PM to join Through the Streets of a deserted Zeltiva (Zivilist Gott)

[Arianthe Swansong]

Time: 51st of Winter 512 AV - Night -Sometime past ten o'clock. Where: The Streets of Zeltiva It was a cold night, much colder than the beginning of the season which Arianthe felt had been relatively mild up until this point. She was making her way down one of the foothills, back to the centre and from there to the University, for she had been spending the last five hours in the Quill's Rest where she had been writing and drinking rather too much steamed kelp tea, which she did not particularly like anyway, but since it did not disgust her wholly and the company in the Quill's Rest was second to none, she had bought cup after cup, barely noticing the time fly past. Usually, she did not venture this far from her university lodgings so late at night, especially alone and dressed as herself rather than in her men's clothes which gave her a sense of protection if she did indeed need to move about more freely. Arianthe pulled in her cloak closer around her and put her hood up, simultaneously tucking the book where she wrote all her poetry into one of the pockets in the folds of the cloak. It was so silent at this time, to the point that it surprised her. Yes, she knew that apart from in East Street, the streets of Zeltiva were not exactly wild at night in the middle of the winter season, but she would have expected a few people going to a pub or bar, or stumbling back from one. She did pass a man on his way somewhere, visibly in a rush and a seemingly much in love couple, but otherwise, absolutely nobody until she had all but come down from the foothills at the base of the mountain range, foothills upon which Zeltiva was built. She turned down a little side street, which she knew was a short cut, her desire to return home, get out of the cold and rest outweighing her natural prudence and instinct. If at first, it had seemed like a good idea, this was proved wrong when, after a couple of minutes in almost complete darkness, she heard footsteps falling in behind her. It could, of course, have been somebody going home the same way, but Arianthe could not help speeding up and, when she did, so did the footsteps. In a mild panic and not believing that she could have the ill fortune of coming so close to brigands twice in the same season, she turned away from the direction she had been intending to take and down a different path which headed closer to the sea, to the docks where there would certainly be a few people still milling around. If she had been thinking clearly, she would have gone elsewhere... after all, Arianthe was now threading her way through a maze of unknown narrow little streets while the steps still kept speeding up behind her. The sound of the sea was getting closer but she simply had no idea where she was. Arianthe realised that the footsteps had stopped when she paused for breath for, up until then, she had almost been sub-consciously running. Now, she dared consider that she had been mistaken in the belief that she was being followed - a delightful delusion that lasted less than a minute for, at that moment, a large hand grabbed her arm, in the process making her hood drop off backwards. With a mixture of fright and confusion, she screamed and attempted to pull away roughly only managing for a moment before the hand grabbed her hair and pulled her back, making her let out a small yelp of pain. "Let go of me! Let go of me now." Her voice had a way of never betraying anything that stank too much of fear or weakness so, instead of this, she now betrayed her other emotions and sounded very angry. An anger that only made the huge figure holding her let out a low laugh. She was not sure what he wanted, but he was too strong for her to form any possible escape, "I have no money. Let me go."

[Miles]

Miles was never actually drunk. He looked the part, he smelled the part, and to the streets of an unknowing Zeltiva, he definitely seemed out of sorts. The man never actually drank- a spilled sip here, a knocked over glass there and a well placed stumble painted a wonderful picture. All he needed was the right Tavern, and he could turn quite the profit from faked stumbling and apologies. It was incredible what a man would ignore given the right mix of clumsiness and larceny.

He strode through the streets, angry at himself for getting a late start- most of the wealthy drunkards had places to be in the morning, and would be giving up their dice or their cards soon. He dashed along the streets, hurried but not chased, dressed in a deep brown cloak and commoner's gray. He stood at six feet- his body toned but not outright muscular, working up a good breath jogging the alleyways as he came upon the scene.

If there was one thing he hated it was a street tough. How could they call themselves thieves? There was an art to parting fools with their riches, and these types were the lowest of the low. Miles decided then this wasn't a hero's work, this was simple: taking out the trash.

He crouched low, attempting to silence his footsteps by stepping out of his boots and letting his bare feet touch the pavement. He shivered but ignored the cold as he felt the adrenaline pump through him. Quietly making his way, he edged behind the lumbering oaf, using the struggle the woman put up as a distraction as best he could. He tried to keep to the shadows until the time was right. Lacing his fingers together, he paused waiting for the right time to club the man. (Stealth 5)