Skrakch was pretty certain that this was the most pain any creature in Dray’Mel had ever felt.

Each lash across his back was agony, pure bloody agony. The thick leather whip with its multiple tails split his hide with each well-aimed blow. Worse yet was the feeling of those wounds as they closed themselves back up, months of his body’s natural healing time being forced to cram itself into a few seconds. He’d honestly always thought that listening to Zacharias witter on about his latest conquest was the most painful experience in his life but these sessions reminded him that things could get a lot worse.

Gasping out in shock and pain, he blearily gazed up at the demon-spawned woman who was standing over him, holding the object of his suffering with a benign smile on her face.

‘Demon-spawned’ she quite literally was, judging by her blood-red skin. And there was an awful lot of it on display in her barely-there black leather dress that rode up her thick thighs and was cut so low that it displayed a large amount of cleavage.

Still, she was mostly Human-looking and that was more than enough to turn the Ratling’s stomach. All that exposed skin? She looked sickly without any fur. He was pretty sure that he was never going to get used to the amount of flesh that Humans have on display.

Skrakch knew he wasn’t a prudish creature, not by any means, but he preferred his females to not look like skinning victims. The next time he came here, he would have to-

CRACK!

Letting out, what he thought to be, an extremely manly squeal of pain, Skrakch felt his breath forced out of him as a leather-clad high-heeled boot suddenly connected with his stomach.

Curling further in on himself in the fetal position, Skrakch struggled to remain conscious as his attacker looked down on him with a disgust-filled sneer, tapping the handle of the whip against her palm, glossy black nails catching in the candlelight of the dank cellar.

He was going to have to get over this hurdle if he was going to make any progress. Pain is temporary, becoming a Chosen is forever, Skrakch thought to himself as he felt his wounds close once more. Skrakch allowed himself one more whimper of pain before he steeled his resolve.

“A-alright... let’s take the next step,” He said, fighting against the rising wave of nausea in his belly from her kick. “And by that... I mean can you step on me? You haven’t broken anything yet... and I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be what tips me over the edge…”

“Sorry dear,” The woman purred with mock regret. “But your time is up. That is, of course, unless you’d like to extend your session?” She grinned at him. “It’s so rare for one of my clients to sign up for this package that it’s been ages since I’ve truly been able to let loose,” She continued with satisfaction as she ran the tails of the whip through her slender fingers.

The blood-splattered demoness put one of those fingers to her deep red lips, pretending to consider. “Or perhaps for the low price of just twenty-five gold, I can offer you the deluxe aftercare package. I’ll treat your wounds by hand, of course, perhaps offer you a relaxing massage?”

She leaned down and started to run her hand across the fur on his chest, playing with the little rosette of dark brown in the center. Skrakch would normally consider this intimate touch a kind of foreplay. Gods Below knew it had been a while, but that hideously naked skin…

“And if you play your cards right…” She continued as her hand moved lower. Clearly, she thought that she was being a little too subtle with her massage comment. “They won’t be the only things that I treat…”

“Bah!” Skrakch moved from her touch, accidentally jarring some of the wounds that were still knitting together. “We both know I don’t have that kind of coin on me!” He let out a little sigh. Despite the skin thing, he’d probably consider it. In his vast experience with the females of any species, it doesn’t do to tell them that you find them utterly disgusting. Or that you’d rather let a slum cat touch you first.

“Listen Survix,” Skrakch continued as he hauled himself to his feet. “This has been a real...treat. But time’s a-wasting. You know how it is. I’ll let myself out.”

Survix shrugged and headed over to her well-stocked rack that included various whips and methods of torture, while Skrakch hurried over to the wooden chest where he’d left his clothes. He gave himself a quick check over. He knew that he was a fine figure of a Ratling, he was tall, a lot taller than his littermates had been, and his fur was the perfect burnt umber. Some clueless idiots had tried to claim it was just ‘brown’ but Skrakch knew the truth. He was a cut above your average servant Ratling with their common garden muddy brown fur.

His whiskers were perfect, long and straight with no frazzled ends like the albino Iskrin had. In the past year, a streak of grey has appeared over his snout which, in his humble opinion, just made him look all the more distinguished. And his tail! Oh, his tail! His pride and joy. It was a pure work of art. In fact, he was pretty sure that there had been sonnets written about it. He’s lost count of the number of females that probably wept in their beds every night, having lost the chance to bear witness to how truly majestic it was to touch.

