Stumbling down one of Westbridge's many forgotten
alleyways, the tip of Krogenar's remaining crutch caught between two cobblestones.
His left leg, unsupported for a moment, was shot through with pain. He
grimaced, wrenched at the crutch. A cobblestone tore loose from the street.
Clutching at his abdomen, the half-orc panted, beads of sweat on his forehead.
With each breath, a faint pressure in his gut increased slightly... building.
The strider limped into a darkened corner, leaned against the cold walls,
slowing his breathing. Licking his dry lips, he mumbled. "...
the Focus... Davion... " his fingers flicked
out, counting off as he spoke. "... intro
new members... shops... " he breathed slowly.
He gathered his strength, grabbed his crutch, and pushed off from the wall.
Something
grabbed his insides. Dropping to his knees,
the strider put both hands on the street... ...
choked...
a
reddish-grey
mass of pulp
crawled
up his throat. As it finally flopped to the
floor of the alley, he gasped for air. Just in time. He knelt in the alley
again, the muscles of his back twisting. Sighing, he wiped the mucous from
his mouth, and stood up. The pile he had left in the alley twitched...
letting off a light steam - warm in the night air. Disgusted, he exited
the alleyway, walking swiftly. Though the thought made him want to retch
again, he what it was... It was muscle. Dead muscle.
At her command chair, Minli watched data appear on her armrests, from time
to time. As her agents gathered information, they sent it back to The Sylphe.
She watched them all here, like firefly facts. Constellations of information.
Watching for patterns in the swarm of unconnected facts, a new data point
appeared. '...K-walk' it
then floated off to join the other bits of information which danced on
her armrests.
