« Last post by Murometz on Yesterday at 10:12:16 PM »
The eight-legged rats are not the worst things Raschil's streets have on offer by night. Depraved hunters prowl the alleys looking for prey. Often they find what they are after.
Altoth hobbled away from the alleyway, the most recent unfortunate barely covered in debris.
He curses his frail frame, curses the soul of the old priest who trapped him in his ancient body. Altoth did not get the pleasure of devouring that one - the priest had prepared his trap well and his soul fled beyond his grasp.
"Let there be one. Just the one. In all the known worlds..." The old man hears the words of Donblas' vile priest again and again, and for the thousandth time. "You will seek and search but my frail form will give out before you find it. And then you will know what it is to die."
This one was so frail that Altoth could scarcely move without some of his infernal power leaking. This end of town supplied many drunkards and cripples for Altoth. Many required little more effort than another bottle of spirit, then a smothering hand. Some required nothing but to be rolled on their backs, drowning themselves in their excess.
On thing to be said about this form, though, no one gave him a second look.
The old man exits the alley, fresher than before. He senses something new. A kindred spirit? Not far, just there beneath the creaking sign of an eight-legged rat.
Let us follow as he limps along toward the inn's entrance.