Still, as vicious as Survix had been with him, most of the wounds and marks had already healed by the time he was done worshiping himself. Smoothing down any leftover ruffled fur, Skrakch checks his legendary tail is still unmarred before beginning to strap on his leather armor.

As always, his tail fit neatly through the hole he’d cut into his pants. Frankly, Skrakch always thought it was a crime to not display it at all times. Once dressed, he hopped up the stone stairs that led to Survix’s basement workspace and pulled open the heavy wooden door.

He was always assaulted by the heavily perfumed smell whenever he visited this place. The ‘front’ of the business was as a general perfumery. The citizens of Dray’Mel, at least the ones that frequented the area known as The Slums, weren’t known for their hygiene standards. Rather than bathe, a lot of them would douse themselves in strong-smelling scents. It was a nightmare for Skrakch and his superior sense of smell.

He made his way over to a woman he affectionately called The Denmother. She was a wrinkled old crone of a woman and the most unassuming person that he knew. Her back was arched with age, causing her to stoop like some poor hunchback whenever she stood up. Silvery-grey hair hung around her heavily lined face in dead-looking tendrils. She sat in the same spot every single day, an ornately carved wooden rocking chair that was the only outward sign of her wealth.

Her knitting needles would clack rhythmically as she worked on a large blanket or scarf. Of course, it was all a clever ruse. No innocent citizen entering the shop would guess that this sweet, infirm-looking old woman was a master demonologist with a torture basement and several high-class working girls on her payroll.

“Hey, Ma! Notice anything different about me?” Skrakch asks hopefully as he did a quick twirl for her, the potions on his bandolier clinking as he swung in place.

“The only thing I notice about you boy is that you’ve accrued quite a debt at this point,” The Denmother replied acidly. She dropped her knitting and pokes at him with one gnarled finger. It was a surprisingly strong stab for such a senile old witch. “You come in here once a week, asking to be whipped and whatnot, then cry and squeal throughout the entire session. If it weren’t for my silencing incantation you’d be drawing all sorts here. Poking their noses in and asking questions!”

“And worst yet Ratling, you don’t pay up at the end of the month,” She continued as she shook her head. “Well, you’d best be believing that I’ll be calling in a favor for that when I need one!”

Skrakch backed away to avoid any further physical retribution from the aged demonologist and backed off towards the shop’s doorway. “Don’t worry Ma!” He replied with a wink. “I’ll pay you back in full soon, maybe even a little extra for your patience. I’ve got a big payday planned,” he continued with an enigmatic smile as he rubbed his front paws together.

Skrakch wasn’t sure which one of her commonly used insults the Denmother called after him as he stepped out into the street, but the smart bet wasn’t staying long enough for her to care enough to run him out herself.

The Slums made up one of the largest parts of the city of Dray’Mel. Skrakch supposed that they were similar to the poorest parts of any other city. The extremely originally named Merchant’s Alley was probably the street that was in the best shape, although that wasn’t really saying much. The rough cobblestones were chipped and battered and stained with a variety of God Above knew what. The stores that lined either side were ramshackle, with peeling paint and ancient signs that creaked when they swung in the breeze. Everywhere you looked beggars were sitting in their filth and demanding money from the passers-by.

Stolen story; please report.

Way above the crowds of people who were hurrying to and fro, going about their daily business, was a grey, overcast sky. The upper levels of each store were so close together that it almost blocked it out entirely. Skrakch had never tried it, but he was pretty certain if you stood at the top window of one store, you’d be able to shake hands with someone standing in the opposite window. It was in one of those upper levels, above the old disused carpenter’s store that Zacharias had made his home.

It was a pretty perfect area for the Halfling thief. When Skrakch thought of Zacharias, he thought of shit. And it was apt because there were open sewers that ran either side of the street, the Ratling chuckled to himself. The smell was pungent, especially during the summer months. The ragged Human children tried to cash in on this by selling nosegags to those who had the wherewithal to afford such a luxury. Those without were forced to hurry from store to store, trying not to inhale too deeply.

