Larkspur Plagueheart

The steady tramp of booted feet intrudes on the night-sounds of the bay. Footsteps that stop before the door of a certain apartment. Ordinarily, were this a *polite*, *social* visit, whoever-it-is would probably knock. Ordinarily. This time there's just a long silence, not even the sound of anyone breathing--before the door bursts in with a splintering crash, folding around an armored shoulder as the invader shoves his way inside, runeaxe drawn, expression fixed in a predatory snarl. "*Campion.*" Lark's voice is a venomous hiss, little improving his accented Common. ( "I know you're here. Can smell you. WHERE ARE YOU?" )