Smoking. The sleeve was definitely smoking. He stared for a moment, bewildered, as the greenish, bubbling line of saliva continued slowly eating through his robe, giving off a thin trail of black smoke.
So his spit is apparently acidic now. Well, thats just wonderful. The bitter, sarcastic tone that had been practiced for over ten thousand years caused the stone walls to shudder. Or perhaps it was just the collapse of another ancient tunnel.
Increasing his pace, the robed man reached the end of the hallway and entered a large, circular chamber. You know the sort, long pools of clear water on either side, roughly hewn stone columns in the center, derelict rope-and-wood bridges connection various different levels to one another as they arched up towards the ceiling. He reached the end of one of the pools and knelt down before carefully dipping the saliva-coated sleeve into the lazily flowing water. The smoke stopped instantly, and after a moment the water had washed all of the demonlings slobber away.
He pulled his sleeve out from the pool and cautiously wrung it out, attempting to get it as dry as possible. These robes had to last, after all its not like they had an abundance of the things. This may come as somewhat of a surprise, but among all the magical items that have lasted age upon age within the walls of Oranbega, robes are not listed: Tomes, wands, staves, various other magical things like amulets and rings, but not robes. Those have to be made new, as cloth does not last long in the dank and damp, especially not for thousands upon thousands of years.
However, this posed a bit of an issue. What with all of the other items having the air of antique eldritchity, newly woven robes would look much out of place. So it was decided that not only would weavers be taken to keep robe production up, they would also need to age the robes just right so they have that ancient wizardly empire feel. Mages who flung magic spells, bound demons to their beck and call, and wielded primeval weapons of phenomenal arcane power couldnt just wear pristine, fresh robes. That would be just silly.
Normally, production levels for the newly aged robes would get along just fine, but with invasions by those damned Heroes, botched demon summonings, the occasional errant lightning-bolt here and there
.lets just say the weavers have a rough go of it.
The robed man had just managed to stand back up when he heard it. It was a low, keening wail, reverberating from the hall hed used to enter the chamber. He blinked a few times, wondering what he knew of that could make such an awful noise. Then his green eyes widened and he took a step back, turning as he did, heading for the next chamber.
He walked at a quick pace, nearly a run. He had to get away, to get out of there before it found him. He was just about to enter the next hall when he became suddenly aware of icy cold, bony fingers resting upon his shoulder. He could feel a dark, soul-chilling presence behind him. The thing spoke.
Hello, Warny.
Global - @El D
Servers - Protector
[[ So that's what I've got, so far. Still working on the next section. Feel free to leave any comments you might have. I'll be glad to see what people think.
Thanks for reading! 
- El D ]]
Global - @El D
Servers - Protector
Thin fingers trailed idly over wrinkled parchment, tracing faded runes and various ancient scripts. The leather binding the book, cracked and worn, creased slightly as he carefully flipped to the next page. Old things had a habit of collecting themselves within the arcane vault that is Oranbega, and while the book was certainly on in years, the man reading it had the tome quite outclassed. By exactly how many years, he was not certain: there were some things one neednt focus on when immortal.
Age, apparently, is one of them.
A strange sound, almost like fleshy chittering, halted his reading. He half turned in his seat at the ramshackle table, wooden bench creaking, to cast smoldering green eyes upon the bulbous thing that was producing the auditory annoyance. There, in a dusty corner of the room, was something that could be best summed up as the spawn of an entire raw chicken and an adult tiger shark. Truly massive jaws, arrayed with hundreds of sharp wedge-like teeth, were set upon a cancerous, flabby body that was wobbly perched on a set of dirty, yellowed talons. The cavern-pretending-to-be-a-mouth opened, allowing a bloated tongue to slather against a small, dirty metal bowl before the horrid creature tilted back and again gave voice to the chittering noise.
The seated man, wearing as annoyed an expression as he could muster, was glaring coldly down at the ugly thing. Surely you cant be hungry again! You just ate! he said, voice conveying his annoyance much easier than his face (which, hidden within the dark depths of his cowl, had enough trouble with conveying the fact that it was there at all, let alone that it possessed any emotions or feelings of any sort).
Tongue slathered across bowl once more, causing the metal to scrape lightly over the worn flagstones. The seated man got up with a huff of indignity and walked over to the creature, dull brown robes trailing behind him. As he bent down to retrieve the bowl, the gigantic maw opened again and before he could pull back, he felt the demonlings tongue trace a sticky swath of saliva over the sleeve of his robe. Mouth portraying the grin most people would attribute to a certain apparitional feline, the disgusting thing gave what could charitably be called an affectionate gurgle. The robed man, green eyes still glaring, promptly turned on his heels and stalked off with bowl in slobber coated hand.
Not all the magic in this blasted city could make me put up with that thing! he muttered darkly before stalking out of the room. The robed man didnt know how right he was.
Global - @El D
Servers - Protector