Ul'dah. The busy streets bustling with life under the Sun offered a much different sight at night. Its pulsating veins, at all bells oft busy with low peddlers, dishonest merchants and those without the means to oppose their greed; those very streets were now nigh empty. Under the veil of the night, Ul'dah was not a Jewel but an unsightly wart, a nest rustling with what the plague of gold and power had brought in men. Greed. Thugs hired to make ends meet, or deceptively sent to meet their own end. Cutthroats clutching daggers and needles, lying in wait for any carefree soul carrying too much coin. Beggars, fossilized in their posture of shame and supplication, who have abandoned all will to fight.
The scum of these parts. Scum.
With the best of his ability, Kahn'a swept those grim thoughts off his mind. There always were filthy hands pounding against the walls of the city, vainly hoping to catch a spark, the secret of wealth, for themselves. And without any stalwart mind to take action, there always would be. Could that be the reason? A reason? Something that would explain why they suddenly became the hunted.
The Keeper slipped through the streets silently, unnoticed but for the faint creak of his sandals. His steps were swift but careful. He knew that there were corners good people ought not to tread on, lest they fancied be associated with the unsavory, the shady, the cloaks. He also knew that there lived the true eyes of Ul'dah. Those that never really moved, and who were never truly seen. He meant to go there.
"Where you off to?" Or so went the candid question asked by Mikh'a, a sweet little youth too clean and too gentle to be cast in the mud. He had asked the question suns and suns ago, but no matter, the voice of the boy still echoed in his mind. He did not really know the answer. Their Captain, Erik, had not given them much to go on. They, the Red Wings, must have upset somebody best left undisturbed, for they were now branded a disposable lot, a worn-out card to be thrown away, or so they had assumed.
The air in the small streets of Ul'dah carried the fresh scent of fish, fesces, burnt meat. Enough to get hardened men's minds a good whirl. The smell was horribly oppressive, slithering into the Miqo'te's nose and down his throat. Kahn'a quickened his pace, nose wrinkled.
It mattered little that he was put out of comfort, this was an ordeal that needed be taken care of. They needed information. If they knew the real face of the enemy, they could come up with a plan. A defense. He could do this.
And after a final turn, there he was. Pearl Lane, and he had made it without raising suspicion. Kahn'a approached a wooden door, and memories streamed in his mind. He had come here before. This was an abandoned haven, its former owner a befriended enemy. But that night, it was not devoid of life when it should have.
A cloaked figure stood there, a ray of moonlight cast on the dark piece of cloth.
Kahn'a turned to stone under the frame of the door, eyes fixed on the figure.
"Are you here to help?" Kahn'a managed to whisper, inching slowly inside the shelter, the door closing shut in an uncomfortable noise.
The scum of these parts. Scum.
With the best of his ability, Kahn'a swept those grim thoughts off his mind. There always were filthy hands pounding against the walls of the city, vainly hoping to catch a spark, the secret of wealth, for themselves. And without any stalwart mind to take action, there always would be. Could that be the reason? A reason? Something that would explain why they suddenly became the hunted.
The Keeper slipped through the streets silently, unnoticed but for the faint creak of his sandals. His steps were swift but careful. He knew that there were corners good people ought not to tread on, lest they fancied be associated with the unsavory, the shady, the cloaks. He also knew that there lived the true eyes of Ul'dah. Those that never really moved, and who were never truly seen. He meant to go there.
"Where you off to?" Or so went the candid question asked by Mikh'a, a sweet little youth too clean and too gentle to be cast in the mud. He had asked the question suns and suns ago, but no matter, the voice of the boy still echoed in his mind. He did not really know the answer. Their Captain, Erik, had not given them much to go on. They, the Red Wings, must have upset somebody best left undisturbed, for they were now branded a disposable lot, a worn-out card to be thrown away, or so they had assumed.
The air in the small streets of Ul'dah carried the fresh scent of fish, fesces, burnt meat. Enough to get hardened men's minds a good whirl. The smell was horribly oppressive, slithering into the Miqo'te's nose and down his throat. Kahn'a quickened his pace, nose wrinkled.
It mattered little that he was put out of comfort, this was an ordeal that needed be taken care of. They needed information. If they knew the real face of the enemy, they could come up with a plan. A defense. He could do this.
And after a final turn, there he was. Pearl Lane, and he had made it without raising suspicion. Kahn'a approached a wooden door, and memories streamed in his mind. He had come here before. This was an abandoned haven, its former owner a befriended enemy. But that night, it was not devoid of life when it should have.
A cloaked figure stood there, a ray of moonlight cast on the dark piece of cloth.
Kahn'a turned to stone under the frame of the door, eyes fixed on the figure.
"Are you here to help?" Kahn'a managed to whisper, inching slowly inside the shelter, the door closing shut in an uncomfortable noise.
