Mottz watched Dollon from the corner of his eye, looking over his shoulder. The other assassins did the same, with slight smiles cracked across their faces.
Dollon extended two fingers and pointed them toward his resting target. A small, focused flame burst out of his fingers as he prepared to assassinate the young, sleeping Fulkar. He raised his other hand, preparing to cue everyone for an all-at-once strike.
"Hm? Wh-whatz going onnn??"
All hands steadied as that slurred, groaning statement quietly called out from the wagon.
One eye open and squinted, the drunken old man itched his booze-stained beard and tried to peer through the dark night. Suddenly, the half-awake drunk hopped off the cart and walked right through the camp without a word.
Dollon cut his fire off the moment the drunk had spoken. At first, he was worried about alerting the rest of the camp.
