handled? Could this finally be the way to him becoming a Chosen?"

He thought somewhat sadly about the beloved Sceptre of Fireballs, as he’d named his wand, and how it had been taken from the Ratling all too soon.

That artifact had turned out to be limited in its use, and Skrakch had been able to feel the power within drain away as he used it.

This though… the Purene Ruby was different.

Looking down at the gem, it appeared to be a fairly standard looking cluster of red gemstones, shaved down to a perfectly spherical shape. It’s polish had been tarnished somewhat by its time in storage, first with Kuosh and then wherever the Hells Zacharias had been keeping it.

A rarity, to be sure, but not something to be deemed nearly priceless. No one in the Slums would pay much for it, most folks more focused on the immediate usefulness of a new purchase.

Still he could see how, from size alone, the nobility would fight to own it, utterly ignorant of its true power.

No, to the Ratling’s naked eye, the Ruby appeared as a beautiful yet simple stone, but things changed drastically when he looked down at it with his Mana Sense activated.

Most magical items Skrakch had seen before practically oozed Mana, the power invested inside hungrily spreading outwards as if the artifact simply couldn’t contain itself.

In stark contrast, the Purene Ruby seemed almost… calm. Serene. A perfect sphere of unaspected Mana without flaw or deviation.

A small part of Skrakch’s brain was warning him that nothing good could come from meddling with something this perfectly crafted, that there was no way he could handle the amount of Mana inside the artifact. It sounded an awful lot like the Patriarch, his slightly mocking tone as he looked down at Skrakch.

As usual though, that part went ignored.

Reaching out with a tendril of his Mana, Skrakch felt it connect with the Ruby and-

—————————————-

His breath was shuddering in his chest as Skrakch desperately ran down the rubble-strewn streets, blood and sweat trickling down his body as he pushed himself to his limits. His heart was a drum, beating a fierce and repetitive taboo as it hammered away.

He could hear the moans and whines of the pack of hungry Ghouls behind him, snarling and snapping at each other even as they hunted him, but Skrakch didn’t waste time looking back at them.

At first, his plan had worked wonders, as the Ghoul blood he’d coated himself with had been enough to trick most of the Undead District’s citizens he’d passed by. Perhaps a couple had questioned it, sniffing the air. But then they’d quickly become impassive once more as they ambled around aimlessly.

If he hadn’t stumbled across a trapped Ghast, and damn near stepped on top of it, he’d have made it to the Mausoleum unscathed.

Still, he was so close he could taste it. The smuggler’s entrance and exit to the city was only a few blocks away, he just needed to keep on running.

Panting from exertion, Skrakch dodged around a piece of broken building with sure footed steps, only to run directly into a Zombie shambling towards the noise.

The fetid corpse was nearly as surprised as he was, but the Undead reacted far quicker, its clawed hands gripping onto his leather jacket. Its grip was horribly strong for a creature that was rotting away.

“No! No, no, get off me you stupid-“ Skrakch started to yell, even as the rotting teeth of his attacker clamped down on his neck.

Choking on his own blood, Skrakch felt his body going cold as the Ghouls caught up to him and began fighting for his rapidly bleeding out corpse.

—————————————

“Damn it, Meekknuckle!” Skrakch angrily whispered, carefully making his way through the Goblin’s so-called city. “I thought you said everyone had left to deal with an Iskrin attack?”

From behind Skrakch’s crouched form, Meekknuckle traced the Ratling’s footsteps, the duo darting from shadow to shadow.

“Most Goblins gone, just few watching city. Me told you, perfect time to get Father’s dusty old books.” Meek whispered back, though the Goblin’s head was still whipping back and forth as the idiot tried to keep a lookout. “Trust Meek. This best time.”

While there -were- more Goblins than Skrakch had been hoping for, most of the shantytown the ‘Gobbos’ called home lay vacant.

Which meant it was easy enough for the pair of Rogues to sneak their way towards their destination, Blazock’s tower.

Or at least that was the theory. If they were spotted by one of the townsfolk that had remained behind, this could all collapse around them. Blazock ruled by fear and even Skrakch knew that his punishments were vicious and painful. 'Gods below only knew what kind of torture the old Goblin would dish out if they were caught…'

Still, The Patriarch’s home was the only thing of value in this entire dump, and it wasn’t because of any hidden jewels.

