He wasn’t proud of it, and Gods Below knew he’d never admit it if anyone asked, but it took Skrakch nearly a half hour to finally uncrouch from his hiding place behind a crumbled wooden pillar, his knees groaning in protest as he straightened his form, uncurled his tail, and cracked his knuckles.

His body was sore all over from remaining crouched in one position for so long. But what other choice had he really had?

There was, after all, a difference between bravery and recklessness in Skrakch’s eyes, and messing with a damned Death Knight would have been the height of foolishness. Not even Ornn’s presence would’ve made much difference. Hells, maybe even Winifred would’ve struggled.

Still… the appearance of the Death Knight certainly complicated matters. It was one thing to inspect the Denmother’s burnt down brothel after it had been destroyed and abandoned, and another thing entirely to risk meddling in the Tomb Makers business.

It was an unspoken law of sorts amongst the criminal underbelly of Dray’Mel. You could steal, swindle or maim anyone as you saw fit but when it came to the Tomb Makers, you left well alone. Not even the most hardened of criminals would dare mix themselves up in that kind of caper.

Death Knights were considered to be a higher tier of Undead, as far as Skrakch had read anyways. They were seen so rarely amongst the living populace of Dray’Mel that the few tomes that mentioned them had always seemed suspect to the Iskrin mage. It was easy enough to simply shrug off their existence as some kind of stupid tall story for the pub. A mysterious Undead boogeyman even your boss wouldn’t dare piss off.

What didn’t exist couldn’t hurt you. Or string up your intestines and organs for all to see…

In theory they were amongst the same rung of leadership as the vampires that dwelled in Dray’Mel’s center tower, but the cold, soulless knights instead kept an eternal vigil on the Outer Walls, where they commandeered the lesser Undead.

“And get this mate. You never see ‘em coming and you never see ‘em leaving either. Not like them others that take shifts. Proper puts the shits up you if you think about it, eh?” Zacharias’ slightly slurred voice was clear in Skrakch’s mind as if the conversation had just been yesterday. The one thing they’d agreed on was that the archers who guarded the walls were bad enough.

Because a skeletal archer was intimidating, Skrakch supposed, but the brainless things likely needed a firm hand... Especially if the Tomb Makers wanted to avoid killing any of the rare, or reckless, merchants who were willing to make the long trek through the desert surrounding the city.

It was actually rather remarkable that Skrakch had gotten to see one of the Death Knights up close and personal, and if it wasn’t for the terror the sight had inspired in him, he’d honestly have been rather elated.

Here he was, one of the very select…no, elite few who had gotten to see one in the flesh, as it were.

‘Maybe… I should pen a scroll.’ Skrakch let the thought play out as he slowly began picking his way past the fallen beams of wood and singed Ratling corpses that blocked his way to the stairways further into the brothel.

Now the Death Knight was well and truly gone, it was easy for him to take a more laid back approach to his latest task. After all, what was the worst that could happen now? Some dirty scavenger trying to find something useful or worth coin amongst the charred wreckage?

Ha! Skrakch could take care of them with one quick flick of a paw.

The Ratling deftly wove his way through the wreckage, dodging holes in the flooring and easily hopping over any nearby corpses as he continued to elaborate on his newly formed scroll idea.

‘It would need a good title, something to really grab the attention,’ he mused. Writing the damn thing would be a piece of cake. After all, he had to be one of the best read creatures in the city. And they always say you can’t be a writer if you’re not a reader.

‘The Valiant Iskrin?’ Skrakch scrunched his nose up at that one. ‘The All-Powerful Iskrin Mage?’

On the right lines but it was still missing a certain something… mages were bookish by nature, and most people craved high adventure…

‘The adventures of the legendary thief, the absolutely dashing Iskrin and his slack jawed assistants.’ The idea was almost enough to elicit an audible snort from the Ratling, but Skrakch waved the thought off as he reached the top of the stairway.

Unsurprisingly, most of the steps were as similarly burnt as the rest of the Denmother’s brothel, but Skrakch was confident he could make his way down, though the trick would be to keep his descent silent, his paws light.

Gingerly making his way downwards, doing his best not to put too much weight on any individual step and using his wondrous tail for balance, Skrakch kept a wary gaze on his surroundings.

When he’d last been down in the proper brothel, there had been plenty of scantily clad Incubi and Succubi around each corner, with garishly bright art and decoration lining the walls. Silver chalices of wine and mead would appear from nowhere and there was always a staff member on hand with a laden tray of delicious treats.

