There’s gonna need to be a fight scene soon. Two-thirds of the party rather badly wants to Smite some Evil right now. They’re only not chastising the wicked as they go because the wicked are outnumbering them thousands to one, and some very irate people are going to be coming over the wall anyway. It’s gonna be bad in the city, when it falls – and that’ll be despite the best efforts of the army about to overrun it.
The three of them moved as quickly as they dared through the blossoming outrages and atrocities playing out in the courtyard. Nate and Maddox’s hands were white-knuckled on their weapons by the time they reached the vile temple’s alcove; the Monsignor looked almost bored, not even bothering to leer or chortle. “Prepare yourselves, stout warriors,” he told the two men. “This is where steel may be of some use.”
“How bad will it be?” asked Maddox, flexing his fingers out of the stiffness his ire had imposed on them. “And how many will there be.”
“I have absolutely no idea,” the Monsignor told them with a grin that almost seemed sincere. “There may be fighting, within, unless they’ve all done us the favor of a mass suicide pact already. As for numbers?” He shrugged. “Fewer than the ones who entered the Fane. When rats cannot abandon a sinking ship, they naturally will turn on each other. Men are much the same, only more inventive about it.”