Post/Author/DateTime

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#1 zombiegleemax Jun 06, 2005 18:06:33

Facing the high stone wall in a huddle, he strikes a match, protecting it from the cold wet rain that has been pelting Mordentshire for the past three days. Two quick puffs and the hand-carved pipe is lit and giving off whisps of smoke. Turning, he slumps back-on to the wall and slides down, deeper into his dun greatcoat, into a more comfortable position in the hopes that he could actually enjoy the tobacco. Eyes peer out from beneath the rim of a tri-cornered hat to take a lazy scan of the damage caused by the heavy rainfall. The moon above is high and full, yet barely noticable through the darkness and raging rain. The gaslamps placed strategically throughout the sleeping town give off a faint, dying glow, yet it illuminates perfectly the slick, muddy ground. Tracks of footprints riddle this and way and that despite the overhanging gloom, a testament to the fact that even in this sort of weather there were those who were always up and about. The Battered Sailor, a pub just a few doors down, was more than enough evidence to support this claim. Yet it is only when the front door opens to let someone stagger home does the sound of music drift out into this miserable night, blending perfectly with the din of a dozen alcohol-induced conversations. Another puff of smoke disintegrates in the rain. A bell chimes loudly in the distance, almost as if in competition with the booming thunder from up above. It is the first bell past highmoon, marking the first hour since his shift started. Cursing he lets the rain snuff his pipe before dumping its contents and replacing it in a pouch on his belt. "Guess I should get back at it," he mumbles over a disheartening sigh, before pushing himself off the wall to begin once again a routine patrol through the ankle-deep, mud-sodden road. Not a single soul shared the streets, but he knows damn well that that meant nothing. Hand on the hilt of his sheathed rapier he walks on. A loud sharp crack, like splitting stone, jerks his head west, towards the walled embankment that leads down into the belly of Mordentshire's docks. Not able to make out anything through the worsening weather, he plows through the mud--nearly losing his footing on several occassions--until he happens across the source of the crash. A statue lays broken on the ground at the bottom of one of the dock's salt-battered staircases, obviously haven fallen from the 'wall' above. It is a beautifully crafted stone sculpture of a winged warrior bearing the arms and armor of a time long since forgotten. Its wings tower above the warrior's shoulders, sitting almost peacefully on its sculpted back. It, along with several others of similar likeness, was on display all throughout the town for who knows how long; hauntingly beautiful, yet cryptic with age. Lantern held out before him, he begins the walk down the staircase, his peering eyes locked on the broken statue. He manages not three steps before he slips on the wet wood, and begins to tumble painfully down the rest of the stairs. The lantern follows suit with a clatter, the force of which extinguishes the flame. In the darkness near the bottom, and with a painful wince, he tries to push himself to his knees, but his gloved hands slip on the mud and he falls back to the ground. A streak of lightning blows away the darkness for a split second, and he manages, finally, to push himself back to his feet and retrieve the snuffed lantern. Glaring, he re-lights the lantern, then turns his anger towards the broken statue. "Piece o' shite! Lay there all broken. Bah! Ye deserve it!" With his free hand he wipes the muck from his coat, and once satisfied, he begins to rinse his gloves in the still-falling rain. Another bolt of lightning tears through the sky, arcing wickedly across the near horizon, and the veteran watchman's gnarled face scrunches up in confusion at the sight before him. It wasn't mud on his hands, but something red. Something...sticky. Trying to clear the riddle from his mind--he knew he wasn't badly injured from the fall--he turns, the light from his lantern falling directly upon the shattered stone statue. The question left his mind, abruptly, with a gasp. Blood. The statue is bleeding. The horn at his side--a tool used by all members of the watch to call for back-up in times of need--comes to his lips, and he begins to blast the heavy notes of summoning. (This is where YOU come in)