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Demons, Indeed

Ervol lay in the putrescent waste of the sewers known as the Windemere Catacombs. Anyone with any amount of sense, of course, knew that the only reason they were named as such was to deter the general populace from delving into the tunnels that snaked underneath the great city. In the eyes of Viscount Armstrong they presented too grand of an opportunity for those with less-than-scrupulous dealings, so he held the renaming ceremony, with the High Priest of Pelor declaring the sewers home to foul demons from parts unknown.

"Demons, indeed." Ervol thought to himself, the sarcasm dripping from his internal monologue like the filth that was currently washing over his tattered body. His mind drifted lazily to his home back in Duncaster. "Now those were catacombs."

Drifting ever closer to unconsciousness, the spindly elf closed his eyes and held his breath as the flow of waste washed over his face entirely. His normally ivory skin stained a deep ochre. Every inch of him searing in pain as the bacteria entered the bevy of fresh wounds. As the sewage subsided once more, Ervol heard their voices in the distance. "Charlatans," He murmured.

The sploshing of armored footsteps grew nearer, but Ervol lacked the strength or the will to attempt to flee. Everything he knew, everything he believed in, it seemed was a lie. As the two figures approached and loomed over the defeated elf, he thought briefly of his sister Gilmirie. The glint of cold steel flashed in the torch light.

"When Sun becomes Moon, diverted eyes need not become blind. But as Day turns to Night, the pure will rise..." Ervol's final words echoed in a haunting whisper as the blade sank deep into his chest. His vision faded as the two stocky assailants cloaked in brilliant white stood wordlessly over him. Demons, indeed.

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