Tirion was too old for this.
The Former Paladin propped open the door and heaved the heavy cask atop his shoulder. It wasn't so much that he was told, he told himself with a grimace, stepping into the smoke-filled haze of the Sea Witch. There was still some color in his long, grey mane, and his scarred face still bore some hint of the soldier he had once been. But weariness had begun to take its toll. Tugging at those features. Crushing. Sapping at-
"Tirion...!" the feminine voice shouted above the din. It made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "I need you to sweep the floors. Again." Or perhaps it was this screeting animal that had been riding him like a mule. Yes, that.
"Coming, you ol' hag..."
Hours passed. Finally, a moment alone. He marched into the cool night air, his pipe balanced on his fingers, and mused on the events of the past two weeks. How Circe had injured herself. How we had been called in to heal her. Why didn't Tarrant just hire a healer? The pale ******* was wealthy enough. Was he trying to send him to an early grave? He frowned as he made his way to the Modest Damsel.
Tirion had no love of Magincia. He was a loyal Britannian, one who had fought in the Wars against Minax, and Mondain before her. And he would remain faithful to Britannia until the last nail was driven into his coffin. Though the Isle and Britannia had not declared war upon each other, they might as well have.
Yet he had also grown fond of some of them. (E'en tha' no good, arrogant brat Circe. An' ye best na' tell her tha', or so 'elp me God...) They were hardly the daemon worshipping cultists he had been led to believe. But they were still formenting rebellion with his country. His home. And that-
Tirion paused to listen. Thunder? His eyes scanned the coastline. There was no flash. No sign of a storm. No. He was too familiar with that sound not to recognize what that sound meant.
Cannonfire.
The Former Paladin propped open the door and heaved the heavy cask atop his shoulder. It wasn't so much that he was told, he told himself with a grimace, stepping into the smoke-filled haze of the Sea Witch. There was still some color in his long, grey mane, and his scarred face still bore some hint of the soldier he had once been. But weariness had begun to take its toll. Tugging at those features. Crushing. Sapping at-
"Tirion...!" the feminine voice shouted above the din. It made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "I need you to sweep the floors. Again." Or perhaps it was this screeting animal that had been riding him like a mule. Yes, that.
"Coming, you ol' hag..."
Hours passed. Finally, a moment alone. He marched into the cool night air, his pipe balanced on his fingers, and mused on the events of the past two weeks. How Circe had injured herself. How we had been called in to heal her. Why didn't Tarrant just hire a healer? The pale ******* was wealthy enough. Was he trying to send him to an early grave? He frowned as he made his way to the Modest Damsel.
Tirion had no love of Magincia. He was a loyal Britannian, one who had fought in the Wars against Minax, and Mondain before her. And he would remain faithful to Britannia until the last nail was driven into his coffin. Though the Isle and Britannia had not declared war upon each other, they might as well have.
Yet he had also grown fond of some of them. (E'en tha' no good, arrogant brat Circe. An' ye best na' tell her tha', or so 'elp me God...) They were hardly the daemon worshipping cultists he had been led to believe. But they were still formenting rebellion with his country. His home. And that-
Tirion paused to listen. Thunder? His eyes scanned the coastline. There was no flash. No sign of a storm. No. He was too familiar with that sound not to recognize what that sound meant.
Cannonfire.