“Look, I know you don't want to go down there. It smells like poo-gas!” Vex said, clapping once, “You’re probably thinking. 'Why us? Why rats?' But every guild starts with humble beginnings. Consider it... character building.”
No one responded. One of the Shadowlings shifted weight from foot to foot, the movement subtle but unmistakably impatient. Another crossed their arms. Vex, oblivious, pointed dramatically at the grate.
“Think of it as an opportunity to practice your stealth, your senses, and an opportunity to murder senselessly. Also,” he added with a grin, “I heard the rats down there started their own guild. You might be walking into a turf war. Exciting, right?””
A sharp gesture from Sir Sneaks cut through the air—a clenched fist with an open palm placed on top. The others responded in kind. Vex watched the now familiar salute, taking in the Shadowling's subtle movements and slight shifts. Agreement. Readiness. Resignation.
With a last glance toward the surface, Sir Sneaks slipped through the grate, his form rippling briefly as it passed through the rusted edge. The others followed, one by one, soundless as falling leaves.
“Happy hunting!” Vex called cheerfully into the gloom. “And if the rat guild demands territory, try not to cede the east tunnels—we still owe rent on those.”
Silence answered him.
The sewer swallowed them whole. Sloshing water echoed faintly off the curved stone walls. Slime clung to every surface. Chaser took the lead, gliding ahead with fluid precision, eyes scanning the ground for disturbances and faint markings. The trail was fresh.
Behind him, Strikesies drew a sword in silence, and Sir Sneaks brought up the rear, scanning every crumbling niche and ripple in the dark. Their feet disturbed little of the murky runoff pooling along the floor as they moved, each step practiced and deliberate. The air was thick with mildew and the cloying scent of decay, but the Shadowlings pressed on, slipping between shadows as though they belonged to them. Every so often, one would lift a hand in a quick gesture of Shadow Cant, barely perceptible save to the trained eye.
Several minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the drip of water and the subtle shifts of shadow as the group crept forward. The air grew heavier the deeper they went, the oppressive stillness wrapping around them like a second skin.
Chaser suddenly halted, raising a closed fist. A flash of Cant followed: Pause. Something ahead. The others stilled instantly, weapons tensing in hand, eyes narrowing as they focused on the darkness before them.
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They halted.
Chaser crouched low, fingertips grazing a damp smear across the floor. Rat prints. Big ones. Fresh.
The others shifted, preparing themselves.
Movement. A high-pitched squeak shattered the stillness. Then it came—fur matted and eyes gleaming red, the rat burst from a side tunnel, foam flecking its muzzle. It was barely larger than a chihuahua, but moved with a speed and malice that belied its size. Muscles twitched beneath its greasy pelt, and its yellowed teeth gleamed like daggers.
Chaser dove to the side. Sir Sneaks flanked right. Strikesies struck first, blade slicing through air—but the rat moved with unnatural speed. Its claws raked across their shoulder, leaving a jagged wound. No cry, only a twitch of their fingers: Injured. Press.
Sir Sneaks darted in, daggers aimed for the flank. A bite grazed his forearm, sharp and deep, but he pushed through the pain, driving the steel home.
Chaser circled fast, their spear flashing like teeth in the dark. They severed a tendon—one leg collapsed beneath the rat. It shrieked, a sound that echoed for miles, then twisted and struck again, catching Chaser by the thigh.
The three of them moved as one, flowing through practiced motion. Strikesies landed a brutal blow to the skull. Sir Sneaks followed through with a piercing strike to the heart. Chaser carved a clean line through the spine.
Then—stillness.
The rat collapsed, twitching once. Twice. Then no more.
You have killed a level 41 juvenile plague rat. You have gained 35,015 experience points.
Wounded and breathing hard, the Shadowlings stood over their kill. Their forms appeared patchy where they'd taken hits, as though pieces of them had turned to mist or thinned into smoke. Strikesies pressed a hand to their side. Chaser limped, and Sir Sneaks’ arm pulsed with pain.
Loot was gathered in silence as Sir Sneaks nudged the carcass with the toe of his boot.
The linked Guild Acquisitions talent allows you to loot a level 41 juvenile plague rat on behalf of your guild.
Thirty-two copper pieces have been deposited into the guild storage.
A scrap of fetid meat has been deposited into the guild storage.
Ugh. The thrill of the fight had been worth it—but the stench? Absolutely not.
The three stood for a long moment in silence, surrounded by the damp and rot. Shadows folded around them, rendering their forms little more than warps in the air, indistinct and shifting. There was no triumphant cheer, no celebration. Only the distant drip of water and the soft squelch of filth beneath their feet, as unwelcome as the memory of the sewer itself.
The last of the smoke curled away where the rat had fallen, leaving no trace behind. Sir Sneaks gave the dissipating wisps a final glance before turning away. Strikesies followed with a quiet limp. Chaser brought up the rear, leaning slightly with each step.
No one signaled. No one had to. The rat was down, but the hunt wasn't over. One kill in this festering maze wouldn't satisfy the mission—or the itch it scratched in each of them.
Without a word, they turned deeper into the tunnels, fading one by one into the muck and shadows. Sir Sneaks lingered for a breath, flexing his injured arm, then followed after the others, vanishing like a wisp of smoke. Somewhere ahead, more prey waited.
The Shadowlings didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Sir Sneaks glanced at the others. Chaser, still dragging one foot. Strikesies, parts of their form flickering where the rat had struck. Sir Sneaks felt every movement like a grindstone on mist—aching, tired, and furious.
And yet—they had won.
Next time, he thought coldly, let Vex come down here and bleed.