FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

A solitary figure sat perched quietly on a stool in the gloom at one end of the bar, far away from the feeble light of the oil lamps. A small glass of clear liquid sat at its elbow and was as of yet untouched since the bartender had tentatively placed it in front of the stranger several minutes before. The figure was, for the most part, rather unremarkable. It wore a heavy grey cloak with a hood that threw its face into deep shadows. Only the end of its short muzzle was seen protruding out from under the heavy cloth. A pale scar creased the short brown fur of its muzzle, running from the end of its nose to somewhere in the shadows beneath the hood.

The figure remained hunched motionless over the bar for quite some time, perhaps brooding over the stained and battered surface upon which its arms rested or perhaps it was just drunk and lost in something that might have passed for thought. The bartender wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

Kenham Donwall sighed nervously and turned to pick a mug from the rack of glassware behind him. He slowly and methodically polished it with a somewhat ragged and dirty looking piece of cloth and watched the stranger at the end of the bar out of the corner of his eyes. There were few things made him nervous, but this stranger was one of them. It's unusual, musky scent was permanently etched in his mind, the memories fresh and bright even though it had been many years since he had encountered a member of this particular species. Barely a third of the grizzly bartender's size, the stranger should have been harmless enough to someone with the size and strength of a grizzly bear, yet Kenham was still edgy. He'd been in this business a long time and had seen and dealt with nearly every sentient species that walked the land. He'd learned over the years that wolverines were a difficult species to deal with. Glass clinked as he placed the mug back on the rack. His paw stole to his left forearm and his expression darkened. An old scar lurked underneath the fur there, given to him many years ago by a drunk and belligerent wolverine in a bar at the edge of the mountains that lay far to the west. Kenham had tried to kick the drunk off of the premises but the creature had struggled with surprising strength and had managed to break free of his grasp. A blade had suddenly appeared in its grip and Kenham had barely managed to get his arm up in time to block the blow. The wolverine's slash had cut to the bone and Kenham had never forgotten the bitter, mocking laughter that had erupted from the creature as he had sunk to his knees in pain and tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood that had poured from his lacerated arm. Kenham still remembered the crazed look in its eyes and how the creature had raised his blade again, this time with the intent to strike away his life. At the last moment, shouts were heard behind him and the wolverine had raced away into the night. Kenham vaguely remembered strong hands pulling him to his feet before wave after wave of dizziness swept over him and the world drifted away...

Kenham had spent the rest of the night in the care of the local doctor getting his arm stitched back together. He'd been lucky. The wolverine's strike had cut the major artery that ran through his arm but those who had brought him to the doctor had had the foresight to apply a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. His recovery had been slow and painful and his arm had to be slung and had been pretty much nearly useless for well over a month while tissue and nerves healed and strength returned. That incident had not only scarred his arm but his mind as well and the grizzly had been very wary of wolverines every since that day. Needless to say, he hadn't exactly been happy when this one had walked into his bar a couple of hours ago. Thankfully it had been quiet so far.

The cloaked figure at the end of the bar stirred and a paw clamped the shot glass by its elbow. The glass and its contents disappeared into the darkness beneath the hood. A moment later the now empty glass was thumped back down on the bar. Without a word, the figure flicked the glass with a clawed finger. It slid down the bar and came to a halt in front of Kenham. The bartender sighed and turned to face the racks of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. His paw hesitated for a moment before it plucked a clear, eight sided glass bottle that was slightly less than half full of an equally clear liquid from the shelf. Harsh odours swirled around his head when he uncorked it and carefully tipped the bottle over the small glass. Spilled drops meant a corrosive death for the finish on the bar and Kenham expertly filled the small glass with a steadiness that would have done a surgeon proud. He grasped the diminutive glass between a huge thumb and index finger and ambled his way down the bar to the hooded wolverine. Kenham gently, almost reverentially, set the glass down in front of the wolverine and then retreated quickly to the other end of the bar. The hooded figure nodded once but otherwise made no move. The stranger should be almost dead by now Kenham mused as he shook his head in wonder. He'd seen some hard drinkers in his time but he'd never before seen anyone drink twelve shots of Krimm's Ultimate Brainkiller and remain even partially upright, and amazingly this stranger didn't even seem to be drunk. Kenham shook his head again and picked up his old rag. He had one customer who used that stuff to degrease axles and he figured that its effect on brain tissue couldn't be all that much different than its effect on axle grease.

