He'd made straight for the broken tower, where he paced, breathed, and finally -- when that didn't do the trick -- found something to punch. Wood, not stone. That helped.

Exiting the tower, Cullen looks up at the sky. It's after noon.

With a curse, he strides toward the cellars.






"Sorry," he announces, and then immediately regrets it; if there was peace and quiet, he's broken it. More quietly, steps slower: "Got held up."