*******
Krocus stood by the small window on the uppermost floor of the trading house. Looking down, he could see the long trail of people, and heavily laden wagons and carts, snaking their way toward the docks.
Initially, he had poured scorn on the idea of demons, but had to accept the reality of the situation when the hunting party had returned from Tor-Arnath. Baldrec and Kalas had reported to him, and both were stout hardy men not given to flights of fancy.
Krocus wasn't a popular man. But he didn't court popularity, and had few friends. The only thing he cared about was making a profit. The owner of Petralis's sole investment house, naturally named Krocus’s, he had a substantial stake in most of the businesses in the city. Most borrowed starting capital from him, and he had no tolerance for late payments.
Soul drinking demons or not, he had no intention of leaving the city. With enough food and water to last him months, he felt he was safe enough in his redoubt until the insufferable tavern keeper and his mysterious allies defeated the demons. And if not, he would rather die here than anywhere else.