Valcrist, clutching at his bandaged sides, limped towards the windows and could only watch as lurid flames engulfed the Morrocan night sky, with screams of death and destruction making him almost anticipate fire and brimstone of Ragnarok.
He looked around wildly, trying to see if there were any Sword of Valor munchkins running about in the vicinity. But all Valcrist could see from the windows were panicking people, gruesome beasts and the occasional dismembered body.
This isn’t happening. No.
“GODDAMNIT!” Valcrist pushed himself away from the window. Grimacing with pain from his still-fresh wounds he hastily donned his vest and armor—sans chain mail; that was with Sevrin—and limped out to the door.
“Sir Valcrist! Don’t go outside, you can’t make it!” a terrified tavern-maid shouted out from behind the bar where she hid herself. Pale and horror-stricken, it was only seeing her that Valcrist fully realized just how grave the situation was, oh how grave it was.
And then he remembered the troubleshooter the Temple of Assassins had sent, Fynn Elenium. Valcrist almost wanted to weep with frustration and anger at himself; if only he heeded the man’s advice, this could have been prevented.
But those were weak words. Could have been were not powerful enough to convey Valcrist’s utter regret and shame at himself. Set with grim determination, he went through the door, entering the fray, disregarding his wounds.
