Belialthorn shouted in pain and fear, mixed with confusion, he couldn't turn towards Rota. He raised his hand which was covered in monsters, and continued his slow pace towards Alaric but the monsters were focusing on only him now and they dragged him down.
He wished for a quick death but he knew it might not be possible, not with the swam of monsters fighting over his flesh, then a laughter as light as winds on summer night flitted through the room. The monsters paused as one, their head tilted as if they could hear something then they were gone.
Just like that, disappearing into invisible cracks on the floor leaving behind their dead.
Nothing moved in the room, the smell of blood was a thick heavy blanket mixed with the that of hundreds of guts cut open. Then Belialthorn's hand trembled, he was still holding his sword, hand tight on it.
