Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

One: Light

As a member of the Shadow's Reach city guard, Blane had seen a great many things; things that were disturbing, things that were surprising, and things that were downright horrifying.

Things like the shrieking old man currently running amok through the market square, naked as the day he was born and fresh from squatting in someone's gutter filth. His arms were laden with stolen goods.

Things like that. Things that happened far too often for him to even bat an eyelid anymore.

Jase and Arun, who were newer recruits to the ranks, hadn't worked this out yet. The clanking of their armour and their enraged yells joined in with the relic's garbled hollering as they ducked and weaved in the throng, tripping over each other and making an equal nuisance of themselves. Blane sighed and waited.

People passed him looks as they made a quick exit, ranging from the baffled to the furious, and he offered small, polite nods in return. When the old man shot free of the crowd like a pebble from a sling, Blane reached out and grabbed him neatly by the ends of his grizzled beard. His momentum carried him forward for just a few seconds more before he came to stop with a howl and the plinking of hairs being torn out.

Blane turned a bored stare onto his recruits as they too were spat out of the edge of the crowd, tripping over their own feet and falling with twin clangs onto the cobbles. He had the gutter tramp by the skinny arm, and dragged him forward a few paces as he moved to loom over the idiots on the ground.

"If I ever see a shameful performance like that again, boys, I'll feed you to the first demon I see," he growled.

Arun craned up his neck to offer a sheepish glance, right before his visor slipped down with a clatter. Blane rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the old man who was swearing at him in Tochk. Blane had never learned much of the language in the fleeting years he had attended school, but an insult to one's mother was universally recognisable regardless of language. With a sharp crack and another howl, the man's nose broke.

"Take him in," Blane said, handing over the old man to his subordinates, who had found their way to their feet, "Confiscate all of this and return it if appropriate. You know what to do."

"Aye, sir."

He watched them go, and then began winding his way through the aisles of the market. It was mostly packed up; the Light Fayre had ended several days ago and what was left were those merchants who didn't have so far to travel. It was the blissful end of Blane's least favourite time of year, too; the light season represented no days' leave, many arrests, too much paperwork, too many patrols to organise and a city full to the brim with people of all kinds, even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. Just two days before he had had to forcefully remove a harem Lord from Klinort who had commandeered the entire upper floor of an inn and was in the business of purchasing 'milk women.'

Precisely what a 'milk woman' was Blane had thought it imprudent to ask. He could guess, and his guesses were enough to keep him from prying further.

The market was still a blaze of colour in the usually-drab city despite its depleted size, and without the pressure of so much to do it was pleasant to browse for once. He even managed to squeeze in a midday meal while on shift, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to do that. With the remains of a hastily gobbled down meat pie sitting comfortably in his belly, Blane was almost tempted to call it a good day.

Almost.

At first, the approaching garbled shrieks just made him groan, assuming the twin idiots he had sent off with the tramp had slipped and let him go. He began to move towards the far end of the market in the direction of the noise, picking up the pace when he realised that it didn't at all sound like the shrieking of the man he had just arrested. He began to make out words; they were not speaking in Tochk, but in terrified Common, and the crowd was beginning to move as one like an uneasy farm beast.