Truth be told, Skrakch had always had a soft spot for this part of the brothel, where each demon or demoness who’d seen him had actually treated him like any regular ol’customer.

It had been a balm of sorts for the Ratling, especially when he’d only recently rid himself of his Young Master, and had freshly discovered how small minded most of Dray’Mel’s citizens could be. But a brothel of all places had scarcely blinked when he’d arrived at their doorstep.

The Denmother prided herself on running a whorehouse that could soothe the mind and the body alike, with ‘workers’ who would just as happily spend the night discussing anything a customer could dream up, as they would voraciously satisfy a more carnal desire. It offered an equality that nobody bothered to try and manifest outside of its walls. The rich humans of the city were determined on staying that way, fucking their cousins and even closer family members to maintain a bloodline. Skrakch doubted that even the apocalypse itself would see them welcoming the Iskrin or Goblin races into their folds with open arms.

It had truly been a haven of sorts for any lonely soul, no matter the type of companionship their clients sought, and the Demons had always been surprisingly kind…

And now the entire place was covered in ash, the paintings that had lined the walls were replaced with streaks of blood, and large swaths of the ceiling had collapsed inwards.

The sumptuous fabrics, velvet curtains, soft carpet, the hundreds of cushions. They were all gone. Even the small bar was quite literally a shell of its former self.

Skrakch heard the crunching of charred glass underneath his paws, the tiniest whiff of the alcohol they once held that hadn’t been fully boiled away from the heat.

The amount of hours he’d spent at that very bar, waiting for Survix to become free and tend to his next attempt at forcefully becoming a Chosen. He’d seen all sorts from across the formerly resplendent oak bar top. And now it was all gone.

It was hard not to feel something for what had once been. But Skrakch stubbornly ignored the small surge of anger stirring in his chest. That had never gotten him anywhere before so why start now?

Interestingly though, the only corpses Skrakch passed by were more Ratlings, with nary a sight of any Demons. It was enough for Skrakch to hold out hope that most of them had somehow survived the assault, but…

Skrakch refused to let that ember of hope ignite in his chest, stoically moving towards the Denmother’s office.

Good endings weren’t exactly commonplace in Dray’Mel, and it seemed more likely the Death Knight he’d spotted had simply collected the corpses for some nefarious plot.

After all, the Tomb Makers weren’t shy about their obsession with the dead, the only question was if the Undead would consume the flesh, or enlist the Demons in their eternal vigil.

‘Can they even raise a Demon’s corpse?’ Skrakch mused idly as he clambered over the debris in his way, eyes darting in all directions as he scanned for an ambush. ‘It’s not like the Demons even had mortal souls, really. Or would they just be reanimated as mindless Ghouls…’

The theory behind it all ruminated in the back of his mind, but Skrakch didn’t let the thought slow his methodical path forwards through the brothel’s hallways.

Stolen novel; please report.

The burning sulfur smell was worse the further he traveled into the bowels of the building. Surely nothing could have survived down here? Perhaps even she was…

Skrakch didn’t want to think about that eventuality.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Skrakch managed to pick his way through the debris and arrived before the Denmother’s office, and he was greeted by the sight of a dozen Iskrin corpses splattered against the walls surrounding the office’s entryway.

It hardly took a keen eye to spot that the worst of the assault had been concentrated here, with most of the wooden building having been reduced to blackened char and reeking of sulfur, but the thick lacquered door seemed to be mostly intact.

‘Outside of a few scratches on the damned thing, anyways.’ The Iskrin’s had assaulted the door with their halberds from the looks of it, but Skrakch didn’t need to activate his Mana Sight to know the door had been heavily enchanted and fortified.

‘The massive Demonic visage had always been a bit of a give-away.’ Skrakch mused ruefully to himself.

After all, protruding from the center of the blackened door was a grinning fanged face, two prominent horns bursting outwards from the creature’s brow.

The Demonic visage looked rather similar to an Imp’s uncannily human face, but there was a sense of power and might to it that no Imp had ever instilled in Skrakch. Unlike the rest of the wooden door, the red-tinged wood seemed almost alive, with two beady black eyes that both seemed to be staring into Skrakch’s soul.

The damn thing had always freaked him out. He knew it was wood. He could feel it was wood. Hells, it even smelled of wood…but he got the feeling those eyes saw a lot more than plain wood ever could.

