“You are late,” the Inquisitor said without looking up from the solid oak desk in the warehouse manager’s office. He flipped a paper over, before entwining his fingers, and resting his forearms on the edge of the desk. Slowly, he turned his attention to the two men, “explain.”
The duumviri hazarded a glance at each other, silently deciding on who would respond. Jougs answered, “we met trouble.”
“Took care of it,” Vorant added.
The Inquisitor waited, calm brown eyes boring into them.
“We were followed…” Jougs hesitated, “by a bird and some Mercs.”
“Got away, though, didn’t we?”
“Firebombs and a smokescreen,” Jougs said.