Chapter 39: In Which A Demon Camps For Kills

The thud of a still-warm body hitting the wooden floor broke the silent monotonous atmosphere of the archives. One single slash of a dwarven-made scimitar was all it took to cut straight through the carotid artery on the right side of the neck, severing one of the two vital pathways that supplied blood to the brain. Simple, yet quick, just like Dimitri preferred when stealth was a factor to keep in consideration. Perhaps not the cleanest, but no matter. Dimitri was more than experienced enough to avoid staining.

"That dwarven smith truly did not disappoint," the gray-skinned demon muttered as he cleaned his favored weapon on the robes of the motionless corpse. He sheathed it and bent down to grasp the arms of his short-lived opponent. The body, clad in robes similar to what his newfound ally preferred to wear, dragged quietly behind him, leaving nothing but a trailing bloodstain that seeped into the floorboards and the stench of iron that soaked into the air. Efficiently, the body of the hapless elf who had wandered where she never should have, disappeared around a corner. Dimitri turned, brushing off his hands and returning to his solitary post. As he turned the corner, not even a single glance was spared to observe the steadily growing pile of unmoving bodies he had left behind.

Dimitri rolled his shoulders, popping loose the kinks in his neck as he settled in a shadowy corner near the doorway. Just one more day of this tedious watch, and then the excitement would begin. He could hardly wait.

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Elsewhere, in a stretch of forest overlooking the main road passing the Bastille, Mavier gracefully twirled his scimitar as the blade itself crackled and spat, filling the air nearby with the faint stench of ozone as faint slivers of lightning danced across the blade. The fingers of his free hand idly drummed out a simple beat across the reinforced steel surface hoisted on a wooden stake nearby.

"Santet, send one of those rats with a message to Dimitre. Request that he informs the half-elf that I've found a truly excellent way of drawing our mutual enemies to the stone fortress. Once the weapons are finished and moved to the fortress, I'll finish things on our side."

"As you wish, my lord." Santet bowed, scribbling a few words on a tiny piece of parchment as she made her way to the waiting messenger rat.

The beat emanating from the improvised drum fluctuated, and Mavier gave a soft smile as he continued to amuse himself. Not even a foot below, glassy eyes and an expression silently screaming in horror and pain covered the face of a decapitated guard. On the left, another rough wooden stake sat unoccupied for the time being.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The rat simply stared at Tim as the half-elf gently tugged the piece of string holding a new message close to the neck of the small vermin.

"Thanks buddy, just wait here for a second," Tim muttered as he unfolded the small letter, smiling as his eyes scanned the scribbled words. "Ah, nothing like good news, Philbert. Looks like Mavier is good and ready."

Grabbing a nearby writing utensil, Tim hummed to himself as he penned out a quick reply to his ally. The rough country ditty wound its way around the silent bookshelves, ignored by both the emotionless guards working in the modified closet, and the snoozing pile of rats curled up on the breakroom couch. Dirty hands, still stained black from the gunpowder mixture, tapped along to the beat as the song petered down to a halt and the reply was tied to the neck of the messenger rat. The creature took off in a run, with Tim snapping out a probably incorrect salute to the hard-working creature and turning back to observe the unceasing work of his volunteers. Soon after, the clunk of tin meeting wood echoed out as yet another sealed canister of sarin nerve gas was added to the growing pile outside of the makeshift laboratory.