Here is a thing wot I wrote. just a bit of fun really, some practise, but I made a little plan and I plan to continue it, I just wondered what you guys thought at this point.
Eyes still closed and body unmoving, Morvyn Callahar let his senses slowly unfold. The humid warmth of the southern summer night smothered his body far more than the loose, sweat-damp sheet that lay half across him, the night air heavy with the smells of Zarathus drifting in between the slats of the closed shutter. Spiced meats and hot wine, ash, smoke, gutter water, blood. Woven between the scents were the night-sounds of the great city, the laughter of Eastern Mercenaries drinking away their pay, muffled moans from a prostitute plying her goods a nearby room, the step of booted feet out in the cracked stone street, the call of priests summoning the faithful to midnight prayers.
He thought at first that it might have been those calls that awoke him, but in the back of his mind something seemed misplaced, a puzzle unsolved, an unseen change in the corners of all his senses. Many men would have dismissed such a twitch of the thoughts as mere fancy. Morvyn was not such a man. He opened his eyes, letting them slowly adjust to the moonlight that filtered through the shutter. Above him, the rough, old wood of the ceiling seemed to stare back at him. His small room felt enclosing and claustrophobic, the trunk in the corner looming in the shadows, it's contents whispering in voices that couldn't be heard. Apart from the trunk, a small desk and the narrow bed the room was tiny, barely even enough space to stand. He could have gone somewhere far better than this, but had not. Such places had eyes that saw and ears that listened, whereas inns where a single coin could get a man such quarters were so numerous that one could dissappear into them and none would ever know. Such anonymity suited him.
Morvyn lay there for some time, before rising silently. Reaching under his bed he found a pile of clothing, grey cloth trousers and a dark shirt, nothing out of the ordinary. He pulled them on, his skinny but tall frame making the clothes hang loose and long, before belting them more securely, and covering his feet in soft leather boots. Then he opened the trunk, staring down into it's contents for a second. He blinked, then reached in a pulled out a cloak the colour of stormclouds, swathing it around himself. Despite the cloaks size and apparent weight, it did not increase the already uncomfortably high heat, but instead felt cooling and smooth, like woven water on his skin. The cloak seemed a part of the shadows, when he pulled up the hood Morvyn almost seemed to dissapear. It had cost him much for the robe, but on nights such as this the price was worth it. He took a curved dagger from the trunk, it's sheath black leather inscribed with strange symbols, and checked the blade. It glittered for a moment in the night, before he slid it back home and buckled it under his cloak. Finally he took a string of small black pouches and tied them to his belt, before closing the trunk quietly. stepping to the shutter, he peered through the slats. The street outside was dark as the sins of those who walked it, but such cut-throats and criminals held no fear for Morvyn. Though the moon was bright, deep between the tall, packed houses of the oceanside districts it's light came to nothing and the shadows endured. He smiled, a small tight smile which was gone as quickly as it appeared. Tonight was the night.
The door creaked as it opened, but quietly, and was quickly shut again once Morvyn had slipped through the portal. He was nigh-on invisible in the alley that the door opened into, going through the kitchens rather than the front door was an easy way to avoid anyone looking for a drunken mark leaving the dingy tap room of the tavern. Besides, it was late enough that Sadra the cook and his scampering serving slaves would be sound asleep, and Morvyn was quiet enough to avoid waking them. The night air seemed pregnant with tension, and he stopped for a second to look all around him. Nothing stirred, Morvyn was alone. He stepped swiftly to the near street, the buildings which walled it high-lighted by the fires that flickered from the distant palaces upon The Mount of the Fallen. Morvyn looked both ways, saw the street's emptiness, then began to stride across the cracked flags, each stained by the passing of years and worn by the feet of the thousands that walked them every day. The Bazaars and stalls that lined the street-sides were empty, their owners having headed home for the night. In the merchants districts trade never stopped and even now flickering torches would illuminate the streets and allow midnight profits to be made, but in the poor outskirts near the waterside cliff it was more dangerous to be a merchant or stall-master out when the knife gangs and worse haunted the streets. If Zarathus' City Council cared enough about the poor districts enough to send in guards then Guard Commander Zephyn Allyr would have bowed and scraped and told them that his patrols found nothing while never sending a man even a foot into the Cliffside at night. Here the only guards one found would be hard-eyed mercenaries protecting their master's warehouses, and they did not concern themselves with anything other than the job they were paid for. In Morvyn's Northern home such places were not known, for the cities were smaller than even just the cliffside, and the rule of law held by much stronger hands. Usually he didn't not care one way or another about the difference, but tonight Morvyn was grateful for Allyr and his master's lack of concern for the poor folk. He didn't want any sword swinging fool to be getting in his way, not when so much was at stake.
It was not long before Morvyn could see the street's end before him, a glimpse of the moonlit sky above the great ocean below Zarathus, and hear the waves roll and whisper in the night. There was no wind and the sticky air was almost choking, the same fell dissonance that he knew had woken him sullenly and silently watching him from beyond mortal sight. He was sweating profusely, his brow wet and his clothes damp, and not just from the oppressive heat. It was far too quiet out. The sounds that had awoken him had died away to nothing, while the smells of the hot gutter were filling his nose and almost making him gag. Every other denizen of the cliffside seemed to have enough sense to stay inside, he reflected wryly, the very basic senses which all men had urging them to lock the door and wait for morning to come. He felt the same urge, but knew it for what it was, and repressed it, heading on.
He stopped before he reached the end of the street, and turned off into an ally, his cloak sweeping silently as his dissappeared into the deepening shadows. Ahead of him, at the end of the ally, was another tall house, seemingly no different from the others, but as he saw it his hindbrain leapt in irrational fear, the fear of the hunted, the fear of prey. He crushed the fear, and strode on, though slower than before. The house looked back, made of yellowed stone with dark wooden beams, it was clearly very ancient and had three stories, each of which had shuttered windows. They seemed like the closed eyes of a slumbering beast, and Morvyn felt a quiver of excitement. He was about to wake the beast, and test himself against it's fury, and the anticipation of such always caused his blood to surge and his heart to quicken. He reached the door, and was about to reach out to it when he noticed that the pitted wood was scored faintly with a number of strange sigils. Morvyn swore silently. This was an unwelcome complication, and he hadn't the time to deal with it as he would hope. The cloak would not be enough, something more was now necessary.