Four of us go in, but only two of us make it out.
But before we were
spared, we had to give him back the two relics he had stole. One offer
offered sight, and the other protection. A box, hundreds of years old
with a cross engraved with the touch of worn lead paint.
Why he let us go?
I don't know, but it was as if he was watching us.
Maybe the first sought treasure had drove him mad.
As we were carefully making our way out, his legion of men slowly encircled us.
With one command, his men had drawn out knives of all sorts. Pointing deep into our souls.
Closer and closer.
We make a break for the door.
With the sound of the manic mob behind us. Those bloody hounds of hell. Barking, raving mad.
We take flight.
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