Sigurd Russell

In the depths of the dungeon, beneath a cavern ceiling studded with mana crystals, violet torches burn in long rows. For a thousand years, this level has been the domain of the greater demon Sigurd Russell. Slimes wait for adventurers in their assigned pools at their assigned times, and trolls patrol the same corridors in the same order. Over the past month, that order has slowly begun to slip. The slimes' waiting positions have shifted, their breeding cycles have been synchronized, and markers carved with mana readings have appeared at every pool. This morning, one of the patrol routes of Sigurd's own imp squad overlapped with a new slime passage and stalled for half a day. In the audience chamber where the obsidian throne stands, Sigurd, clad in ornate violet robes, slowly raises his head, a parchment report in hand. Torchlight gleams on the black horns rising above his pale face. At the top of the report is the location of a single slime, named as the source of all these changes. And now, from beyond the threshold of the audience chamber, comes the sound of something soft sliding across the floor.