The plunge into darkness came as a short-lived affair. His boots connecting solidly with the stone flooring of the basement, setting his long coat flaring out around him as knees bend to absorb the impact. Within seconds his pupils dilate and the darkness illuminates into a grayscale portrait. He blinks once or twice and waits for the dust to settle, taking the time to file the chaotic chatter in his ear. Goblins? Explosions? These things are pushed aside for later investigation, they all had their assignments and worrying about the others doesn?t help him in the least.
All around him is a room in disaster. As with most places in Rhydin, the room is much larger than it seemed from above. Along the left wall is a toppled table, moldy playing cards scattered over the floor from a long ago disrupted card game. A heavy crossbow rests bolted on the bottom of the overturned table, a rotten bolt still loaded, though the firing crank holds the rough edges of severe rust.
The faintest residue of methane lingers in the air, curling the edges of his lips into a troubled frown as he reaches for a left-hand pouch and removes a breathing apparatus no bigger than a surgeon?s medical mask. Pulling back on the elastic strap, Sylus fits it over his mouth and adjusts the band for a comfortable fit. Beneath the mask, his breathing shifts from a silent stream of slow breaths to sharp inhales as though from a ventilator.
Moving further into the room he feels the faintest lick of wind dance along the short hairs along his arms. A breeze indoors? His gaze sweeps around the room...no bookshelves, nor dressers, not even an oddly placed boudoir to hide a doorway. Starting at the closest wall he moves slowly and pounds his hand against the surface. Thud. Thud. Thud. He is nearly a quarter of the way around the room when, thunk. His hand passes through a piece of stone, connecting with a wooden barrier beyond. ?Pay dirt.? he growls out in a muffled tone.
The illusory wall ripples as he extracts his hand and soon becomes still once more. With care he reaches through the portal again, feeling along the edges of the hidden door for a catch or knob. A soft click resound and is followed by the twang of a severing string. Whirling out of the way to slam himself against the stone wall just beyond the door, wood and hinges erupt outward as the door flies from its jam. The enormous carved head of a dragon slides back through the illusory wall with the angry grating of chains on rusty hinges. A fucking battering ram? Behind a door?
?Count your blessings,? he reminds himself while ducking back through the illusion. The ram still sways back and forth with much of its kinetic force wasted on the shattered door.Edging by it he looks down the adjoining tunnel to a slime covered grate at the bottom of a set of stairs. Below he hears the sound of rats and the mildew stench of tepid water. Tied around the middle rung is a pair of orange and white stockings. Impaled above the door are the shriveled remains of an unfortunate soul. The letters HoT branded on her forehead along with the words, slut, whore, cumdump, scribbled around her on the walls. Judging by the moldy scraps on the corpse...she must have been very popular.
He feels the negative energy in this space along with anger and fear emanating from the body. ?Found the source of the methane,? he whispers before fishing out his lighter and a tube of petroleum jelly. ?No time to bury you properly,? Sylus continues while squeezing out a dollop of the jelly on her head and lighting it.
Taking the time to watch her bones burn, Sylus actually sprinkles some salt onto them for good measure before his boot connects solidly with the grate and sends it clattering into the sewer below. There wasn?t anyway to do that quietly. If anything happened to be down there it knew he was coming now.
All around him is a room in disaster. As with most places in Rhydin, the room is much larger than it seemed from above. Along the left wall is a toppled table, moldy playing cards scattered over the floor from a long ago disrupted card game. A heavy crossbow rests bolted on the bottom of the overturned table, a rotten bolt still loaded, though the firing crank holds the rough edges of severe rust.
The faintest residue of methane lingers in the air, curling the edges of his lips into a troubled frown as he reaches for a left-hand pouch and removes a breathing apparatus no bigger than a surgeon?s medical mask. Pulling back on the elastic strap, Sylus fits it over his mouth and adjusts the band for a comfortable fit. Beneath the mask, his breathing shifts from a silent stream of slow breaths to sharp inhales as though from a ventilator.
Moving further into the room he feels the faintest lick of wind dance along the short hairs along his arms. A breeze indoors? His gaze sweeps around the room...no bookshelves, nor dressers, not even an oddly placed boudoir to hide a doorway. Starting at the closest wall he moves slowly and pounds his hand against the surface. Thud. Thud. Thud. He is nearly a quarter of the way around the room when, thunk. His hand passes through a piece of stone, connecting with a wooden barrier beyond. ?Pay dirt.? he growls out in a muffled tone.
The illusory wall ripples as he extracts his hand and soon becomes still once more. With care he reaches through the portal again, feeling along the edges of the hidden door for a catch or knob. A soft click resound and is followed by the twang of a severing string. Whirling out of the way to slam himself against the stone wall just beyond the door, wood and hinges erupt outward as the door flies from its jam. The enormous carved head of a dragon slides back through the illusory wall with the angry grating of chains on rusty hinges. A fucking battering ram? Behind a door?
?Count your blessings,? he reminds himself while ducking back through the illusion. The ram still sways back and forth with much of its kinetic force wasted on the shattered door.Edging by it he looks down the adjoining tunnel to a slime covered grate at the bottom of a set of stairs. Below he hears the sound of rats and the mildew stench of tepid water. Tied around the middle rung is a pair of orange and white stockings. Impaled above the door are the shriveled remains of an unfortunate soul. The letters HoT branded on her forehead along with the words, slut, whore, cumdump, scribbled around her on the walls. Judging by the moldy scraps on the corpse...she must have been very popular.
He feels the negative energy in this space along with anger and fear emanating from the body. ?Found the source of the methane,? he whispers before fishing out his lighter and a tube of petroleum jelly. ?No time to bury you properly,? Sylus continues while squeezing out a dollop of the jelly on her head and lighting it.
Taking the time to watch her bones burn, Sylus actually sprinkles some salt onto them for good measure before his boot connects solidly with the grate and sends it clattering into the sewer below. There wasn?t anyway to do that quietly. If anything happened to be down there it knew he was coming now.