The gang is marched through the muddy streets by the man-things. Rain pours down but the foul creatures seem not to notice. Their flesh stinks of sewer waste and leaves a slimy sensation, like oozing strands of hair, writ large, upon the gang’s clothes and armour.
There are no townsfolk to be seen at this hour, in these conditions, but Shyan feels sure there are plenty behind their shutters, waddled in the darkness, peering out at the unfortunate strangers caught up by the lich, glad it isn’t they themselves being dragged to the castle.
Nothing about it can be done by those who are, though.
Soon enough, a drooling man-thing stops the carriage it’s driving, and another helps Ulxurix out to the ground. The rain seems to bounce of her, as though it splashes against some intangible shield just a few hairs’ breadths off her skin. She flourishes her arms as the creatures bring her captives near.
“Welcome, friends,” she says with a fiendish grin, “to the castle.”