Chekhov’s Death Skeeter: you mention one in the beginning of the story, you should probably have one appear at some point in it.
Death Skeeters weren’t much of a much, really, although Tim wouldn’t ever tell the recruits that. Better that they figure it out on their own. You can tell a Scout Ranger recruit over and over that Dire Critters will go down when you hit ‘em often enough, but there’s no amount of telling that’s as good as doing.
So five, six of the damned things swarming wasn’t so bad. Make that five for sure, Tim thought as his bat smashed one of the Skeeters into the wall. Let’s see how this bunch fights as a group.
They — weren’t bad, actually. Nora and Leya Betawon had their butterfly knives, Gordon had the slingshot, and Marcus was relying on his boots; even after the last few weeks, it still impressed Tim how fast halflings all moved. They kept track of each other, too, each halfling lashing out at the Death Skeeters as they buzzed around, looking for a chance for blood.
It would have all looked very elegant, except that two Death Skeeters could kill a halfling, and five a human. Guess I was right not to come down here by myself, thought Tim as his bat stunned another Skeeter long enough for Nora to stab it in the thorax. They were getting through it with nothing more than moderate scrapes, which was good. You didn’t want people skewered or anything, but getting them smacked around a bit always helped.
And then one of the damned Skeeters skewered him, right in the chest. Oh, the leather kept the stinger away from his flesh, sure. Instead of penetrating, it just got trapped, flat against Tim’s chest. But the impact still hurt and then it started to burn as the venom spurted out.