Windleaf trotted along to Wellborough with more than a little distaste in her mouth. She despised cities. In fact, when she set out from her safe fortress into the harsh world, two years prior, she swore to herself to hide away in them as little as possible. Those insults against nature get far too much credit.
But, while she herself could last in the wilds indefinitely, her equipment was another story. A very sad story. Her sword was cloaked in rust. Her backpack was slogging itself into a glorified loincloth tied to her ass. She didn't even want to
think about the state of her clothes.
So, she'd have to swallow her centaurian pride and buy from a damn city.
She clutched the necklace against herself and prayed a silent prayer, to Espeeria, that Wellborough will be different. It had, afterall, earned itself a staying reputation as the grand palace of diversity. To say nothing of how fun it might be to visit a humanoid settlement and tower over all the short little two-legs.
Human-founded or not, the town seemed peaceful. Tranquil.
Well, it did until she heard two elves up ahead, bickering with eachother about maps. A nice reminder of why she traveled alone, if nothing else.
Before she could judge the elves any more than she already had, her ears were assaulted with some
unholy cry from just beyond the gates.
Welcome to Wellborough!, she thought.
Shertul the Unnatural, abomination on the run. That's exactly how he felt sprinting towards Wellborough that evening. He, the Fleshspinner that he was, had to hide himself constantly. Most of the lowly peasants about these parts did not even know the glory of the Monastery. They could not handle the sight of him! So he was forced to suffer the humiliation of wearing a humongous black cloak, and leather gloves that his claws wouldn't burst at the seams. A scarf to hide his gills, over-sized shoes to hide his large feet. He looked like a gothic clown dressed for winter. "Fear me,
mortals!" wasn't half so frightening anymore.
But sometimes, even that masterfully conceived disguise would not hide such a handsomely devilish frame. A few miles into the forestal territory of Wellborough, two oafish patrol guards "accidentally" bumped into him, revealing his twisted form.
He knew exactly what to do: he threw open his cloak, spread his many arms about, and hissed "I shall consume your souls!" He put on a good old show.
And then he ran. Oh, he ran like lightening. He ran and he ran and he didn't stop running.
He has no doubt that he could have easily disposed of them, but that means someone finds the shredded bodies, and someone sees him bathed in their blood. Even a farmhand would make the connection. Shertul wasn't ready to deal with a pitchforks-and-torches riot. "Git outter oar town, monster!"
He only slowed his pace ten miles down the road, when sweat oozed down his forehead.
No need to exhaust myself over a couple of cowardly guards, he tried to assure himself. The first buildings of Wellborough were rising over the horizon. Funnily enough, they reminded him a bit of the spires of the Monastery. Intimidating, stone mingled with wood, rising and rising...
Shertul was pulled from his daydream over an hour later, by a painful itch growing under his skin. He tried, yet he couldn't scratch it away. It started as a queasiness just after he walked beyond the gates to Wellborough, but now it was becoming... more. If he was superstitious, he would have sworn that his body was trying to tell him something.
He ignored it. Surely a Wastelander can shake off a little discomfort.
But then he made the grave mistake of gazing up at stone pillars scattered around the city's edges. Anti-magic runes adorned them, and as soon as his eyes made contact, the itching turned to an aching, the aching to a burning, the burning to agony.
Then heat drove down to the core of his bones.
What kind of place is this? His whole body felt ablaze. His eyes were consumed in blinding light. The thick rush of blood deafened him. He couldn't see, he couldn't move, he couldn't
think.What little senses he had left told him that he was falling down to the road of hard, merciless stone. He reached out to catch himself, but there was nothing there.
His scream was demonic.
Ear-piercing.People were crowding, now. A passing man tried to lift him to his feet, but Shertul's cloak slipped open, exposing a third arm, then a fourth. The ex-friendly stranger gasped in shock and dropped him quicker than if he really were on fire.
Shertul could only barely point one crooked finger to the exitway.
The Fleshspinner was alone in a crowd, dying.
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