Tonight, Minas Tirith was exceptionally raucous.
Torches formed twisting ribbons of light, winding between the fjord's construction site and the camps, casting flickering human shadows on the cliff faces.
In the Iron Fist Gang's camp, the atmosphere was oppressive.
Grom sat on an overturned asphalt drum, repeatedly wiping his enormous iron hammer with a piece of oilcloth.
Around him, a dozen of his most trusted men formed a circle, each with a grim expression.
"Boss, the garrison has sealed off the woods. The body's been carried away too." A tall, skinny miner rubbed his hands together. Half of one of his ears had been sheared off in a mining accident. "I asked around. The Wildfire Gang guys were taken in for questioning, but on our end... the garrison hasn't come at all."
