East Street, High Noon.
The sickness had yet to leave him, really. Crowe coughed into a hand, his heart racing as it always did when moving about in the city. The once bright and bustling city was now a battleground of small frays and back alley beatings. The weather seemed to reflect the city’s mournful attitude. Rain fell on the streets of the coastal city and attempted to wash away the shame of the Coup, but was unable. Or else, the violence ran too deep to be dispatched by good intention.
Kenneric was not one to stand up to tyranny in the name of good. He wasn’t really the type of man to stand up to powerful people. Mostly he’d hide and keep his head down, and survive. After all, the once youthful student was still here! His pale visage was a shell of what it once was, sickness and turmoil had taken from him as it had his city. He slunk through the city now, his purpose a mundane need for more ink.
He traversed the streets of Zeltiva at night for the most part. For in the shadows he had an advantage over the Denvali mercenaries that hunted these fertile pastures. He moved freely through shadow and darkness, for not since he was very young had he had much trouble in that regard. But during the day, in rain like this, he depended on the hazy conditions and dreary boredom to keep sentinels off of him.
His careful forays had not always been fruitful though. Mercenaries had caught him before. And in doing so had relieved the youth of his coin on one occasion. So now he carried enough only to buy the ink he needed in his purse. His other bit of coin he carried in his boot. One could only be too careful when dealing with those recently given power. A man with something to prove was possibly the most dangerous kind. Kenneric tried to present very little to prove to those he met.
Collar up to the rain, his steps fell in fast succession as he made his way down what was once the most dangerous street in Zeltiva. Now it was just another street.
