Skrakch had been lying when he’d told his fellow rogues that he was heading straight to the Denmother’s ‘perfume shop’.

As much as Skrakch hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, the visions of his death that the Purene Ruby had subjected him to had shaken him to his very core.

He’d known his life, such as it was, was going to end soon. He’d tried his damnedest and had so far failed to obtain the near mythical state of becoming a Chosen, after all, so it wasn’t a leap to know his hourglass was running low.

But those deaths…

They were horrific, brutal and harrowing.

‘So can anyone really blame me for buggering off?’

He’d run straight from Zach’s foul warehouse to his main nest in the Slums, hiding himself away from the world and his problems.

He’d lain there for the best part of two days, not wanting to move or face his impending mortality. The wave of depression had hit him with such force that even the mere idea of dragging his hide out of the mess of scraps and straw the Ratling used as a bed, was an overwhelming thought.

Finally, the need for sustenance had dragged him out of his gloomy reverie and towards his favourite food cart.

Now, dashing from cover to cover, Skrakch resisted his urge to swear up at the Heavens in annoyance as he tried to keep his fur relatively unsoaked from the increasingly violent storm that had started while he’d been eating at Kuosh’s cart.

The weather in Dray’Mel was rarely what anyone would call pleasant, but the seemingly nonstop deluge of rain was already putting strain on the city's shoddy sewer system.

Skrakch had already had to turn back on his trip towards the Denmother’s brothel twice after eating his meal because entire streets were absolutely waterlogged.

‘And there was no way in Hells I was going to try and swim in that shit.’

It wasn’t even the fact that his fur would be damp for days, but the water had a black-ish tint to it that frankly worried the Ratling. And that was not to mention the foul stench that assaulted his delicate, yet far superior, nose.

He’d seen his fair share of horrors in his years down in the city’s sewers, but the most horrifying had been the time he’d seen an entire dozen Goblins simply disappear under an unexpected tsunami of rain water.

It wasn’t the little freaks' deaths that had bothered him, but just how quickly and easily they’d been swept away. One moment he’d been following behind them in secret, and the next he was staring at a submerged sewer channel.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

After that, Skrakch had developed a small phobia of any suspiciously large pool of water…

‘But is it really a phobia if the bloody fear is oh-so-logical?’ The Ratling mused to himself as he scaled the side of another building, using it to bridge the gaps above the blackish gunge that was pooling below him.

A small part of him was thankful for the weather though, for clearing Dray’Mel’s streets and helping him avoid having to deal with any of his fellow citizens.

He wasn’t in any mood to match glares or looks of disgust with the merchants today, not with the usual glee he normally felt anyways.

No, the still rather wet Iskrin was in a foul mood, and the last thing he needed was some human ponce recoiling from an accidental touch.

‘Might be liable to just stab the git, if it happened.’ Skrakch chuckled darkly to himself, jabbing one of his claws into the air in front of him. ‘It’d almost be worth getting skewered by the Old Bones, really.’

Sure, the Tomb-Makers tended to maintain a hands off approach to ruling their city, simply by using fear alone, but letting someone be openly murdered was pushing it a bit far.

It was a much better idea for Skrakch to tail his target until they retreated into the ‘safety’ of their homes before he gutted them. Plus, there was the added bonus of whatever coin or trinkets they may own for him to take after the deed was done.

Most folks kept a lock in place on their front entrance ways, but when you were as nimble as Skrakch was, gaining access to a second or third story window was a piece of piss.

Jamming his claws into a small gap in the stonework of a nearby building he was climbing, Skrakch pulled himself up and over the lip of a rooftop, taking a moment to scan the area for anyone with a wandering eye.

Cursing the falling rain, Skrakch was about to continue on his way when a faint scent grabbed his attention. Most of what the Ratling could smell was either the fresh rainwater ruining his fur, or the rank smell of the sewer gunk below him, but…

With his curiosity piqued, Skrakch crossed the rooftop as he tried to get a clearer whiff of the smell so he could place it, his snout twitching as he tried to catch another whiff of it.

‘It smelled like… eggs? Rotten ones, maybe? With a hint of burnt wood…’

Bursting into a run, Skrakch leaped across the rooftop he was on, and clumsily rolled to his feet as he redoubled his efforts to make his way to the Denmother’s brothel.

Each step he took only heightened the smell as he began to take ragged breaths as a sense of panic washed over him. It was definitely coming from the direction of the Denmother’s perfume store/brothel. Which could only mean…

The Iskrin had only ever smelled that scent once before, a stench of burning ash and sulfur that had left him feeling nauseous for days.

He’d once had the brilliant idea to sneak into the Denmother’s little nook and cranny in the brothel’s basement, and his reward had been for the startled old lady to lash out at him.

The only reason Skrakch had survived was because his instincts had told him to drop everything and flee, because as the Denmother raised her hands, the very flames of the Hells themselves burnt through everything it touched.

Brimstone wasn’t something any old witch could conjure, and the foul reeking flames had nearly burnt Skrakch to a crisp before the Denmother had realized who it was, and called the black flames to rest.

It was a scent that he’d never forget, and as it wafted his way from the same direction of the brothel, Skrakch wasn’t entirely sure if he should even be willingly running towards its source…