‘No, it’s because the old bastard kept a meticulous record of his Runes on hand, the very basis of his spellcraft.’ Skrakch could practically taste the dusty tomes now, the Ratling practically giddy at the idea of looting the home of his former Master. If his theory was correct, Blazock’s personal library far surpassed that of Dray’Mel’s in terms of magical learning.

Ducking past the occasional half-asleep Goblin guard was easy enough for the duo, Skrakch leading the way to Blazock’s stone tower and the enchanted wooden door that blocked his path.

As Skrakch pushed his Mana into his eyes, the apprentice Mage could just barely make out the mess of Runes that Blazock had used to protect his domain.

There were enough moving parts here that Skrakch knew he’d never be able to enter on his own merits.

Thankfully, that was where Meekknuckle came into play.

Reaching behind him, Skrakch grabbed the Goblin by the collar and shoved him towards the door. “Get it open already, we’re tempting fate by wasting time here.”

Pulling at the collar of his ragged shirt, Meekknuckle let out a small whimper. “You sure about this? If Father find out…”

‘It seems that now they were here, the little runt was beginning to have his doubts.’

Meek had been strangely…agreeable to this particular mission. It had taken very little convincing on Skrakch’s part before the Goblin had made his mind up. Perhaps the creature had his own reasons for wanting access to his father’s vast library. Whatever that reason was, Skrakch didn’t care. No doubt it would be for something idiotic.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Do it, you simpleton. I need…no, we need this!” Skrakch corrected himself with a snarl, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of alarm.

In fact, he was so focused he didn’t even react as Meekknuckle let out a sigh, and pulled the door open with a quick tug.

“What are you-!”

Harvest…

As the Crux roiled and emanated outwards, all Skrakch could do was gasp as the sickly Mana gripped him tight, and the Ratling couldn’t help but drop to the floor as painful convulsions wracked his body.

He could feel his mind and energy being torn apart and siphoned away from his body, his flailing limbs soon unable to move under his own power.

Skrakch could feel himself withering away, but all he could do was watch as Blazock stepped up beside Meekknuckle and rested his gnarled hand on his son's shoulder, the Patriarch beaming all the while.

It felt like it took hours as his body burned itself up, but in truth, Skrakch was dead in mere moments.

—————————

…the sickle-like edge of the corrupted beast's forearm slammed down just beside his skull, the force of the blow sending Skrakch rolling through the sand as he desperately tried to dodge the monstrosity’s edged claws.

The assault had started off with such ferocity that Skrakch had let himself get swept up in the moment, but this was insanity.

‘I can’t fight these things!’ Skrakch thought to himself as he whirled to face his attacker, matching the insect’s beady eyes as it pulled his bladed claw out of the sand.

‘I just need to find Winnie, where the Hells did she go?’

With the sun beating down on him, Skrakch felt half-blind but he refused to take his eyes off the massive bug that had launched itself at him.

The creatures’ dozens of legs let it glide towards him as the pustule-ridden main body raised its claws high in the air. It was vicious and unrelenting. Skrakch could feel his heart pounding in his furred chest, his eyes darting frantically to and fro in an effort to keep up with the beast’s rapid movements.

For a ludicrous moment, Skrakch fancied the raised blades like a executioner's axe, poised to sever his head from his body. It would be so easy for him to give in now and allow it to happen…

‘No, I can do this.’ Skrakch felt his tongue loll awkwardly in his mouth, feeling more like chewed up old leather than a real part of him.

‘Though I can’t decide if it’s the heat or fear.’ The thought took him by such surprise that he let a bark of laughter roll out.

Interestingly, the bug monster reacted by taken a sudden lunge forward, perhaps seeing the laughter as a sign of provocation.

Not that it mattered to Skrakch, the Ratling dashing towards the beast even as its sickle-like appendages swung downwards, forcing him to tuck himself into another roll as he dodged the creature's stomping legs.

The beast was massive and he was small, the mantis-like creature dwarfing him by fourfold. He could use that to his advantage, darting between the attacking limbs in an effort to confuse the creature.

Sliding to his feet miraculously unharmed, Skrakch took advantage of his foes' awkward attempts to turn quickly, throwing himself on the beast's back.

