Masrur watched the glowing red fog spread over the guards around Nalci’s mansion, glad he and Sinbad had chosen to view events from a… higher perspective. “I can smell it. Whatever it is. Like catnip.” His nose twitched. “Ja’far might have been better here.”
Sinbad was not quite pitching himself off the roof, staring down with eager eyes. Masrur sighed, and planted a hand on the back of Sin’s tunic in case he needed to grab hold of the Idiot of the Seven Seas who could not, currently, fly.
“Now that’s interesting,” the Dungeon Capturer muttered. “Most of them are wearing masks. So it’s not something targeted, what does it do….” He trailed off as some of the guards below started to giggle and fall over, while others attacked shadows, yelling and crying out. “Huh. Catnip might not be far off, at that.”
Masrur looked over the Fog Troupe, all ghostly-pale robes and grim faces, trying to get an accurate count. About four dozen, he thought. Enough to battle the guards, even if they’d been in their right minds. More than enough of a mob to rip Lord Nalci limb from limb, even with ordinary human strength-
Pale robes moved past giggling guards, sometimes ducking the jab of spears, silent as wisps of fog.
“Disciplined,” Sinbad breathed. “Not what you’d expect of thieves, is it?”
Masrur raised a brow. After over a decade dealing with Sinbad’s mayhem, he made a determined habit of not expecting anything from anyone. That way he was never surprised by the latest shape-shifting monster, evil spell-trap, or enraged husband.
“Well, disciplined means we might be able to reason with them.” Before Masrur could grab him, Sinbad cupped his hands around his mouth and called down. “Hello, below! If you’re Cassim, we’ve been waiting for you. We’re Sindrian merchants, and we want to talk.”