Desmodu’s Operandi

Bresup sits in his cavern-top ‘nest’ and weeps.
The interlopers have taken his precious cloth and all his plans are in tatters.
He looks up at the cavern ceiling, although still holding, it has been considerably weakened. Perhaps he could still dig through?
Examining the stone he realises how futile any further attempt would be. Reinforced with diamonds as it is and with the granite slab magically created on top, it would be impossible to break through without magic.
It has taken him the best part of two weeks to climb back up to his perch. The loss of his trained, giant War bat has cost him more than just his mount; it has cost him his only friend.
Recalling the conversation with the weird, tiny creatures, Bresup realises that they were asking his name, not his race.
They were lying. They had to have been. It is how it always was. Water above air; air above ground.
Still, what if they were telling the truth? Perhaps they weren’t the hated Drow. Perhaps his plan would have caused harm to innocent creatures.
He thinks of the chaos of the Desmodu cities. Constant war. Infant sacrifice. The brutalisation of the women and the weak.
It was different once. After centuries of war with the diabolic Drow, they had finally been victorious. The people rejoiced and promised to build a better civilisation.
Slowly though, these noble sentiments became eroded and the Desmodu themselves began to fall into decadence and behave just like their former enemies.
There can be no salvation for them and now, thanks to the theft of the magical cloth, no punishment.
Taking the untethered end of one of the incredibly strong cords from the ‘nest’, Bresup calmly makes a loop and slips it over his head.
With a final look at where the hole had once been, Bresup steps off the ledge.
The crack of his neck snapping echoes around the cavern.
The sound lasts longer than the last good Desmodu.