As she tripped through the catacombs, at first mainly concerned with keeping her dress free of dust and cobwebs, it gradually dawned upon her that there were graver issues to occupy her fear: the stairway was close – not close enough for candle to illuminate, but her supernaturally sensitive eyes could easily discern the faint, sickly rays of moonlight that shone through the small entryway – but no sounds of music, nor singing, nor laughter came from the surface. The sounds of activity she could make out were less encouraging – at least to the pretty serving-maid, although the bitter, suppressed warrior heard them with mixed emotions, including a grim pleasure: shouts, screams, explosive discharges, and the clash of metal.
Our Beloved Tyrants Scene 52
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