Charles<br/><br/>He supposed it could always be worse. He could be dead.<br/><br/>It had been, all things considered, a fairly foul week. Between nearly getting caught by an Osirion patrol and having to leave behind a good haul, and having the majority of his allies, as well as their home base, destroyed in a blast of greasy fire, things had reached an all time low. "Cheer up, Charlie... you got the promotion you wanted," the optimistic young half-elf pointed out. "Can it, Thomas... you're not helping," the annoyed woman, nearby, snaps, tending to a burn on the hand of one of a pair of twin boys. "No, no, Florence... it's fine. We've got to look on the bright side of things, right? I mean, it's not like we're down to a third of our strength, in our little bolt-hole in the midst of Cheliax controlled territory, right on the border between them and the Osirion's. Oh, wait, we are."<br/><br/>Charles slumped down further, performing some minor prestidigitations, idly, as he thought of what, if anything, they could do. A few ideas seemed to form, but he'd need supplies, tools... and, preferably, more hands. "Alright, let's get down to business. First thing we need to do is get some weapons." "Wait... why?" "Why? Why not? We're going to fight, we're going to take this city back, as best we can, or, at the very least, make life hell for those invading sonsofbitches. Now... where can we find weapons?"