“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?”
“How?”
“Firebombs and
a smokescreen,” Jougs said.
