Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

Twenty-Three

It is late into the night as Stirling lies awake on his straw mattress. He stares at the ceiling painted black above him, as little moonlight is able to weasel through the closed shutters. Shapes he knows aren't really there float around his vision as he listens to his father's heavy breathing become a rhythmic pattern of sleep.

Now's his chance. It's late enough that all of the townsfolk will be fast asleep. Even the common drunks should be finished staggering home this long after curfew. He isn't worried about running into them anyway. They can barely remember how they made it home, let alone recall anyone they saw randomly walking along the road.

Stirling still fully dressed, slips from his covers and stalks soundlessly over the floorboards, each placement of his feet strategically planned out. He knows which boards creaked and where to place his weight to avoid any possible sounds. Carefully but swiftly, he makes his way down the staircase and out the front door. The clicking of the closing door is barely even audible to himself.

The crescent moon gives off only a subtle amount of light as heavy shadows line the sides of the narrow roads creating the perfect covering for Stirling to walk amongst.

This is the only time Stirling enjoys the city. The emptiness of the streets with everyone's windows shut to keep out the chill of the night air. The colorless buildings remind him of walking through a mountain passage with only the stars watching. It gives off an almost lonely feeling as he listens to the crickets chirping.

Hugging the sides of the buildings, he strolls down the road cloaking himself in the shadows as he navigates back to where the leather shop is.

Stirling jumps at the sound of a clay object shattering on the ground. "Hey, you Miss." A drunken man slurs, the only thing keeping him standing is the wall behind him across the road from Stirling.

Stay calm. He thinks you're a girl. You're still in the clear, he reassures himself.

Doing his best impression of a female voice, he calls back to the drunken man, "I'm sorry, sir, but I must be on my way."

The drunken man leans forward. "Aw, don'cha be like that, it's late. Come here bootiful, inshide wid me. I keep ya warm," he suggests with an exaggerated welcoming motion of his arm. Without the wall to stabilize himself with he staggers off balance bending at the waist. "Ohh ope ope ope," he mumbles, waving his arms to counter the way he is tipping over.

Stirling slips into the alley between the buildings he is in front of, squeezing himself sideways between the two daub walls. His feet are lost in the mud that never sees the daylight, he walks his hands along the rough wall as he sidesteps his way to the next market road.

He can hear the drunken man calling for him. "Where'd you go, miss?"

Stirling lets out a sigh barely audible over the sucking sounds his shoes make as he pulls them free. Each step from the cement-like mud threatens to pull his shoes off as he hears the man grumble something incomprehensible along with the opening and shutting of a door.

After scooting the entire length of the building Stirling pops out on the road the leatherwork shop is on. He scrapes the mud encasing his shoes off on a wheel of a wagon left outside a building. With his shoes now less likely to leave behind muddy evidence, he proceeds on his way to the leatherwork shop only a few buildings down, the display empty with all the merchandise pulled safely inside.

The owners, Stirling assumes, live above the shop, as do most of the merchants in the city. Inspecting the second floor, he waits to see if there is any flicker of a candle or clue they might still be awake. Nothing, he checks his surroundings, glancing up and down the road before casually walking up to the entrance door.