Scrambling up the chitinous armor that decorated the insect's abdomen, Skrakch threw himself upwards and jabbed his claws into the protruding left eye, ignoring the spray of black blood that doused his fur.

Digging through the mess of blood and flesh, Skrakch knew he’d found his target when the insect collapsed underneath him in a twitching pile of disjointed limbs.

Panting from exertion, Skrakch breathlessly watched as hundreds of similar battles raged around him, painting the desert sands a wide array of colors as monsters and demons died by the dozens.

It was a canvas of death and destruction, and if it weren’t for the pure terror that he felt, Skrakch was sure he’d be able to appreciate being part of what would no doubt be a historic moment for the city.

Still, he couldn’t help the laugh that burbled out as Skrakch realized he’d done it, he’d killed his foe without needing assistance.

‘I don’t need Winnie! I don’t need anyone! I’m unstoppable, I’m-‘

Cutting off mid thought, Skrakch froze as the desert sun above him disappeared in a single moment. Turning to look behind him, he could see the towering form of a gigantic Cyclops falling to its knees.

Leaping down onto the burning sands from the insects back, Skrakch made a desperate attempt to vacate the area the Cyclops' corpse was teetering towards…

Until the crushing weight turned him into just another bloody smear in the sand.

———————-

Sitting against the cavern wall, Skrakch took a deep swig of his water canteen.

The desert heat was oppressive in a way the Ratling had never experienced before, but at least the shaded hideaway he’d found sheltered him from the worst of the sun’s rays.

‘Looks like Kuosh was right, the desert was no place for an Iskrin.’ Skrakch mused to himself as he kept a wary eye on the cave entrance. ‘But at least the air is fresh here.’

A part of the Ratling’s mind couldn’t believe it, but he was free. Free of Dray’Mel’s foul air, free from the Tomb-Makers control, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. He knew that he should feel happy, excited even, but it hadn’t been without its troubles.

Skrakch couldn’t help but stare down at his bandaged wrist. It had taken all the favors he’d earned from Dray’Mel’s citizens, but he’d finally figured out how to remove the Rune on his wrist.

But even without being able to see the ticking countdown, the Ratling knew the time off by heart. And it wasn’t something that he was going to be able to forget any time soon.

Stepping to his feet, Skrakch walked to the edge of the cave and blearily blinked upwards at the bright morning sky.

Living in Dray’Mel and suffering through its perpetual smog, Skrakch had never really had a chance to appreciate the beauty of a sunny day.

Still, a part of his mind was too distracted to enjoy the sight, mentally counting down.

3…

2…

1…

Breathing in deep, Skrakch could only enjoy the dry desert air as it tickled his snout.

‘I knew it. I fucking knew it was all bollocks.’

There were no Wraiths to lead him away here, no sudden death to be had. He was free!

‘Free!’

Moving back into his hideaway, Skrakch could feel his joy bubbling in his chest, even as his feet slipped on the cavern rocks.

Landing in a confused heap, the Ratling tried to pull himself upright, but his feet betrayed him as a growing pain began spreading through his body.

Coughing weakly where he was, Skrakch stared dumbfoundedly at the blood staining the cavern floor beneath him even as everything began to slip away.

‘…finally free…’

——————————

‘It’s finally over.’ Skrakch thought to himself as he stared down at the Rune on his wrist with the resigned air of a deadman walking.

He could hear the Wraiths as they no doubt swirled downwards towards him, but all Skrakch could muster was indifference.

‘I tried everything. Any idea I could think of, any opportunity I could ferret out.’

‘And nothing worked.’

He’d failed. Even as the Wraiths swept into the abandoned building he’d been calling home, Skrakch barely flinched at their frenzied cries. Why give them the pleasure, if they even felt it, of screaming and pleading like he’d seen so many people do before?

Without physical forms to rebuff, Skrakch couldn’t deny them their prize without calling on his magic, but…

‘What was the point?’

The shrieking Wraiths swarmed him with their chilling touch, wrapping him in their embrace as they pulled their Ratling charge upwards into the night sky.

The rush of the passing wind was enough to drown out the Wraiths' cries, but Skrakch could still feel their chilling grasp as they heaved him ever upwards, until they were flying higher than any of Dray’Mel’s numerous city walls.