Yet it wasn’t only the stench that encouraged the people to be quick with their daily shopping. Dotted randomly along the length of Merchant’s Alley were the massive Undead Guards. These brutes wore heavy plate armor emblazoned with an ancient sigil that Skrakch remembered from the history books as belonging to Rath’Mel, the Dreaded Archmage. They carried large halberds, ferociously sharp, each handle decorated with a band of dark green, the color of Rath’Mel.

The guards towered above the crowds, at least double the size of even the tallest Human. Through the eye-slits of their horned helmets, were the green flaming embers in the place of eyes. The seemingly soulless creatures were always on alert, scanning the crowd, looking for signs of escapees from the Undead District. They always gave Skrakch a sense of unease whenever he passed one of them. Their job may be to protect the living but their intimidating appearance gave the distinct impression that they were there to make sure none of the living left The Slums.

Worse yet, the damned things were low on the totem pole when it came to the Tomb Makers. As indomitable as they appeared, Skrakch was well aware that a single Death Knight from atop the city walls could handle dozens of the soulless guards within minutes. Thankfully, it was rare to see a Death Knight in the Living District, as they only interacted with the mortals under their charge when a Breach occurred.

Shaking away such dark thoughts and eager to forget all about the fearsome creatures, Skrakch hurried over to the empty doorway of an old tailor’s shop. Taking a moment to ensure that nobody was following him or about to pounce on him, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

He reached deep into his Core and found...the same thing he always did. It wasn’t entirely surprising but he still felt a wave of disappointment. His Core was a calm pool of Mana that sat in his chest, with whispery tendrils that circulated throughout his body. It was impressive but nothing out of the ordinary for him. Out of the ordinary was exactly what he was hoping for.

Scowling and muttering a few choice curses to himself, Skrakch lamented yet more wasted coin. He knew that eventually, something he did would make him a Chosen. It’s practically guaranteed to happen to someone of his caliber. He’d always known, ever since he was a Ratling pup, that he was destined for greatness. It’s just a matter of time. And coin. Lots and lots of coin. Or so it would seem.

Still, he did have that promised big payday coming up. Moving away from the disused shop doorway, he whistled to himself and had a look around at the merchants who were currently hawking their wares. And, of course, the rubes that were being suckered out of their coins.

Skrakch, against his better judgment, attempted to take a deep cleansing breath and got a snoutful of the disgusting stench of unwashed Humans. He let out a disgusted snarl and started to shove his way forward through the crowd of shoppers.

Of course, the Ratling was occasionally jostled by the much taller Humans who clearly didn’t show him the respect he was due. Typical, really. Still, he brazenly attempted to push past them all, just barely resisting the urge to start clawing at a few calves or ankles but it was a near thing.

He was just about to consider a trip to Kuosh to see what his old Grif friend had cooked up when, suddenly, Skrakch felt an ominous wave of frost blow through the street, chilling him to his very bones. He froze on the spot as all the Humans around him did the same. Almost instinctively, dozens of eyes that were widened with fear looked upwards.

Skrakch took cover behind the nearest Human, grateful for once that he was not so easily spotted within a crowd. He watched as a pack of ethereal creatures descended through the gaps between the upper levels of the houses. Each one was Humanoid in shape but that was where the similarity ended. These creatures were a murky green color, somewhere between the mold that grew on rotting fruit and the sludge leaked from sewers. The mist-like shapes each bore a grimace of pain and agony as they looked through the crowd. Worse yet, they radiated Negative Energy which fell over the still crowd like a thick fog.

It took them barely a few tense minutes to find their quarry. The swarm of Undead quickly swooped downwards into the crowd, pushing people back with their presence alone. Standing amid the specters, an old man suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor. He tried in vain to wheeze out a protest, a piteous barely-audible attempt to beg for more time.

The creatures paid him no mind, bearing down on him, deaf to his pleas. They let out a collective unearthly wail before lifting the man from the cobblestone. As quickly as they arrived, they disappeared back through the gaps between the buildings above.

Even as the creatures disappeared out of sight, the crowded street remained frozen in place for a few moments until, with a collective sigh of relief, they went back to their business. The merchants once again started to call out enticingly but with less vigor than before. The crowd slowly dispersed, people drifted back towards their homes and talked in hushed voices. Such was the way when the Wraiths descended. The tension in the air was palpable, a mixture of terror and gratitude that they weren’t the ones picked up.

