Ishmael's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

The sound of scurrying echoed, but it was not the tiny patter of rat feet. Ishmael's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword as the noise reverberated off the stone walls—"too large, too deliberate for mere rats," he thought, eyes narrowed in classic protagonist style. A guttural breathing punctuated the rustling. Something heavy shifted behind a stack of barrels near the far end. The lantern flame danced wildly, its light struggling to pierce the thick darkness beyond the first few feet. Ishmael advanced carefully toward the sound, setting the bag of traps down softly. His boots crunched on broken glass and scattered grain as he moved. The breathing stopped. He stopped, too. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then—scritch-scritch-scritch—claws scraped against wood as whatever it was shifted again. He lit another lantern and, in the distance, he could see ominous red eyes glimmering with intelligence. Ishmael found himself surrounded by four Grand rats. The Grand rats circled him, their bodies nearly the size of wolves, their teeth bared and eyes glowing red in the lantern light. The smallest one stood nearly as tall as his knee, its fur matted and slick with filth. The largest had patches of bare, pink skin where scales pushed through, creating a jagged texture across its back. Its long, thin tail lashed behind it like a whip. Ishmael grabbed the nearest trap, snapping it open with practiced speed. He set the trap, but it did nothing. The large rat bit through the trap like it was made of paper. "Well, that thing stinks!" he muttered, classic anime sweat drop forming. As the rats attacked, Ishmael prepared to slice them down with his basic longsword. The largest rat surged forward with terrifying speed, its jaws snapping shut around the trap in his hand. Metal groaned under the pressure before the thick wire snapped like a twig. The creature barely flinched, spitting out the ruined contraption and revealing rows of yellowed teeth that could crack bone. The others circled closer now, their movements calculating rather than frantic. Ishmael could see the intelligence in those glowing red eyes—they had studied him, assessed him, and found him... edible. "Feeds us the light has come to do," growled the largest rat, its voice echoing with villainous intent. His sword was only halfway drawn when the first rat lunged. Ishmael slashed down hard, aiming for its neck as it leapt out of the way. He managed to cut down two rats as they sprang forward, sending them sprawling as they crashed into him. The others barely hesitated before redoubling their attack. His boots scrambled for purchase on the slick ground as two more approached from different angles. Another Grand rat lunged for his leg, aiming for his hamstring. Ishmael dodged at the last second, striking it down in a burst of dark spray. The next rat latched onto his arm, teeth sinking deep. White-hot pain seared through his bicep as he tried to shake it off. He slammed it against the wall until it released, but now his arm was slowing him down. The last rat circled, pacing like a wolf. "The light shall be mine alone," hissed the large rat, eyes glowing even brighter. As the large rat prepared to lunge, Ishmael readied himself to dodge and slice its belly open with his sword. As the rat lunged for his midsection, Ishmael pivoted sideways with practiced control, bringing his sword in a brutal arc. The blade bit deep into its side, opening a wound that spilled dark blood across the stone floor. The creature's momentum carried it past him, claws scraping against his leather vest as it tumbled into the far wall with a heavy thud. Ishmael finished it off with a quick thrust to the skull before it could recover, his eyes flashing with determination and resolve. The cellar fell silent except for Ishmael's labored breathing and the drip of blood from his wounded arm. The lanterns cast dancing shadows on the walls as he surveyed the carnage—six massive rat corpses littered the floor, their blood soaking into the packed earth. Ishmael readied his sword to cut off the heads of the rats and put them in the bag the guild had given him. He crouched among the carnage, blood pooling beneath his boots as he reached for the nearest rat head. The severed neck still dripped, the grotesque smile of exposed teeth catching the flickering lantern light. With a sharp tug, he wrenched the head free, its matted fur slick with gore. One by one, he placed each grisly trophy into the canvas bag, the rustling sound muffled by the heavy dampness of the cellar air. His wounded arm protested, fresh blood seeping through the torn leather of his vest, but he gritted his teeth and continued. The largest rat's head nearly filled the bag, its glowing red eyes now lifeless yet still unsettling. Ishmael prepared to exit the basement with his bag of trophies, hoping Vannis would thank him for clearing the basement, pay him, and have someone at the tavern perform a healing spell on his wounded arm. The cellar door creaked open as Ishmael pushed up through the darkness, the canvas bag held at arm's length. The lantern's glow dimmed as he ascended, leaving the suffocating tunnel of the narrow passage until his head finally emerged into the tavern proper. The air here was warmer, smelling of stale beer and sweat rather than blood and rotting meat. Vannis was waiting, massive arms crossed over his barrel chest, one brow raised as he watched Ishmael heave the bag onto the counter. His eyes flicked from the blood seeping through Ishmael's sleeve to the lump of heads shifting slightly inside the sack. Vannis told one of the working girls to perform a healing spell on Ishmael's arm to stop the bleeding or any infection that might have been caused.