Not to mention the fact it seemed to have survived the assault on the brothel with barely a scratch, which considering the amount of literal hellfire that had been thrown about… Skrakch wasn’t in any rush to provoke the demon door’s ire.

Still, the rest of the brothel was nothing but embers, so where else was he to look? Gingerly stepping towards the door, the Ratling noticed a large set of door knockers dangling from the demon’s nostrils.

‘Not alarming at all.’ He thought to himself, before resigning himself to reaching out and letting out a tentative knock that seemed to ring out louder than it should.

For a long moment that had Skrakch reflecting on his life, the Demon Door remained resolutely shut. At least until the Ratling heard a muffled voice from inside the office call out. With a resounding creak, the door pulled itself open, and Skrakch was quick to shuffle his way inside.

Unlike the rest of the brothel, the Denmother’s office was largely intact, other than a few scorch marks haphazardly spread around the room, and the various loose sheets of payments that were strewn about carelessly.

The office, even in the brothel’s heyday, was by far and away the most beautifully decorated part of the building. Hells, Skrakch thought it could give some of the rooms in Lord Casey’s mansion a run for its money.

The furniture was the finest ebony that money could buy. Who knew where the Denmother had come by such a large amount of the stuff. It wasn’t native to Dray’Mel, nor the forest on the Eastern Outskirts. Yet the walls were lined with bookshelves crafted from the black wood.

Every shelf, save for the one behind the Denmother’s desk, was lined with books. Green, red, blue leather tomes that she had collected. Skrakch had always longed to get his paws on them, knowing the sheer worth of the magical knowledge they must contain.

In the corner of the room was a squashy looking red velvet armchair next to a small fireplace. Skrakch knew that the fireplace wasn’t merely for keeping warm. It was usually glowing with some kind of mystical flame, purples, pinks, or blues…any type of hue you could imagine.

There were no windows in the office, meaning that it always had a slightly cloyingly sweet scent. Like perfume and herbs, which somehow helped cover the lingering stench of brimstone.

And sitting pretty in the center of the room, was a large ebony desk that took up most of the office space, with the wall furthest from the doorway covered in occult looking knick knacks.

They ranged from what appeared to be severed human hands, all the way to floating jars of distinctly human tongues, though the most eye-catching were the glowing spheres that the Iskrin was confident hadn’t been there previously.

Even with Skrakch’s experience dealing with the less savory aspects of his line of work, just looking at the red and orange spheres had his stomach churning. There was just something distinctly wrong with the mana leaking outwards from each of the orbs, and that sense of wrongness only heightened as Skrakch noticed one of them seemed to be peering back at him.

The Ratling could just make out a ghostly image of a large unblinking eye matching his inspection with an equally inquisitive stare. The longer Skrakch looked, the more he could make out visions of an unending roiling flame that was consuming and burning everything it touched.

It brought him back to the night the Young Master’s mansion had burnt to the ground, the searing pain as the flames seared his hide. And yet, it was somehow worse, as feelings of hunger washed over him. The fire didn’t just want to burn him, it wanted to devour him. Use him up until all that was left was ash, then move onto the next victim in an unending cycle.

Skrakch flinched away as he desperately tried to avoid looking at any of the burning orbs, his tail physically overheating as it tried to regulate the sudden onslaught of heat that was spreading through his body.

Gulping audibly, Skrakch focused his attention on the Denmother who was standing on the far side of the office, the ancient woman in the midst of adding another glowing orb to her collection, the apparent artifact faintly glowing with an amber light.

Every time Skrakch had seen the Denmother previously, the old crone had been swaddled in thick layers of woolen clothing or swaying from side to side as her summoned demon’s brought her palisade to and fro.

So it was a little disconcerting for Skrakch to see the Denmother standing on her own two feet, as he’d frankly believed the old crone to be physically incapable of such a feat.

Still, the warm smile the Denmother shot Skrakch as she turned to him in full helped quiet some of his burgeoning fears. “Skrakch! How lovely to see you, my dear.”

“Though… you’ve chosen a rather unfortunate day for your visit. If you’d been a few hours earlier, you might have gotten caught up in some of my spellcraft.” The Denmother greeted him calmly, waving her hand towards a small stool on Skrakch’s side of the office’s table. “Have a seat, and tell me what brought you here.”

Gingerly, Skrakch took his seat while letting out a scoff of disbelief. “That’s a bloody understatement. What the Hells happened here, Ma? Your entire brothel is burnt to a crisp, your demons are all dead, and you’re just… brushing it off?”