Kenham knew that he should cut the stranger off and send him on his way out into the night but he knew very well that one didn't just 'cut off' a wolverine, especially one that was twelve shots into the Brainkiller. Such a course of action might prove to be very unwise. Kenham sighed and began to polish another mug. He wasn't exactly sure that he wanted that wolverine to sit there and drink all night either. There was a very real possibility, at the stranger's current rate of consumption, that he might run out of Brainkiller before the wolverine passed out, got in a fight, died, or went completely insane. Knowing the potency of the liquid that the wolverine was drinking, Kenham suspected that some strange combination of all four of those possibilities wasn't completely out of the question. He'd seen that Brainkiller do some strange things to people before. Kenham ground his teeth and polished a stubborn spot off of the mug in his paws. Any way he looked at it, it was going to be an interesting night.

Kenham placed the mug on a rack full of assorted glassware behind him and leaned on the bar for a moment, his eyes roving lazily over the gloomy interior. It was a quiet night and the bar was mostly deserted. A good thing, he thought. That way there would be less people to get in the way if the hard drinking stranger at the other end of the bar came unglued when he finally cut him off the booze. He scratched the side of his muzzle and fought off the sudden urge to pour himself a stiff drink. There was a thump from the other end of the bar and the shot glass skittered down the stained and nicked surface to slide to a halt in front of him. Kenham stared at the empty glass and sighed. The only other three people in the bar talked in low voices at a table several paces away. Thirteen shots deep and that damned wolverine was still going. By all rights he should be a puddle on the floor by now. Kenham refilled the glass and tucked the bottle back into its special place with such care and gentleness that he could have been handling a keg of gunpowder. A voice was suddenly raised in anger at the only occupied table in the bar. Kenham tensed involuntarily and tried to ignore the commotion. Sometimes, as a bartender, you just didn't want know.

Kenham slowly and carefully brought the drink to the wolverine. A drop of the corrosive liquid spilled from the edge of the glass when he set it down. Kenham grimaced and wiped it up quickly. A whitish circular spot was left behind on the wood. The angry voice continued to vent behind him until it abruptly stopped, apparently mollified by something one of the other people at the table had said. The hooded wolverine nodded to the bartender and pulled his drink closer. Kenham was about to return to the other end of the bar when the stranger spoke.

"Fool should learn when to keep his mouth shut." The voice was coarse, the accent strange, and the words chilled Kenham to the bone. He felt a tingling in the old wound on his arm and he watched apprehensively as the shot glass and its contents disappeared under the hood. There was a brief glance of stained and yellow teeth. One of the lower canines was missing. The glass was thumped back down on the bar, half of its contents missing.

Kenham's couldn't shake the chill that lurched up his spine. He waited uneasily for the stranger to continue talking but he remained silent and motionless. As a bartender, Kenham had to be a good listener but he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear anything that this particular person had to say. After a moment where he began to wonder if the nearly lethal dose of Brainkiller consumed over the last two hours had finally caught up with the wolverine, Kenham returned to his post at the other end of the bar. He sensed trouble brewing and his paw involuntarily went to the stout oak club that lay hidden underneath the bar. The smooth wood reassured the grizzly to some extent and he really hoped he wouldn't need to use his old friend tonight. He sighed and leaned his elbows on the bar. The wolverine was silent for the moment, or maybe it had finally passed out, it was hard to tell. There was little else for Kenham to do so he bent an ear towards the other three people in the bar.

"I'm telling ya, whatever it was I shot it sure as hell wan't one of us." The coyote thumped a fist against the stained table and took a long swallow from the mug of ale clenched in his other paw. His companions, a male grey fox and bobcat, looked on bemusedly at the inebriated canine.

"If it wasn't one of us, what was it then?" The bobcat spoke up, a mocking smile creasing his muzzle.

"I dunno." The coyote said, his voice muffled by the mug of beer he had raised to his mouth, "but it was uglier den anything I ever seen before." He set the mug down on the table with a thump and swayed slightly in his chair. The grey fox smirked and shook his head.

The coyote stabbed a finger towards him. "Wassa matter? You don't believe me?" The coyote was almost yelling at this point. His vulpine companion leaned back and waved his hands placatingly.

"Hey, the captain told us it was some crazed puma. Maybe he was drunk or something." The bobcat snickered and took a small sip of his drink.

