Simna placed his feet carefully, doing his best to avoid stepping on the pale white maggots that infested the street slime and snapped hungrily at his ankles. They could not catch him, but there were certain places on the public avenue where it would clearly be unwise to loiter. Though everywhere awash in corruption and decay, some spots were perceptibly worse than others.
“Hoy, I’ve seen too many tentacles since joining your company, Etjole.” The swordsman nodded back the way they had come. “That one was particularly long and vicious. Reminded me of our encounter with the Kraken, but at least in this case there was only one of them.”
Ehomba kept his gaze alert as he unblinkingly scrutinized shadows and side passages. “Yes, but that was no tentacle, Simna. It was a tongue. And the storefront from which it emerged was not a place of business at all, but a mouth most carefully disguised. Little here is what it seems, and visitors such as ourselves can be sure of one thing only: the omnipresence of death.”
“Hoy—thanks for that explanation, bruther. I feel so much better now.” Behind them, the black litah paused repeatedly to flick slime from its paws.
“I am only pointing out what is true,” Ehomba countered.
“Sometimes it’s better to keep what’s true to yourself.” The swordsman nodded forward. “Looks like more of the friendly citizenry has come out to greet us.”
From the ominous, looming double door that sealed the end of the slaughterhouse, more than a dozen of Skawpane’s diverse inhabitants had emerged. They formed a line across the volcanic paving stones that marked the outskirts of the town plaza, blocking the only visible access to the center.