Bang, bang, bang! The flimsy wooden door shook in its frame.
“Open up. I know you’re in there!”
A young male drow, breath rattling against his meatless ribs, moaned on the wafer thin mattress that lay against the east wall. The washer woman placed a finger to her lips, and pointed to the pile of dirty linen in the corner of the room. A bedraggled girl child noiselessly scurried from her side and buried herself in the grey sheets just before the door finally submitted to the pummelling.
“You are guilty of harbouring a plague victim,” snarled the red-plated Spider Guard filling the now open silhouette of the door. “The sentence is death.”
The mother’s hands lifted up in front of her face. “Take him, take him!” she cried.
“Too late,” came the snarl. The venom dripping scimitar in the Killian’s hand flashed swift as a cobra, slicing upwards through the female drow’s rib cage. She sagged onto the dirty sheets, adding to them the fresh stains of her gushing life’s blood. Her vision grew dark and closed in. She could hear another swing of the blade and felt a new silence as the rattling across the room ceased. Her last thought as the red hole swallowed her was that the librarian’s washing would never come clean this time.
The Killian Yath hummed to herself, taking a few moments to look round the small, single room. She paused a second to pick something from a shelf and place it in her pocket. Finally, her metallic footsteps clanged back towards the broken door. As she left, she tossed a lit torch onto the mattress on the floor. The cheap straw filling took light immediately. Buried within the linen pile, a child whimpered, weighing her survival chances.
Around the city, fires burned.
Bring Out Your Dead
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