Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
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The body was laid out on a metal table in a cold, brightly-lit room.
A ghastly creature, pale and emaciated, stood over the corpse. It looked up as Durgin entered, rheumy eyes widening. White lips pulled back in a cold smile. “Foreman. Welcome.”
Even at this distance, Durgin could feel the pull. Dark elves sustained themselves on the living. It was not harmful but it was deeply unpleasant. They relish strong emotions.
Energy vampires. Revolting creatures, but not killers. A body empty of life was of no use to them. But it still shouldn’t here.
“What are you doing?”
The shadow elf’s smile deepened. He ran a long fingernail across the corpse’s chest. “Just saying goodbye to the sergeant.”
“Friend of yours?” Durgin was trying to puzzle out what a dark elf was doing here, and what he should do about it.
The elf stood, a straightening reminiscent of a spider stretching its legs. He wore black leather—pants, vest, duster—and a collection of uncomfortable-looking piercings. He waved a hand. “More like a reluctant acquaintance.”
“I’ve never known a dark elf to be overly picky.”
“Have you known many shadow elves, Foreman?”
Before Durgin could respond, Yeji stepped into the room. “I see you’ve already met Klyde. Excellent, we can get straight to work.”
He’d never admit it, but Durgin felt a swell of relief from Yeji’s presence. “You know this thing?”
“Does one ever dare know a shadow elf?” Yeji’s eyes darted toward Klyde and back again. “I can vouch for him. He’s part of your staff. Sees to our medical needs.”
“Why?” A shadow elf would be incentivized to prolong suffering.
Yeji shrugged. “He was here before I.”
Klyde’s smile grew teeth. “I could tell you, but mmmm, the wondering, it’s delicious.”
Yeji strode toward the body, pointedly not looking at Klyde, and climbed onto a stool. Durgin followed his lead but remained standing.
Absent bluster and bravado, Sergeant Mountainfist was greatly diminished in death. He was also physically diminished; his blackened face was sunken, as though his skull had partially melted.
Durgin averted his eyes.“What killed him?”
“It’s far too early to say. What with all these grievous wounds.” Klyde lifted the sheet draped over the corpse’s chest. Split, blackened flesh oozed bright fluid. Klyde pulled at the puckered skin with the tips of his long fingernails. A large flap pulled free.
Durgin’s stomach lurched. He spun around, blindly looking for a trash can. He was still looking when he vomited on his boots.
Klyde sighed contentedly. “Would you like to see what’s left of his manhood, Foreman?”
“Enough of this.” Yeji’s voice had an edge Durgin hadn’t heard before. “You’ve had your snack. To business, or suffer the consequences.”
“Fine.” With great reluctance, Klyde pulled the sheet up to Mountainfist’s chin.
Durgin rejoined them at the table. He stood as far from Klyde as he could without making it obvious he was trying to. “What could do this?” He tried to project authority but his throat was raw from vomiting; the words were uncertain, weak.
“Magic.” Klyde’s long fingers drummed on the table. “Powerful magic. The sergeant’s recovery will be long and quite painful.” He shivered in anticipation.
Yeji nodded sympathetically. “I’ll submit the resurrection requisition at once.”
“You are so very wrong, vampyre.” Blasé emerged from Mountainfist’s torso. “There will be no resuscitation. No resurrection. No, no, no. This was the work of a black curse. His soul was consumed.”
Black curses were dark rituals, the domain of powerful liches and arch-fiends. Durgin wasn’t willing to accept the possibility that something that powerful had Deephouse in its sights. “There must be another explanation.”
Blasé disdainfully inclined his nose. “Yeji, please tell the foreman that Blasé knows of what he speaks.”
Deep Ones. Cartels. Black curses. It was too much.
Durgin backed away from the table. And ran.
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