"Clauremont is dead," the Brass Blade had said. Of course, it wasn't an actual Brass Blade but that damnable smuggler who had delivered the news. This wasn't much of a surprise, and everyone knew: the possibility that Clauremont could actually be broken out of the gaol was very close to none. Even if he managed to get outside of the cell, it was unlikely that the Blades had fed him much, if at all. Catching him again would have been like fighting a coeurl with no limbs or teeth. And yet, that knowledge did little to alleviate Scythe's sour mood.
The large Highlander idly sharpened his falchion, and the subbasement bustled with the eerie paradox of noisy silence. Men of various races and statures worked tirelessly, gathering the rifles, powder, and shot together into crates. Swords and spears clattered as they were shoved into crates or onto racks. No man spoke as he hauled his cargo, each focus intently on their task.
The news had been a surprisingly hard hit. Clauremont was Scythe's lieutenant and now he had died in the gaol. The Hammerbeaks had successfully been destroyed, but now the attention of the Brass Blades was on them for making a ruckus. Morale was low for now, but there was no doubt that the flames of anger would be sparked any second now. The smuggler's last visit involved another irritating set of specific, restricting instructions. Scythe's grip on the whetstone tightened somewhat, the memory of it incensing him somewhat. Even so, the smuggler at least understood what he and his men wanted.
So long as he and the other gang leaders paid off the Brass Blades, they cared not for what happened in Pearl Lane. They were content to ignore everyone who'd been thrown into that squalor. The nobles, fat on their ill-gotten gains would, upon hearing the news, laugh and laugh. But that would change soon. The tunnels were almost prepared. The weapons had been sent and paid for. Â And though the men were spindly and undernourished, within them burned an inferno.
A storm was coming, one of blood and steel and fire and smoke, and Ul'dah would be right in the middle of it.
The large Highlander idly sharpened his falchion, and the subbasement bustled with the eerie paradox of noisy silence. Men of various races and statures worked tirelessly, gathering the rifles, powder, and shot together into crates. Swords and spears clattered as they were shoved into crates or onto racks. No man spoke as he hauled his cargo, each focus intently on their task.
The news had been a surprisingly hard hit. Clauremont was Scythe's lieutenant and now he had died in the gaol. The Hammerbeaks had successfully been destroyed, but now the attention of the Brass Blades was on them for making a ruckus. Morale was low for now, but there was no doubt that the flames of anger would be sparked any second now. The smuggler's last visit involved another irritating set of specific, restricting instructions. Scythe's grip on the whetstone tightened somewhat, the memory of it incensing him somewhat. Even so, the smuggler at least understood what he and his men wanted.
So long as he and the other gang leaders paid off the Brass Blades, they cared not for what happened in Pearl Lane. They were content to ignore everyone who'd been thrown into that squalor. The nobles, fat on their ill-gotten gains would, upon hearing the news, laugh and laugh. But that would change soon. The tunnels were almost prepared. The weapons had been sent and paid for. Â And though the men were spindly and undernourished, within them burned an inferno.
A storm was coming, one of blood and steel and fire and smoke, and Ul'dah would be right in the middle of it.