The coyote's eyes crossed as a fly buzzed in the vicinity of the end of his muzzle. He swiped a paw at it and nearly fell out of his chair. The fox leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his muzzle and shook his head.

"Wan't no puma." The coyote said indignantly, and waved his nearly empty mug around wildly. "No fur around its eyes and nose, not even on its paws. Had no tail either. 'Twas a big bastard though, bigger even than the Captain and it stunk like you wouldn't believe."

"Maybe he had mange." The bobcat said, a smirk plastered on his muzzle.

"Mange!" the coyote spluttered, almost choking on his beer. "Mangy puma still smells like puma, an it don't make your tail fall off either. You should know that." He took another long swallow from his mug.

The coyote looked surreptitiously around the bar for a moment and then leaned forward to talk in a low voice. "I'm wondering if it wan't one of the Pale Ones. You know, a human." His eyes darted around fearfully. They lingered on the dark, hooded figure at the end of the bar for a moment before turning back to his companions.

Both of the coyote's companions were stunned to silence. The bobcat stared at the drunk coyote incredulously and nearly broke out laughing.

"Now that's funny. A human." He chuckled and shook his head. "You know that they haven't been seen around here in well over a hundred years. Chances are that they're all dead by now." The fox nodded in agreement.

"Makes sense to me though, why else d'ya think the Captain wouldn't let anyone near the body?" The coyote waved his mug to illustrate his point. Beer frothed over the rim and splattered to the floor. "He's kept a real tight lid on everything to do with the whole incident too. Probably don't want anybody to start spreading rumours."

The fox shot the coyote an exasperated glance. "What the hell do you think you're doing right now then? And there's any number of reasons why the Captain would want to keep every one away from the body." He snorted and shook his head. "A human. I'd be careful if I were you. If the Captain hears that you've been flapping your lips he'll hang you by your tail."

The coyote shrugged and took a swig of beer. "The only way he's gonna hear about it is if you two open your damn mouths at the wrong time." he pointed at them accusingly.

The fox's expression darkened and his ears went back. He glared at the coyote for a moment but he kept his mouth shut. All three of them sat in silence for several moments and sipped their drinks.

The coyote's companions were unconvinced by his drunk ramblings. They stared at each other for a moment and the fox shrugged. The coyote tipped his mug to a ridiculous angle to drain the last of the ale from it. His chair balanced precariously for a moment on two legs before thumping back safely to all four. He lurched forwards over the table and blinked startled eyes. His companions tried their best not to break out laughing. The coyote recovered quickly and waved his mug up at arm's length over his head.

"Hey bartender!" The he barked over his shoulder "Need 'nother beer."

The huge form of the ursine bartender nodded and picked a fresh mug from the rack behind him. He turned and disappeared through a door at one end of the bar.

The coyote turned back to his companions. "You guys having 'nother one?"

The bobcat shook his head. "No thanks."

"Not me." spoke the fox, "I have the early patrol tomorrow morning and I've had too much as it is anyways. It's not going to fun getting up tomorrow morning." He grimaced at that thought. The coyote looked a bit put out when he learned that his companions were calling it a night. "Come on guys," he whined "one more. Twon't kill ya."

"No, but the Captain might if I show up late with a hangover." The fox pushed his chair back and stood up after depositing a modest tip for the bartender on the table. The bartender re-emerged from the back room with a mug of ale in his paw and ambled towards the table. The bobcat stifled a yawn, pawed a few coins from a pocket for the bartender and then he too stood up. The bartender arrived at the table and set the mug in front of the coyote. The drunk canine groped in his coin pouch and there was the clink of metal as he withdrew a pawful of coins. He dumped them on the table and muttered a curse as a few coppers rolled away from his grasp. Finally, he managed to collar all of the errant coins and proceeded to use a clawed finger to push four of the copper coloured ones towards the bartender in an exaggerated manner. The Grizzly swept them and the tips from the bobcat and fox off of the table with a huge paw and nodded appreciatively at the three before wandering back in the general direction of the bar.

"You sure you're going to be able to find your way home okay?" The bobcat asked, doubt lacing his words.

"Yeah, yeah." The coyote mumbled and waved a dismissive paw at his companions. The bobcat opened his mouth to say something else but the fox shrugged, grabbed his arm and steered him towards the door.

