Skink: The hero

The iron gate of the Blackroot holding cell slams shut with a bone rattling echo. Skink clings to the cold bars, his tattered robe snagged on a rusted hinge. A heavy footfall approaches from the damp stone corridor.

Bram leans in close, the torchlight flickering across his scarred jaw, and tosses a moldy crust of bread onto the straw-covered floor.

Skink contorts his small frame, veins bulging on his forehead as he attempts to manifest his demonic heritage. Instead of a majestic plume of hellfire, a tiny, pathetic puff of grey, foul smelling soot erupts from his nostrils. It catches in his own throat, sending him into a violent, hacking coughing fit that leaves him doubled over and red-faced.

Bram lets out a dry, rasping laugh, his heavy iron keys jangling against his hip as he turns to leave.

Skink closes his eyes, pressing his spindly fingers to his temples while humming a rhythmic, guttural chant that he insists is an ancient summoning rite. The damp walls of the cell seem to resonate, or perhaps it is just the shifting of the subterranean pipes. Suddenly, a faint, high-pitched scratching sound echoes from the drainage grate in the corner. Bram pauses, his hand hovering over the heavy iron bolt of the cell door, a flicker of genuine unease crossing his face as he glances toward the sound.

The scratching intensifies, rhythmic and metallic, as the drainage grate suddenly pops entirely from its rusted frame. A cloud of black silt erupts into the cell, swirling around Skink like a chaotic vortex. Bram stumbles backward, his boots sliding against the slick stone, eyes wide as he fumbles for the hilt of his heavy iron mace. He is no longer looking at the goblin, but at the dark, hollow abyss of the drainage pipe.

Skink lunges, his small frame blurring as he dives headfirst into the dark maw of the drainage pipe. The black silt clings to his robes, coating him in a layer of grime that hides his desperate scramble. Bram yelps, turning too late as the goblin vanishes into the gloom of the sewage system, leaving behind only the echoing splash of a successful departure.

The dark pipe is far from empty. As Skink crawls through the slick stone tunnel, he freezes. Ahead, a pair of glowing, yellow eyes blink in the darkness, followed by the metallic click of a crossbow being cocked.

A figure steps into the pale light filtering from the cell, revealing a hunched, hooded creature draped in rags that mirror Skink's own style. It is no guard, but a rival scavenger with a rusted weapon and a look of cold, predatory hunger.