The guard chuckles. “Heh, better, uh, maybe. But, uh, best in a cell it sounds like.” Pathfinder’s face turns white and bleak. For a moment she stops petting Mako. In all likelihood, the guard is right on where she will be heading in the future.
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The eastward road to the Tall Tail Inn is seems more lively than Parc Mur Avenue. Gangs of loud citizens walk the streets in troops sometimes larger than the party. Occasionally an armored squad of Guardsmen weave in and out of view. Sometimes they break up packs of loiterers, sometimes they stand vigilant in front of apartments. In an alley, two Guardsmen hold their blades cautiously beside a covered figure on a stretcher. Long threads of golden hair peek out from the blanket. The Guards wave the party along with a swift fanning of their steel. “Keep your eyes forward. Return to your homes.” The other Guardsman’s face is ghost white. Two blocks pass over the course of the next ten minutes. Most faces in the crowd are unremarkable. Roland’s every-men and women. A scattered few appear wealthier, usually guarded by armed protectors. Mercenaries, Guard, mages. They will be safe for the night. A resounding boom travels through the street, quickly followed by three roaring echoes. Not fireworks, the sky remains a stagnant gradient of amber to deep, dark purple. Thunder perhaps, though it rains naught. Maybe gunfire, yet not followed by the typical screams that trail behind their volley.
The other guard is without a firearm, but hangs a long sword at his side. He grimaces when hit by the sergeant, quickly throwing his arm up in a salute. He wears a reflective breastplate over his uniform. He must be a bit over thirty. “Ack, um, Amaury Gagnon, sir.” He drops his salute early, but shoots it back up a bit too high. “Infantry, sir, Captain, um, sir.” His hand falls back to his blade |