“I know it ‘appens all the time,” A woman in a tatty dress and limp curls whispered to the man Skrakch was hiding behind. “But it don’t ‘alf put the frighteners on me when them wraiths come!”

“Tell me about it, love,” The man replied, a visible shudder taking over his body. “And who knows where the poor old bugger’s off to? Likely be The Butchery if you ask me!”

Skrakch shook himself out of his stupor and took a moment to calm his racing heart. While the sight of someone’s life coming to an end was a normal enough event, actually seeing it happen in person like that always reminded him of his mortality. He raised his wrist and injected it with a sliver of Mana.

Letters sprung forth, glowing blue against his fur and revealing to him his life expectancy. One year, eleven months, twelve days. Sighing softly, Skrakch looked away from the morose sight, dismissing his Mana and the projection, and absentmindedly swallowed a bit of bile that tried to escape. The Ratling had little under two years left before it was his turn to be swept away and he was determined that he was not going to waste it.

Skrakch continued his walk up Merchant’s Alley, enjoying the extra space. The crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving only the bravest shoppers and a few beggars still going about their business unhindered. Still, it didn’t come as a surprise when he spotted a familiar face heading up the street towards him.

The Halfling was barely three feet tall and had a mop of unruly ginger hair. He’d shaved off his usual beard and smudged his face with dirt. Skrakch shook his head at the sight. The Ratling supposed he was trying to pass himself off as one of the slum kids again. The Halfling’s clothes were ragged and were probably stolen from some poor woman’s doorstep. The olive green tunic was tattered and frayed at the cuffs and hem and his brown tights, complete with holes in the knees, were held up with a length of filthy rope. He certainly cut a pathetic figure which was, no doubt, his intention.

Skrakch watched as the Halfling moved easily amongst the people, nobody appeared to notice him, not even when he discreetly pocketed a pouch or two from his unsuspecting victims. His next stop was the bakers. The owner himself was standing in the doorway shouting his latest offerings. A jolly fat Human in a pure white apron, and an easy mark to boot.

The Halfling approached the baker, and screwed his fists into his eyes, looking for all the world like a little boy who’d lost his mother. The baker took one look at him before taking pity on the Halfling and patted him on the head before handing over a freshly baked roll with a flourish.

“Still playing fast and loose with the law Zacharias?” Skrakch asked when the Halfling finally approached him, still chewing on his ill-gotten provisions. “You know, one of these days the Tomb-Makers are going to notice you,”

“Yeah right mate,” Zacharias replied through a mouthful of bread. “They’re gonna drag me away for a crust of bread,” He swallowed the mouthful. “You’re one to talk anyways. Besides,” He tossed a thumb in the direction of the Inner Wall “Those old bones have been standing in place for so long, I’m not even sure they can move,” He started going through the pouches he’d stolen as Skrakch hustled him into yet another disused shop doorway. Sometimes Zacharias was way too cocky for his good.

The Ratling watched as Zacharias emptied a few coins from the pouch into his hand before he tossed the now empty pouch into a dusty corner of the doorway. He pocketed the coins and grinned widely at him.

“I mean, it’s not like I need the copper,” He said when Skrakch rolled his eyes. “But you know me mate, gotta keep those skills sharp. Too much rust and some piles of dusty old bones would be the least of me worries! Especially with this gig, we’ve got coming up.”

“But we’re not going to get caught, are we, Zacharias?” Skrakch asked rhetorically. “Humans can’t keep up with a Halfling and a Ratling anyways. If worse comes to worst, we just run.'' He added with a smug smirk. “And I’m faster than you.”

It was Zacharias’ turn to roll his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, he palmed a dagger with an elaborate ‘Z’ etched into the handle.

“And if you fuck it up, speed ain’t gonna save you Squeakers. You’ll have a knife in your back quicker than you can say ‘squeak squeak’ or whatever it is you rodents say. Anyway, we’re not going in loud. The plan this time is to be as quiet as a mouse. Which, if ya think about it, it should be proper easy for you,” He smiles slyly. “After all, you’re pretty much the same thing right?”

Skrakch chose to ignore the pathetic insult. As if his stunning good looks could ever be compared to a filthy mouse of all things. Instead, he spread his arms wide, his whiskers vibrating with excitement.

“C’mon Zach! After we’re done with this we’re going to be the richest living mortals in Dray’Mel!”