The great room is silent, dead bodies of cultists, Dragonclaws and Dragonwings litter the floor, the floor coated with blood. Whisper‘s eyes are on Luther as she finishes her gruesome task of killing the sleeping cultists. Is she scowling?
Luther stares back, breathing heavily, also covered in blood from his sword and up his arm. Is that rage in his eyes?
Foluwa; the spirit of the bear still possessing him remained calm, still in the form of a bear, blood also dripping from his claws.
Arobyn cleans his blades quickly and runs to the door that faces the courtyard: “I hear yelling and a weapons clanging outside, the wizard must have sought help!” he says.
The bear growls.
Whisper puts her blades away, aware of the eyes on her. This isn’t working.
After sheathing her short swords and checking the cultists for anything interesting, she straightens up and addresses the group.
“We have different ways of doing things…this was never going to be a good fit. I’m going to make my own way from here…here’s hoping you all live.”
She stealthily leaves the room.
Scribe stood, staring with glassy eyes over the carnage in front of him; half-surprised at the casual efficiency of Whisper dispatching their quarry, half-surprised at the magic unleashed upon them from the Red Wizard. Leaning at first on the wall to steady himself, he stepped forward tentatively at Whisper‘s comment, and confused, whispers back:
“… but where will you go? … are you leaving?… will you be coming back?…”
Having known Scribe only a short time, you can’t help but feel there’s more behind the questions than simple curiosity…