Dim Prisons and Drakes
I yawned and sipped my tea, wishing I had more; my travel cup (carved lovingly from wood by an artisan who used to be an artist – a sculptor) was not insulated, and the tea within had long since grown cold. I flexed my fingers in my gloves.
It was an unusually chilly morning, so why was I out in it?
The quarry was covered in a light fog which obscured vision past a hundred feet. Good for us to avoid detection as we sat over it, but bad for us to actually see what was going on below us.