[b]Private Box, Hallway[/b]

"I can spare no bodies, Kira," the thrall says in the Vampire's voice. "Kurze is hunting, The Son is occupied, Burke is worthless to us, Willa has no ship."
"Where is she, Orohome?"
"South, far south, now, but she is coming."
"If Kurze and the Captain are back by the time she shows her face-"
"They will not be. You know this. I know this. Calculate, Kira."
There is silence.
"Fucking... you're right. We can beat her but the Captain will be pissed about the losses."
"You must choose from among your agents, Kira. Find the star and we can... manage, the Desolator."
"I'll find someone, someone always owes me."

Adrian feels a black pit open in his stomach before the words are spoken.
"Why not the ones outside your door?" the Vampire says.

[b]The Cells[/b]

The Orc does not reply. He meets your gaze and says nothing, silently fishing a small wooden box from his pocket.
Casually, deftly, he rolls a cigarette with the contents. His right hand was once broken, trembles so slightly where it never healed right. His metal knuckles glint dully in the hissing light of the sconce in the wall. Tendons shift in his forearms, biceps swell in the curve of his arm. With a ruby-tipped light stick, he ignites, and inhales.
As he speaks, acrid smoke plumes from his nose and wafts to the high window of your cell.
"I was like you, once," he says. "What will you do if your god is ripped from your heart, Cold Hands?"
His voice reminds you of visiting monk who came once to your monastery, mild like summer tundra. You are suddenly aware how your fists ache, but faintly, to kiss his face.