Skrakch ran one of his paws across his nose, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I thought I was going to find your corpse down here, you know. Fuck, there’s an army of dead Iskrin out there and a damned Death Knight wandering the grounds. The reason for my visit doesn’t matter right now.”

Pulling her own well-cushioned chair away from the table, the Denmother settled into her seat with a weary sigh. “You’re right Skrakch, I can see why you’d be concerned. And thank you for worrying about little old me.”

“But you’re wrong about a few things, dear. My demons- No, my family are just fine, first off.” Waving a hand to the shelves lining the office’s walls, the Denmother idly pointed to one of the ominous orbs she’d just been rearranging.

“Traditionally, when a Demon is killed in the mortal realm, it can take years before they can retake their physical form. Most will lose what sense of self they’ve gained during that time, returning to their basest instincts.”

“I’ve found a way around that small wrinkle over the years, thankfully. Most of my sons and daughters will be back in this realm within the week, so please don’t fret about that.”

“As for the building itself, it’s hardly the first time it’s burnt down on me.” The older woman waved dismissively at the thought. “Once I have a few hands on deck to help me, I expect we’ll be back up and running in no time. I’d been meaning to restructure the perfume shop for a while now regardless.”

Skrakch leaned back on his stool as he considered the Denmother’s nonchalant manner, before leaning towards her. “And the horde of dead Iskrin? You can’t convince me that being attacked by a bunch of Ratlings is a common occurrence!”

Nestled amongst her pillows, the Denmother once more looked the part of an older crone, but Skrakch watched as her eyes narrowed and the warlock stared off into the distance.

“Oh, I’m fairly confident I know what sparked this little tiff as well. While I was distracted by the filthy rodents, someone broke into my office and stole a…” The Denmother’s words trailed off, and she suddenly looked towards Skrakch with a sniff. “Well, I’m going to have words with the one responsible for this, don’t you fret about that Skrakch.”

It was a little surreal to hear the calm manner that the Denmother was speaking of what could only be considered an attempt on her life, and Skrakch felt a surprising burble of anger welling in his stomach.

“I can’t accept that.” Skrakch retorted hotly, his face twisting into a snarl. “I’ll be the one to find out who did this, and I’ll make them pay. Don’t you worry, Ma, they won’t get away with… with… burning down my home!”

While Skrakch would spend most of his nights in one of his little hide-aways, the Ratling never really considered any of them as anything more than a place to rest his eyes. No, the only two places Skrakch turned to for safety and comfort were the Plagued Rat and the Denmother’s brothel.

He’d come to know most of the Demons who worked the counter at the perfume shop with his frequent visits to the Denmother herself, and he’d even gotten to know some of the Demons who worked the ‘night shift.’

Certainly not in a carnal manner, he had too grand of tastes for that, but… they were some of the only people to treat him decently since he’d found himself on the streets of Dray’Mel scrounging for coins.

In a way, the Ratling was closer to Survix, Irina and the Denmother than he was with the motley crew he ran jobs with. Hells, he’d trust any of them more than he’d trust Zacharias any day.

The Denmother’s was a constant in his little corner of the world for his whole life, and to see it reduced to ashes and rubble…

Skrakch could feel himself trembling with the rage that had been boiling deep within him ever since he’d first smelled the cloying acrid burning sulfur. He balled his paws into tight fists, his tail whipping from side to side.

A murderous need for vengeance overtook him. ‘How dare they. How dare someone have the nerve to destroy his home, his family.’

‘They would pay. Dearly. He would get his revenge in the name of the Denmother. Whoever was responsible was going to live just long enough to regret…’

A sudden peal of laughter tore him from his thoughts.

‘Wait, laughter? Who could possibly…’

The Denmother was laughing! She was sitting in her chair, rocking slightly to and fro with merriment.

“I don’t know how you could possibly laugh at a time like this!” Skrakch said incredulously.

“My dear child,” the Denmother said, shaking her head and wiping tears from her eyes. “How long have we known each other? When have you not known me to have a plan up my sleeve?”

Skrakch glared at her, biting back his urge to say anything he might come to regret.

“You know, That Patriarch of yours… and that young brawler you know, they each have their own tricks for getting themselves out of trouble but neither of them can possibly compare to my own special little trick,” The Denmother smiled smoothly before she began to move her hands around in the air.

“Now watch my dear, watch as I-“

Weave…