"Let him drink till his shift starts if he wants to." He muttered as he and the bobcat walked towards the door. "It's his tail on the line if he shows up late and still drunk again."

The bobcat had nothing to say to that. They'd been through this scenario many times before. They stepped out through the door and the moist coolness of a foggy autumn right wrapped itself around them. The click of their claws slowly faded into the mist as they found their separate ways home.

Kenham leaned an elbow on the bar and rested his muzzle on a paw. His eyes wandered around the nearly empty room for a moment before he sighed and closed his eyes. Just that coyote and that damned wolverine left. A thought wormed its way to the forefront as he momentarily relaxed. He was getting too old for this. The late nights, the drunks, the assorted crazies that wandered in through is door in search of drink, and once finding it, usually ended up getting a bit crazier. He yawned and scratched an ear. He'd gained more than a few grey hairs in his pelt over the years because of this place and all the others like it that he'd worked at or run over the last thirty years. Perhaps it was past time that he retired from this line of work. He definitely wasn't getting any younger and after every passing year it became more and more difficult for him to put up with all of the crap that came with owning a bar. His thoughts turned toward other possibilities as he waited for the bar to empty. Neither of his sons had shown an interest in running this place so he figured that he might as well sell it. He'd saved up a fair bit of money over the years, enough that with the money he'd gain from the sale of his bar that his he and his mate would be able to live comfortably for some time. He had long nurtured an idea that when he retired he'd move out of the city and head back out west to the lands where he'd spent his youth. He'd heard from some of the wanderers that occasionally found their way through his door that things hadn't changed much out that way. He missed the mountains and the thick pine forests, the cooler air and the clear waters of the river that ran past the village where'd he'd grown up...

Kenham forced himself back to the present. He turned and sorted through some assorted glassware and then spent a few moments neatly arranging the liquor bottles that sat on the shelves on the wall behind the bar. Eventually, he produced a rag from his belt and began to methodically polish the dark wood bar that stretched almost all the way across the room. He'd cleaned about half of the battered surface when a shot glass skittered down from the far end of the bar and came to a spinning stop in front of him. He dropped the rag and sighed. Grabbing the nearly depleted bottle of Brainkiller from the shelf behind him, Kenham filled the glass rather less carefully than he should have. Ignoring the spilled drops that were slowly dissolving the finish on the bar, he quickly set the refilled shot in front of the hooded wolverine and went back to cleaning. The stranger didn't move or otherwise even show a sign that it was alive. Maybe, Kenham thought, the Brainkiller had finally done its work and left the wolverine with little else than an empty shell upon which its ears stood. However, it was just as likely that the creature's fuse was burning down and an explosion wasn't going to be long in coming. Kenham scowled and tried not to think about it as he tried in vain to polish out the circular stain etched into the bar from the bottom of the Brainkiller laced shot glass.

Closer and closer to the hooded figure Kenham came as he cleaned the bar. It still hadn't touched the fresh shot that he'd put in front of it several minutes ago. He didn't think that it had even moved in that time. Tempting, he thought, to reach out with a finger and poke the hooded finger to see if it would topple from its stool like a stone statue. Tempting, but foolhardy he knew. There was no need to provoke a violent reaction if there was the least chance that the wolverine might leave of his own accord. Kenham had already resigned himself to the fact that he probably wouldn't get paid for the vast quantity of Brainkiller that the wolverine had consumed and he winced at that thought. That stuff was expensive and not easily replaced. Still, he was almost willing to put up with the loss if it meant being rid of this unsettling character without resorting to violence. At least that coyote and his friends had done some drinking. If that drunk coyote managed to pack a few more ales into his scrawny frame Kenham figured that he might even break even on this night. He watched the drunk coyote tilt his mug back to a ridiculous angle in an effort to get every last bit of ale out of it and nearly toppled from his chair. A muttered curse drifted across the room as the coyote caught himself just as he was going to go over. A frown contorted Kenham's muzzle while his paw, with long years of practice, kept right on polishing the bar. Yes, it was definitely time to get out of this business.

Kenham began to wonder, as he neared the end of the bar, what he was going to do with the wolverine. He could just polish the bar around him and pretend that he wasn't even there, or he could politely ask him to pay up and move on out the door. Neither option was particularly appealing so Kenham decided to take a break from his cleaning for a moment and watched as the coyote stood up unsteadily and groped through his coin pouch. Coins clinked and rattled, bouncing to the wooden floor and rolling out of sight. A slurred curse reached his ears as the coyote mumbled under his breath and tried to track down the errant coins.

