There were moments in life when a man had to make hard choices he didn’t want to make. This was one of those moments for Kreig. Octavis was a real and true threat, one needing to be taken out. However, if he was telling the truth and people were already sent out to set the Tent City on fire to clear out the opening to the mine, then Kreig was probably already too late. However, certain things didn’t add up. And maybe in the smallish part of the back of Kreig’s brain that hadn’t been repeatedly struck as a result of his prize fighting profession… he’d realize that.
For one, while Octavis had claimed he’d sent his minions out to light the burn, he was still in the heart of where the burn was going to happen. His tent was still laid out. There was no sign of an evacuation or dismantling. Kreig and everyone else in Sunberth knew if the Slag Heap, for example, ever sparked a fire in Tent City, it was all over. There would be no fighting it. It would engulph whole unofficial sections of Sunberth and they’d be gone in the chimes, not even bells.
Half-blinded, Kreig balled up his fist and punched blindly. His accusations of calling Octavis a rat having not yet really died on his lips. His fist connected with a huge force, driving itself completely into Octavis’ half dissolved face and flattening the bone beneath his knuckles. Grey matter splattered everywhere, even across Kreig as The Bloated’s head exploded at the sheer force of the impact. His body jerked in death, freeing a swinging symbol of an almost horrific bloated stomach on a chain to clank against the floor from where it was hidden beneath the tatters of his clothing.
Kreigs eyes chose that moment to completely close, the burning sensation reaching an almost unbearable level. He could see, but just barely enough to stumble around. They were in serious need of some sort of rinse and there was absolutely nothing remotely like clean water in the tent. There were only bodies now, one cask of wine on a small side table and a big work table stretched out on the far side of the room by what looked like the remains of a bed. The work table was covered in paperwork, a journal, a map very similar to the one Kreig already had, and piles and piles of notes and sketches.
Kreig could still run if he wanted, choosing to believe Octavis and see if he could stop those set in motion to torch the city, or he could take the time to figure out how to care for his eyes and regroup. Octavis wasn’t moving. There was no way he was alive. And sadly none of the children seemed to be that were in the tent so lifelessly strewn about.
For one, while Octavis had claimed he’d sent his minions out to light the burn, he was still in the heart of where the burn was going to happen. His tent was still laid out. There was no sign of an evacuation or dismantling. Kreig and everyone else in Sunberth knew if the Slag Heap, for example, ever sparked a fire in Tent City, it was all over. There would be no fighting it. It would engulph whole unofficial sections of Sunberth and they’d be gone in the chimes, not even bells.
Half-blinded, Kreig balled up his fist and punched blindly. His accusations of calling Octavis a rat having not yet really died on his lips. His fist connected with a huge force, driving itself completely into Octavis’ half dissolved face and flattening the bone beneath his knuckles. Grey matter splattered everywhere, even across Kreig as The Bloated’s head exploded at the sheer force of the impact. His body jerked in death, freeing a swinging symbol of an almost horrific bloated stomach on a chain to clank against the floor from where it was hidden beneath the tatters of his clothing.
Kreigs eyes chose that moment to completely close, the burning sensation reaching an almost unbearable level. He could see, but just barely enough to stumble around. They were in serious need of some sort of rinse and there was absolutely nothing remotely like clean water in the tent. There were only bodies now, one cask of wine on a small side table and a big work table stretched out on the far side of the room by what looked like the remains of a bed. The work table was covered in paperwork, a journal, a map very similar to the one Kreig already had, and piles and piles of notes and sketches.
Kreig could still run if he wanted, choosing to believe Octavis and see if he could stop those set in motion to torch the city, or he could take the time to figure out how to care for his eyes and regroup. Octavis wasn’t moving. There was no way he was alive. And sadly none of the children seemed to be that were in the tent so lifelessly strewn about.