Sprinting faster than the swift wind, I bolted towards the first building with a chimney that I could lay my eyes on. The derelict buildings seemed to have been a baker’s house or a bakery itself. A rusty withered board with faded colours hung outside while a creaking wooden door stood ajar.

The outer walls deteriorated through neglect, still held fast due to the overgrown creepers holding the structure intact. I grabbed the first vine, gave it a small tug, before scaling the wall to the top of the chimney. Taking a moment of breath to catch calm my burning lungs, I crouched and dropped low, keeping my eyes peeled on the oncoming reticent retinue.

The group marched silently and swiftly with trained restraint. As they drew nearer, I could make out humanoid forms tramping with a singular purpose. The lead figure appeared almost human except for the large mangy outgrowth of hair, almost like a gnoll’s mane. Soon more followed, though none looked similar. Some were visibly human, elven or dwarven while others had features that did not conform to a particular race. One sported a large claw where their right hand should have been while another moved with antlers on the forehead and hopped around with powerful limbs.

A grave silence fell over the odd procession as they set foot inside. Their eyes darted like trapped swallows. Some clutched their weapons or staves tightly with firm resolve.

The lead one, the man with a mangy hair, stopped a few paces and sniffed the damp air. The rest waited patiently till the lead sniffer felt assured. Eventually, he led them further.

The lead sniffer stopped a few buildings short of my location and sniffed the air again.

Sensing his trepidation, one voice from the back rang out.

“What is it, Zurin?”

“Is it time?” another hushed voice issued from the back.

Zurin ignored the comments and smelled the air more, almost as if conversing with it.

“Someone,” said Zurin in a deep grating voice, “is up ahead.”

As if their blood had frozen, the rest of his companions stood still as they heard him.

“Get T’orrac,” requested Zurin.

Soon, the motley crowd parted and an elf of indeterminate heritage with a smooth receding hairline and long hair that hung till shoulders stepped forward. Clad in a simple robe of silvery grab with cerulean blue embroidery that did not survive the passage of time, T’orrac cut an imposing figure, even under such sullen circumstances

“Zurin,” T’orrac’s word was both a question and an address. His voice was orotund and modulated, hiding his real age.

“Nearby, up,” uttered Zurin.

I tensed knowing my stealth has been compromised. Scanning the surroundings quickly, I made a mental note of possible escape routes, should they choose to engage.

“A girl, elf,” said Zurin, “not young,” he corrected.

“Relevant?” asked T’orrac.

“Does not smell of surface,” added Zurin.

T’orrac’s expressions darkened at the mention of drow and a deep scowl marred his austere face. His forehead furrowed deep for a moment before another huge hulking figure moved, parting the crowd.

Covered in dark fur and longer hands that easily reached the ground when leaned forward, the newcomer resembled a grotesque version of a cave troglodyte. Even leaning, the figure was ahead and a half taller than an adult high-elf and a crude loincloth, despite the thick fur, wrapped around the hips and groin indicated an understanding of civility. Over its broad shoulder hung a pair of cestus made with tempered wood. I made a note to flee, should I ever face him in combat.

“If not of direct relevance, we should focus on other important tasks,” said the newcomer with a flat voice devoid of any intonations.

“Should we hunt? or agree to what Ar’krak says?” asked Zurin.

Without much to ponder, T’orrac nodded, “Ar’krak is right, no time to waste.”

“Send a conjuntborn to be safe,” said Ar’krak.

“No,” declined T’orrac,”Conjuntborn are important. We need all.”

Like a deranged skeever, Zurin scurried around aimlessly for a few moments. Eventually, he stopped and as if jolted into awakening, his muscles tensed and he sniffed deeply.

“There is one,” he spoke in his deep grating voice with urgency, “distinct odour, not of this world.”

Without any further comments or instructions from any, they scuttled away in the direction indicated by Zurin.

I still kept my distance from them and followed. Despite, each knowing the presence of the other, we still held our suspicions.

The disparate group crossed the main street and turned into an alley leading towards the west district. From atop, the crumbling roof of another building I watched them hurry following the sniffer’s lead.

