Blighttown lived to his reputation. The buildings laid slouched and compressed, pressed against one another that roads resembled back alleys of any other, normal city. Loft atop a dramatic cliff by a conveniently furious sea, Blighttown constantly suffered under dry, stormy nights. What had once been a reputable and fabled kingdom had, long ago, degraded into one giant slum. With the arrival of more and more citizens, the few rich had been caught and murdered, and their palaces robbed whole, not even the foundations left. Atop them, more shacks were built, be it with metallic sheets, wood, or straight up mud. Soon enough, the whole region was nothing but a gigantic shanty town.
There was a sort of unspoken rule in Blighttown; everything belonged to everyone. Privacy and private property had no meaning here; your conversations, the smell of your armpits, the smell of your rock stew, it all belonged to everyone. You went to sleep one day, and, in the morning, you’d a family of thieves has build their home on your roof. You went for a walk one afternoon, and you’d not recognize the ever-changing streets. Someone coughs one day, and the next week the whole city coughed with them. Often, when public unrest rose, and those viciously violent riots erupted, blood flowed through the streets, and the casualties were always above a million. The bodies were, most often, tossed down into the ocean, or devoured by the rising population of rats.
Thunder and lightning barked and split the dark clouds of the night. Despite the ocean that laid near, Blighttown was hot and dry. Breeze did not exist, especially down at ground level; as such, the fumes of death and urine rose from the spoiled soil below the boots of the special agents.
“It’s clear,” Maws announced, after peeking from the corner. Like a cat, he’d slip out, hugging the wall as he advanced through the maze of poorly built shacks.
Donning a full suit of arid camouflage, only the black boots and the black leather vest broke the monotony of their attire. At every crossroad or corner, Maws would draw his slingshot, prepared to launch the bullet were he to detect danger. This danger was easily detected in the day, but now that a moonless midnight swallowed the city, shadows swallowed everything.
“I can’t see anything,” he complained. With a match, he’d light his helmet’s tactical light - a candle attached to the top of his sallet. As the flickering flame gained strength, the night lost all his secrets. Technology as advanced as this tactical light could cause a lot of damage if it fell into the wrong hands. “Move up.”
They turned to the left, Maws’ slingshot at the ready, arming forth, checking his corners with obvious tactical prowess, and then aiming up at the shanty skyscrapers that swayed with breezes the trio could only long for. Danger could come from any direction. Fifty paces forth, they finally found the door, and it was then when they heard it. A terrible cry, a collection of moaning groans, each different, that joined together into a hallowed chorus of death and agony. Even the strongest of men could tremble at such cursed melody. They were coming. They had found them.
“We’re running out of time!” Maws no longer whispered. Instead, the loosened his slingshot, without firing, and kicked the door open. “Get in! The first wave is coming!”