Strips of damp muslin fabric were nailed to the doorway in the archives, separating observers from the silent death that brewed within by no more than a hair's breadth. Through the tenuous barrier four indistinct humanoid shapes could be seen, silhouetted in dimly in blue by magelight scattered around the archives. These shapes, surrounded by the constant clanging din of plate armor, steadfastly toiled away without even a hitch in their stride. Only, if one went in and looked closer, it would be possible to observe the occasional runny nose, or even drool leaking from the mouth. Nonetheless, the four men continued in completing their tasks with wordless movements, the very picture of clockwork diligence.

From the stacks of bookshelves, Tim watched the narrow doorway at as close of a distance as he dared. “Where the hell did you even find these monsters, Philbert? Those fellas can’t be human. The gas should have killed them by now. I get that it isn’t finished yet, but the heroes Iver and Anna clearly state that without proper equipment to deal with the fumes, there is almost no way to survive the mixing process outside of magical intervention. Yet there they are.”

“Tim, Tim, they are indeed human.” The rat in his pocket muttered with what almost seemed like a smirk tugging at the rodent’s facial features. “Everything in those men can be found, found in the natural world. The only difference is that their… human bodies only serve as a way to filter those poisons of yours.”

Nasty. “As cryptic as always, aren’t you Philbert.” Tim scowled as he pushed down the nagging urge to drop-kick the rat and see how many bookshelves he could clear. The rat probably wouldn’t forgive him for that. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what your king did to them? I know you said they were ‘volunteered’, but unless I screwed up and the gas is bad, there should be no way those guys are still alive.”

A sniffing sound met Tim’s question, and he looked down to see the rat gazing at the empty tin of cookies sitting on a nearby bookshelf. Of course. He should have expected as much.

“Do two tins sound fair to you? We can grab them on the way out of town once the gas finishes.”

“Most excellent. My friend, my good friend, what you see before you is but one of the great Rat King’s gifts to you.”

Then, Philbert carefully lifted himself out of Tim’s pocket, scurrying up the half-elf’s arm and whispering in his ear.

Tim’s eyes widened in shock.

“Well. That's downright fucked.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The mythical beasts decorating the doors snarled wordlessly in the dim lighting of the archives. The carvings, covering both the inner and outer sides of the door twisted and turned, winding around each other in a thousand imaginary battles. It had been that way ever since the doors were first carved all those years ago and would continue for centuries to come, providing inanimate guardians for the massive repository of knowledge past the doors.

For Dimitre, however, not even those doors could provide respite from the seemingly unending boredom he faced while guarding his new ally. Honestly, he was wondering if there even was a point in guarding this place. Not once since he had started hiding in these ‘archives’ had a living being other than Tim and his followers entered through those wooden doors. Not even a single human he could skewer. Sure, he could go through the kata his lord had taught all who fought under his banner, but there was only so long he could go through the repetition of the flowing strikes and parries that had been ground into his bones before he went mad.

Still, there was little else to do other than practice his form. His scimitar flicked to and fro across the blades of imaginary opponents, his feet elegantly gliding across the rough wooden floors to provide balance and power to his blows. The steadfast advice of the first hero his people had produced since the fall of the demon lord himself running through Dimitre’s brain as he continued the endless journey that all warriors of his people walked, that of the sword-dance. Something so beautiful that it could transfix opponents in the middle of a duel and convey wordless conversations through a single exchange of blades. Each movement seeped into the next, blurring together until the repositioning through sliding footwork, the singing of his scimitar, and the jabs of his free palm almost seemed to meld together. Where the blade of the scimitar ended, the strike of a palm flowed in. Where an arm threatened to overextend, the legs repositioned with minimal movement.

Only, if a knowledgeable observer peered closely, tears would be brought to the eyes. After all, it is always a heart-wrenching sight to see the effort of an honest blade, and then the disharmony of slight imperfections in the stance. Of a gap, barely a second wide, between the end of the scimitar and the lash of the palm. Of discipline etched into the calluses of the palms but lacking the most important resource in the world.

Talent.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Between fields of yellowing grass, a line of wooden carts clattered their way up the beaten path before a stone fortress. Barrels cradled luxuriously in hay lay shaded under canvas stretched over wooden frames, with all but the unfortunate drivers of those carts giving them a wide berth. Nothing had happened with them yet, but after the dire warnings Tim had given them when they had retrieved their cargo, no one wanted to test their luck. Really, the only upside to this new cargo was the shade that it provided. The thugs accompanying the wagons didn’t particularly understand the ins and outs of the cargo, but the words ‘probably dangerous when it meets too much air’ were sufficient to get the point across. They knew their boss. And while Tim seemed unsure if extreme heat would make it dangerous as well, the dwarf figured it would be better safe than sorry. Plus, it gave him an excuse to make the journey slightly less hellish, on someone else's coin.

Bert paused as a tiny hand tugged on his shirt. He turned around with a soppy grin and ruffled the braided hair of his little friend. One of the other additions to the convoy that made the journey slightly less hellish.

“Hey there kiddo, how’re you holding up?” He asked as he held out the extra canteen of water strapped to his belt. A toothy grin met his question, and the canteen was accepted with a wordless smile of thanks. A careful shrug settled her makeshift poncho to the side of her shoulders, and with bouncing steps she skipped back down the caravan, still holding wildflowers in her other hand. Bert’s grin only widened when he saw her destination, a certain pair of gnomes silently holding the homemade iron hair clips Bert had crafted and snuck them at the start of the journey. Maybe this wasn’t too bad after all.