Some would no doubt find the barely lit city spread out underneath them beautiful in a way, one last sight before they were brought to their death, but all Skrakch could see was a map of his failures.

Whisked away under grasping arms, Skrakch instead focused his attention on their quickly approaching destination.

The Butchery.

He’d managed to find some little hints as to his future there, but nothing he’d found was calming.

Nobody really knew the truth of the place. And so, it was mostly down to word of mouth, tales of horror and mystery passed along in the pub, or between the youth of the city in an attempt to scare each other senseless.

Some said they offered the citizens a choice, to join the ranks of the Tomb-Makers, or give their very body up to their Undead Overlords as nourishment.

It was a pretty picture that didn’t reveal the truth.

Some folk were given the chance to join the Tomb-Makers, sure. But most were brought straight to the Butchery to be harvested for parts.

‘No, not parts. Food. A tasty treat for any Tomb-Makers that required living sustenance to survive.’

Merchants visiting the city, under strict supervision, would sometimes let slip that they could hear screams coming from the depths of the massive iron building.

At least, those were the rumours. Most merchants with loose lips like that didn’t last long in Dray’Mel.

The Tomb-Makers didn’t care about spreading dissent in their cattle, but they were happy to harvest fresh flesh in any form.

Still, a small part of Skrakch was hoping he’d be part of the former, destined to survive in some form. It was all he’d ever wanted, really.

Even if he was trapped in a state of Undeath for all eternity.

As the Wraiths began their slow descent, Skrakch was treated to his first sight of the Butchery.

Unlike most of the city, the Butchery hadn’t been part of Dray’Mel before it fell, and it was easy to tell just from looking at the ominous framework.

Most of Dray’Mel was made from decades old stonework, left in a perpetual state of disrepair by its uncaring Masters. Still, you could make out a sense of style to the buildings, an architect’s loving care to the stone designs.

The Butchery however, was crafted entirely from wrought steel. The overall look reminded Skrakch of an oversized coffin, though the irony did little to amuse him.

Without windows to peer into, no one living had any insight into what lay within, but Skrakch could spot a few opening’s in the drab building’s walls.

Even as he watched, he could spot Wraiths flying in and out of those entryways, and Skrakch could even make out a few other unlucky souls being brought to the Butchery’s depths.

‘Stonemasons or prostitutes, nobles or fools, everyone living ends up in the Butchery after all.’

It was… inevitable. Skrakch had learned the truth of that months ago, as he watched Winifred as she was cut down by a Guardsman.

After he had watched Meekknuckle get ripped to shreds by a Ghoul, and he'd chosen to run for his life instead of helping his friend..

‘One way or the other, we were all destined for an Undead’s gullet.’

It was such a known fate that the children of Dray’Mel would often be heard chanting a rhyme as they used a found piece of rope, or a stolen skipping rope to play with.

'You can try to run

You can try to hide

You’ll never escape

The final ride '

'Here comes the Wraith

To pull you from bed

Away to the Butchery

They’ll chop off your head!'

As his own personal escort of shrieking ghosts brought the Ratling closer to one of Butchery’s entrances, he finally spotted the main source of Dray’Mel’s ever present smog, two large smokestacks positioned on the top of the building's rooftop.

Each human sized piping continuously belched thick billowing columns of filthy gray clouds that rose to join Dray’Mel’s blackened skyline.

Even from a distance Skrakch could tell that the thick plumes of smoke were drenched in cloying necromantic Mana, but up close and personal, the Ratling could barely breathe.

Every second that the Wraiths brought him closer to the Butchery led to an increased amount of Necromantic energy filling his lungs, and pumping its filthy touch through his veins. It felt like it was wrapping around his heart and brain, squeezing them both with choking evil tendrils, injecting him with terror.

The Mana seemed to have a mind of its own and as the Wraiths brought him down towards a small opening in the building's exterior, it took all of Skrakch’s efforts to choke down the foul air.

Head swimming from the lack of oxygen, the Ratling finally began to struggle against his captor's grip, but his feeble efforts were far from enough to stop his descent through one of the Butchery’s entrances.

Thankfully, his consciousness finally fled him as Skrakch fell into a deep stupor, but that didn’t stop him from hearing the sounds of screaming ringing out in his ears.

Nor did it stop his dreams from being filled with gnashing teeth and grasping jaws.