The orcs killed a bunch of people last night, and I have no idea what’s left waiting for us up there.
The Fates aren’t big on cutting us a break, are they? One month ago, I’m thinking about how to spend my little nest-egg, now I’m wondering if I’ll ever see the light of day again.
Mollies are rotten. Or are they? I don’t really know, and it doesn’t really matter at this point. One day they seem like a tough ally to fall back on, and the next, we reckon they’re trying to get us to poison the city wells. We were given a bunch of vials to plant in the water supply. That doesn’t sit well with the worst of scumbags, so I had a few questions—questions nobody was too happy about answering. So we kept ’em, and it seems like the Mollies cut ties with us, for better or worse.
Or maybe I’m the Chief Molly now? Hard to say. More on that later.
Whatever the vials were meant to do, there was a hard rain last night, and now people are dying. Were the vials meant to kill even more people? I can’t shake the feeling that it might have been an antidote, but fuck, there’s no way we could have known that! You don’t just hand over a bunch of magic vials that seem to kill magic users on contact and expect a team like ours to follow orders without a word or two more—we’ve stuck our necks out far too much for that!
And what’s with all this new machinery coming from the docks? Whatever, doesn’t matter to me. The humans want to consort with the orcs, that’s their problem—twice the number of hits to rob, the way I see it.
I’m sick of the orcs, and I’m sick of getting jerked around. From now on, we work independent. No more taking orders from a hundred different middlemen, and definitely no more ass-kissing when we’re asked to take a blind leap. I’m head of the Mollies and I’ve got the documents to prove it, damnit! Whatever’s on the other side of those doors tomorrow, we’re gonna face it as a team. Everything’s up in the air—I want the biggest nets to catch it when it comes down.