Ah, smoke. It obscures the vision, fills eyes with tears, suffocates the throat, and leaves the body thrashing with cough. Such an easy trick, such a dramatic trick, to invoke the smoke and make an escape.
For the tall bard crouched behind the table, the effect would have been a commendable dash of drama. However, the thick stuff left him too much in coughing to use his voice effectively, and all he could think about was that his lute was somewhere nearby in the thick haze; his eyes were too affected to see clearly.
If it was scratched, or dented, or damaged in any way... or gods help, destroyed... all the Brass Blades in Ul'dah would not be swifter than he in finding new and creative ways to tear out the hair, flay the skin, yank tendon from bone, gouge and stomp eyes, crunch toes beneath bootheels, and render into red paste this so-called revolutionary. A certain bard without a certain lute was a giant of a man who would suddenly and literally have nothing better to do than enjoy cold-blooded...
Oh, there it was. He grasped the neck of it, and was rewarded with the sound of properly tuned strings. It was still too smoky to see if there was any damage, but at least he could now focus...
His other hand fell upon a large...book. Ah, Cliodhna's ledger. He scooped it up to safety as well, and, still bleary-eyed, peered over the table edge towards the sound of Clio's voice, straining to see what was what, of shouts and screams, and a too-familiar sound of whistling air...
He ducked back behind the upturned table, fighting down the uncharacteristic vengeful hate that had momentarily welled up in his heart, and looked back around the table again, this time, instead of over it, trying to make sense of the din, and perhaps find his until-just-recent tablemate, perhaps to assist. No sense taking chances.
For the tall bard crouched behind the table, the effect would have been a commendable dash of drama. However, the thick stuff left him too much in coughing to use his voice effectively, and all he could think about was that his lute was somewhere nearby in the thick haze; his eyes were too affected to see clearly.
If it was scratched, or dented, or damaged in any way... or gods help, destroyed... all the Brass Blades in Ul'dah would not be swifter than he in finding new and creative ways to tear out the hair, flay the skin, yank tendon from bone, gouge and stomp eyes, crunch toes beneath bootheels, and render into red paste this so-called revolutionary. A certain bard without a certain lute was a giant of a man who would suddenly and literally have nothing better to do than enjoy cold-blooded...
Oh, there it was. He grasped the neck of it, and was rewarded with the sound of properly tuned strings. It was still too smoky to see if there was any damage, but at least he could now focus...
His other hand fell upon a large...book. Ah, Cliodhna's ledger. He scooped it up to safety as well, and, still bleary-eyed, peered over the table edge towards the sound of Clio's voice, straining to see what was what, of shouts and screams, and a too-familiar sound of whistling air...
He ducked back behind the upturned table, fighting down the uncharacteristic vengeful hate that had momentarily welled up in his heart, and looked back around the table again, this time, instead of over it, trying to make sense of the din, and perhaps find his until-just-recent tablemate, perhaps to assist. No sense taking chances.
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."
![[Image: 3610850.jpg]](http://assets-cloud.enjin.com/users/1266293/pics/original/3610850.jpg)
