The underground cistern was quiet, save for the dripping of slime and the ragged, wheezing breaths of Marquis Grieve.
The Toad noble was lying in a heap of mud, his velvet suit ruined, his face swollen and purple from where the Wolf Lord had nearly taken his head off.
He groaned, trying to push himself up. His webbed hand slipped in the muck.
"My... my collection..." Grieve mumbled, spitting out a tooth. "I must... escape..."
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Footsteps echoed on the stone. Not the heavy, panicked boots of Warlords. These were precise, polished, terrifyingly calm footsteps.
Two figures emerged from the shadows of the tunnel.
Balthazar, the Wolf Butler, stood on the left. He was wearing a pristine black tailcoat and adjusting a pair of white gloves that remained miraculously clean despite the sewer air.
Alistair, the Snake Butler, stood on the right. He held a clipboard and a mana-lantern.