Kenham turned back to his cleaning and was stunned to see an empty shot glass and the wolverine standing rock steady on two feet. He blinked in surprise and his paw went to the oak club that lay hidden underneath the bar. The wolverine approached the grizzly and silently slid a coin across to him. Gold glinted in the light from the oil lamps. Kenham's grip on the club relaxed somewhat. Without a word the hooded figure turned and strode towards the door. Kenham saw it pause as it passed by the coyote. The wolverine shook its head at the lanky canine as he crawled around on all fours searching for his stray coins, and then walked arrow straight out the door.

The coin that lay glittering on the bar was large and golden and it drew Kenham's gaze like a magnet. He reached out tentatively, not really believing what his eyes were telling him lay before him. He picked the coin from the bar and held it loosely in one paw. It was heavy in his palm, at least a full Empre. He turned it over, checking to make sure that it was real. It had the right coat of arms stamped on one side, and the head of the king on the other. He raised it to his mouth and gently bit the edge of the coin. His canine teeth made an obvious imprint in the soft metal. He closed his fingers around the coin and stared at his fist in wonder. He had not expected to get paid for his drink yet here this stranger had given him enough money to buy four bottles of Brainkiller! He swallowed suddenly and raised his head to stare after the now departed wolverine. He was just in time to see the coyote stagger to his feet and dump a couple of coins onto the table before he stumbled in the general direction of the door. The canine pushed the door open, bounced off of the frame with one shoulder and ended up in a pile out on the street. Kenham heard a loud and somewhat slurred curse just before the door swung closed. He sighed and shook his head slowly from side to side. That coyote was going to hurt come tomorrow morning.

Even though the bar was now empty, Kenham was unable to relax very much. The last few hours had been far too weird for his liking. There was something about that wolverine that made the fur on the back of his neck want to stand straight up and his skin to try and crawl away. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear away some of his apprehensive thoughts. When that didn't work, he picked a beer mug from the rack behind him and emptied the remainder of the bottle of Brainkiller into it. The clear, noxious liquid filled nearly half of the mug. Kenham sat down on a stool and let himself settle into the silence of his deserted surroundings. After a moment of inactivity, during with he contemplated the half-full mug in front of him with half lidded eyes, he grabbed the mug and tossed the contents back in one gulp. A horrible grimace distorted his muzzle and he thumped on the bar with a fist. He coughed a couple of times as the noxious vapours invaded his nasal passages. A burning warmth spread down his throat, into his stomach and after a few short minutes, encompassed his entire body. He suddenly felt a lot better and smiled to himself through the glow, letting the pent up tension in his body slowly bleed away. He stood up, stretched and yawned. He wanted to close up and get home before it got too late. Kenham picked up his rag and resumed his cleaning, humming a tune under his breath.

Off duty Musketeer Breltan Muranth wasn't doing well. His surroundings kept trying to wander off in a slow, sickening circle that threatened to become a full out spin. His vision swam, everything around him briefly doubling under the pale light from the moon before he blinked rapidly, shook his head and forced them back together. The fog that swathed the dark buildings on either side of him seriously screwed with his mind and he kept thinking that he was lost, or in another part of town. Uneasiness joined forces with the alcohol singing in his veins and further disturbed his mind. Worriedly he cast a glance over his shoulder at the velvet suggestion of footsteps coming up behind him. Nothing revealed itself to eye, ear, or nose. After a moment of unbelievably deep silence, something tickled the edge of his hearing down the street in front of him and he spun his head quickly back around. Too quickly as it turned out. He stumbled and almost fell over as the world spun nauseatingly around him. It took him a while to recover his senses and he almost forgot where he was going. He glanced suspiciously around himself and started up his erratic pace again, muttering to himself as he meandered.