For a brief moment, I entertained the idea of making contact with them and enquire the whereabouts of Karlienne, Syrune and Colby. The idea, though appealing, the group radiated an aura of unease, the same sort that a belligerent client emanates in an upscale establishment. My years of accumulated experience, honed as a politician, screamed me to listen. Friend or foe, their motives in this curse forged city are dubious at best.

Abandoning the idea of following them, I turned north and moved towards the Tradeward district, the central part of Arlond.

Another pylon, smaller in height but wider than the one outside, greeted me as I snooped into the central square. Where the commemoration fountain should have stood like a beacon of solidarity, the macabre pylon stood above, eclipsing the fountain in its tenebrous aura.

I crouched low on the roof of another building, with a clear view of the central square. Directly ahead of me, on the other side of the square, stood the city hall. In its prime days, when it would have boasted pristine white limestones and marbles along with the wonders of high-elven architecture, the city hall, now stood, grey with crumbling walls and deteriorated interiors.

Judging by the two adjacent buildings joining the left and the right-wing of the complex where I stood, and the quadrangle behind, the building should have either belonged to a religious institution or one of those educational societies or trade guilds. In the quadrangle behind, like a flicker in the dark, stood Zaehran.

The ascetic was either unaware of my presence or deemed my presence not worthy to pay attention to. He stood still as if communing with some unknown powers. For what felt like an eternity, the ascetic monk maintained his stance. It took me a while to realise that Zaehran was in a sort of quasi-meditative state. Eventually, he broke his stance and with committed resolve departed north towards Heather Barrows.

My attempts to trail the monk ended pathetically as my military trained endurance, a pittance compared to the austere discipline of Zaehran.

Having lost the ascetic, I pondered my next course of action. Octant Laboratory still lingered, nested between Heather Barrows and the Fargate district, while separated by a wide street, stood the bank. Both held objects of interest for my current goal.

A soul-curdling howl, followed by another, interrupted my thoughts. Sparing no thoughts further, I bolted in the direction of the commotion.

My attempts to investigate were hindered as the lithe form of Zaehran appeared in front of me on the streets. The monk proceeded without concealing his presence. From his gait, it was evident that the monk placed very little importance on his own life. I abandoned hopping through broken roof tiles and focussed on Zaehran hoping to gather some intelligence.

Zaehran returned as swiftly as he exited the street, trailed behind by a swarm of locusts and scorpions. The thousand blows from his flurry could not restrain the multitude of small brutes. Noticing his own inadequacy and the mismatched opponents that he was facing, Zaehran heeded to call of wisdom and flew from the pursing swarm.

One of the locusts hopped to an impossible height and landed near me. A feat, that I would have otherwise marvelled if it weren’t under such dire circumstances. The large black beady eyes considered me with egregious accusation. I returned the gaze, hoping that the swarm would not turn their attention on me.

The lone locust slowly hopped closer and finally decided to settle on my shoulders. Its beady eyes still considered me with undivided attention.

With the events of the night unfolding, each more bizarre than the other, I resigned my intention to investigate the source of the painful howls. I finally, choose the city hall as a temporary spot for respite. It is centrally located and should the need arise, there is a provision to two easy paths to escape, LowCrag pass and Fargate.

As I rested on top of the slanting roofs of the city hall, the locust still clung to my shoulder. I choose to ignore it for the moment and process my own thoughts.

The strange group that entered, spoke very little. Their features were mostly human or elven and yet, they possessed bestial characteristics. Zurin could sniff, the one called Ar’krak is certainly no troglodyte. His frame was too huge and behind his eyes gleamed intelligence. Far more than what could be attributed to a troglodyte.

Their accent made it hard to place them. Their speech was an archaic mix of some human language with a heavily accented Telanvi. A tongue mostly adopted by the wood-elves and surface gnomes. Despite being spoken by surface gnomes, very few literary works exist in Telanvi, due to the nature of it being spoken only in small isolated communities.

An isolated community of humans and elves with unnaturally grafted body parts seeking something of value in a macabre city begs a lot of unanswered questions.

As if in response to my thoughts, the pale moon rose, the dark clouds parted and the deep shadow of the Octant Laboratory fell, eclipsing me.