Ambush at the Sunken Docks

The tunnel spills Thava into the churning grey currents of the Sunken Docks. Rain lashes against the rusted iron rooftops, and the brackish river water smells of rot and sea salt. A figure in a soaked cloak stands near a mooring post, sharpening a rusted dirk.

Harl rises, his eyes gleaming with a predatory, mercenary hunger as he tucks the dirk into his belt.

The fissure spits Thava out onto the slick, moss-covered stones of the Sunken Docks. Rain lashes against rusted iron rooftops, and the stench of brackish river water chokes the air. He collapses into the muck, his teal scales dull beneath layers of grime and dried blood.

Stranger who stands shivering by the water's edge.

Thava curls his fingers around a jagged stone, his muscles tensing beneath his ruined armor. He tosses the rock toward a stack of rusted iron crates tucked behind the crane. It clatters against the metal with a sharp, echoing ring that pierces the rhythmic drumming of the rain.

Harl spins, his massive frame shifting toward the noise. The distraction draws his gaze away from the drainage pipe, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword.

Thava pushes himself up, his feet sliding silently across the slick stones as he moves toward the dark gap between the buildings. He keeps his head low, eyes locked on the space behind the lumbering mercenary.

Harl lunges toward the crates, his boots splashing heavily in the rising tide, leaving the path to the shadows momentarily unguarded.

The dragonborn flows like shadow across the slick, rain-drenched pavement. He reaches the narrow gap between the warehouses just as Harl reaches the crates.

Thava pulls himself through the tight aperture. Behind him, the sound of metal groaning against metal rings out as Harl kicks the crates aside, his frustration palpable in the heavy, humid air. Thava doesn't look back. He presses his back against the cool, damp brickwork, his chest heaving, listening to the mercenary’s heavy footsteps prowl the perimeter of the loading dock. He has gained a few precious moments, but the sounds of the pursuit are shifting. Harl is circling toward the only exit.

The dragonborn attempts to slip through the gap, but the metallic clatter of a rusted pipe being knocked loose gives his position away instantly.

The shadow of the mercenary looms large over the narrow opening. Thava turns, raising his weapon, but Harl is already there, reaching in to grab the dragonborn by his dented chest plate. The brute yanks Thava out into the open, slamming him against the rough stone of the warehouse exterior. Thava’s head swims from the impact, and his grip on his weapon falters as he tries to regain his footing on the slick, rain-drenched cobbles. Harl looms over him, a cruel smirk twisting his scarred face, his heavy boot blocking the path back toward the sanctuary of the dark archives.

Thava gasps, his lungs burning, and exhales a searing gout of draconic fire directly into the mercenary's face. Harl screams, his vision obscured by the sudden, intense heat, and his frantic swing with a heavy iron mace goes wide, the weapon whistling uselessly through the humid air before clattering to the wet cobbles. The mercenary staggers back, his skin scorched and his senses overwhelmed, before collapsing into a motionless heap against the warehouse wall.

The smell of ozone and singed fabric fills the cramped space. Thava drops to his knees, his own chest heaving as the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving him exposed and shivering in the relentless rain. From the darkness beyond the docks, a rhythmic metallic clanking echoes against the stonework, growing louder by the second.