“Good.”
Suddenly, someone started firing nearby, and Sanan turned to see a thing, shadows upon shadows, a fleeting impression of a skeletal, ghostly figure reaching for his neck, he turned, firing on it, the golden plasma bolts having no effect but shooting through to blast the foliage behind. “For Morrigan and Atum!” he heard Kadana cry, charging through the ghostly spirit, weapon in one hand, knife in the other.
“That’s nothing,” Zipacna said, “back at my current posting, I have to make do with these astoundingly bad thrice-baked corn-bread crackers most days. One day, I’ll find whoever is in charge of provisioning us, and then,” his eyes glowed, “drown him in a vat of whatever that horrific sauce they keep sending us is.”
It wasn’t entirely clear if he was joking or not.