He didn't get very far before more difficulties presented themselves to his addled mind. For some reason the street seemed to be a lot narrower than it should have been. One moment his shoulder was glancing off of a neighbouring building, and then the next thing he knew, he was wandering around out in the middle of the street. The cobblestones seemed to be hugely uneven and he kept stumbling and staggering as his feet caught the edges and depressions of the paving stones. He fell over several times and his slurred cursing echoed lost and hollow through the mist. He longed desperately for home and the comfort of his bunk, but he wasn't even sure where he was anymore. The fog was so thick that the buildings on the other side of the street were nothing but hazy suggestions of solidity. Nothing was recognizable. He meandered unsteadily in from the center of the street to the sidewalk, nearly collided with a building and then took a sudden turn back towards the street. He tripped over the curb and went sprawling onto the hard cobbles. He lay on his back on the cold stones, feeling the world spin around him in a tightening spiral. His paws desperately grasped at the stones, seeking to stop the unstoppable. He almost gave up and went to sleep there, but some small part of his mind that still clung desperately to sobriety warned him that being discovered passed out drunk in the middle of a road come morning would not produce good circumstances for a member of the Guard. With this in mind, Breltan forced himself to all fours and dragged himself over to the side of the street. The ghostly sound of footsteps again echoed hollowly through the fog. He couldn't pin down where they were coming from. He looked around wildly but the footsteps faded into the mist as if they never had been. He soon forgot about them as a powerful wave of nausea swept over him. He shuddered and nearly collapsed again. Bile burned in the back of his throat. He knew what was coming.

The dark mouth of an alley behind the building beckoned to the drunk coyote and he crawled there as fast as he was able. The tall building blotted out the feeble light from the moon above and he was plunged into impenetrable blackness as he pushed his way around the corner. The fog swirled about him, its gentle caress cool on his questioning nose.

The alley smelt of garbage and stale urine, of rats and an unusual, musky odour that seemed slightly familiar for some reason. Breltan didn't have time to think about it. He'd crawled as far into the alley as he could manage before his stomach started to rebel in earnest. He heaved his guts out against the wall of the building, spewing out the beer he'd spent such a large portion of his pay on. When the torrent finally subsided and his stomach relaxed into queasy submission, he groaned and rolled over on his side. He wiped the remnants of his night out from his muzzle with the back of his paw and coughed wetly a couple of times. He lay silently for a while and tried to gather what was left of himself together. It wasn't an easy task. He rolled onto all fours and paused there for a moment, wondering if he had what it took to get back on two feet. Slowly, unsteadily, he pulled himself up from the ground and leaned heavily against the wall, blinking disoriented eyes at the smothering darkness.

Something twitched in the depths of the alley, a rustle with the merest suggestion of something scraping on stone. The musky odour grew stronger, swirling around Breltan as he tried desperately to figure out where he had scented it before. His heart leapt into his throat as the click of claws on stone suddenly sounded out very loudly in the narrow alley. He edged his way closer to the street and was almost there when motion twisted out of the darkness before him. He didn't even have time to utter a scream. Something hit him hard on the side of the head and white light momentarily exploded before his eyes. He collapsed roughly into the wall and slid down it to sit in a heap on the ground. The smell of his own vomit was overpowering. He tried to regain his senses but was too stunned to do anything. A paw roughly grabbed him, yanked him to his feet and thrust him roughly against the wall. Breltan snarled and flailed desperately at his attacker but he was held in an iron grip. The foul stench of rotting meat and alcoholic vapours emanated from his assailant as he laughed wickedly at his helpless victim's feeble attempts at defending himself. Metal glinted in a sinister flash and pain flared like a bright sun in Breltan's left side. Wide-eyed in terror, his gasp of pain trailed into a gurgle as he pawed ineffectually at the arm that had buried a knife in his ribs. Blood welled hotly in his throat and a metallic tang spread across his tongue. His attacker leaned in close, almost nose to nose, and grinned evilly. He brutally wrenched the knife from Breltan's chest and kept his eyes locked on the terrified coyote's as he slid down the wall. A sinister smile was on his muzzle as the coyote fell over on his side at base of the wall, blood spreading around him in a slowly widening pool.

Rough hands went through Breltan's pockets as his consciousness slowly faded. He heard the clink of coins and some gruff mutterings as his money was lifted from his coin pouch. There was no pain anymore, everything seemed to have gone numb and even his fear seemed to have faded into the background. His heartbeat was strangely hollow in his ears and he felt distant, disconnected, drifting away from his body. A dreamlike shadow passed by him and was briefly seen silhouetted against the moonlight that bathed the foggy street in a pale light. It turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Breltan's vision narrowed, tunnelling, a scratchy blackness closing in from the edges until the last remnants of light and awareness winked out.