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Air wents with a soft 'woosh' as seals give way. The sterile environment maintained inside collapses. Scores of men and woman turn from their tasks to stare, in faint surprise, at the Scholae in armour and his associates. Pathfinder Regini gives a cheery little wave.
One of the workers shakes his head, which takes bravery, and steps *forward*, which takes bravado, and *draws a knife* which takes a level of practically applied malice combined with stupidity and lack of foresight that can only be found in that most singular of criminal subspecies, the Slicerats. Fiercest cutters and knifefighters in Pyther, Grand, smugglers without compare, fast-running, scurry-quick, treasure-seeker slicers, each and all touchy about their reputation and trained to defend it with sharp claws of fine wrought steel.
Pathfinder Regini quietly questions the cunning, if not the courage, of drawing knives on Legion troops. This isn't Pyther. This isn't Watcher business. The Legion cannot cross the river, by tradition and by oath.
But we're way aways out past the Pyther rivers now, slick. Are you sure and certain you'll be wanting to use that knife? You could put it down. We could all talk about this here enormous shipment of Mothflower you seem to be storing, for no adaquately explainable reason.
The Slicerat lunges forward in a viciously fast jab instead. Grey Rat candidate, Slicerat's elite cadre-core of knifemen. Always bad news to find in a dark alley. Faster than many and second in murderous instinct to none.
It is possibly with some faint surprise he finds himself on the floor with a pounding headache and most of the bones in his right hand in various new, exciting arrangements. Someone else quitely coughs, past the glittering ranks of knives the Slicerats have now drawn.
Gentlemen.
You know there's a war afoot, right? You really should get proper locks for your doors. All sorts of people could sneak in while you're distracted.
