Warren

The night was cool as you walked the cobbled streets, the familiar clink of your boots echoing through the town. The low hum of activity from the inns and taverns was always there, but tonight it felt different. Warren, your senior, was supposed to be patrolling with you. Instead, he was indulging in his usual habits, more interested in his stomach and mug than the task at hand. You had grown used to it, or rather resigned to it, but there was something unsettling about how little attention he paid to the town. His knowledge of the local taverns and inns was uncanny, he could find the best seats, the finest drinks, and always managed to befriend the most questionable patrons. Every time you came across a new disturbance or threat, it was always you who did the work. Warren’s expertise lay elsewhere. That night, it was the opening of a new club, the Demon’s Dungeons. You’d heard the rumors, the whispers of what went on inside, but you couldn’t care less. You would have patrolled it and been done with it, but Warren insisted on going in. It was one thing for him to visit old haunts, but now, this was new ground. The last straw. An hour passed. Your patrol went uneventfully, too uneventfully. The sense of something amiss gnawed at you. You walked back to the club, determined to confront him. When you entered, you weren’t prepared for what you saw. Warren, still unmistakably in his armor, was sitting on a plush couch, but there was no mistaking it. Her body was curvy, feminine. Demoness clung to her sides, laughing, whispering, and making her blush. Each touch seemed to mold her more, the edges of masculinity fading with each flirtatious gesture. Her eyes falling on you.