The air in Whimster bit with the early morning chill, a cold snap common to towns nestled at the foot of great stone keeps. From the vantage point of a weather-worn gargoyle overlooking the main square, the town presented itself as a churning ocean of humanity. This town of commerce, a busy port for goods moving toward the Dukedom's seat, resembled nothing so much as a medieval London reimagined with high-fantasy grit.
Carts, their iron-banded wheels shrieking against the cobbles, created a perpetual din. The smells of the street were a rich stew: roasted chestnuts and spiced wine mingled with the pungent odors of fish from the river, horse sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of the nearby blacksmiths' forges. Banners bearing the duke's crest hung from the gables of timbered shops, swaying in the damp breeze. Guards in the Dukedom's colors—blue and silver—paced the crowded thoroughfares, their steel breastplates gleaming, a constant, authoritative presence amidst the chaos of trade. The noise was a roar, a testament to the town's relentless pursuit of coin.
Into this vibrant, indifferent mass, Ms. Anscalt navigated with a practiced, hurried ease.
Just keep moving. Don't look up. Don't draw attention. Her thoughts were a clipped, anxious litany.
Ms. Anscalt had wrapped herself in layers of heavy, dark wool, the hood pulled low. A length of cheap, coarse linen was fastened securely over the lower half of her face, protecting against both the biting wind and the recognition of her own mutable features. Strapped securely to her chest, covered by several thick blankets, was Flash. The infant was a small, warm weight against her, a silent, bundled secret.
She felt the eyes on her, though likely they were merely the eyes of a thousand strangers observing another stranger. To them, she was just a woman on an errand in a busy market. To her, every glance was an interrogation, every passerby a potential threat. Her hands, tucked deep into her sleeves, were tight fists. Bread, a small wheel of cheese, goat's milk—if I can find a clean vendor—and those peculiar herbs the healers mentioned for his cough.
To the perspective of that of a scrawny gutter rat, perched on the edge of a rain-slicked slate roof. The creature watched the flow of the street with beady eyes. Below, past the intricate, overhanging second stories of the buildings, it briefly sighted a tall woman in dark clothes with an unusual, bulky shape beneath her outer layer. The rat twitched its whiskers, then scurried off, its brief moment of observation lost in the overwhelming sensory input of the crowded town.
Back among the people, Ms. Anscalt navigated a vendor selling hanging sausages and smoked fish. The smell made her stomach turn. "Two loaves of that dark bread, please," she requested, her voice a low monotone, the linen mask muffling her words. She placed the coins down without haggling, an unusual move in Whimster that earned her a momentary, sharp look from the vendor before he quickly took the money.
She scanned the street again, her eyes flicking over the faces of merchants, guards, and idle onlookers. My skin feels too tight today. The glamour is holding, but the cold always makes it itch. Her internal monologue was a stream of paranoia. She tried to think about the logistics of feeding Flash, of finding safe passage out of the city, of the long journey ahead. But always, her mind returned to the feeling that she was being observed. Not just by the casual populace, but by someone specific.
Snap. A sound like a small twig breaking came from an alleyway she was passing. She didn't turn her head, didn't break her stride, but her heart hammered in her chest.
From the dim, shadowed mouth of a narrow passage across the street, a pair of eyes watched her. The watcher was obscured by the press of bystanders, a silent figure in a common traveler's cloak. Their gaze didn't wander to the surrounding goods; it remained fixed on the tall woman in dark wool who paid too quickly and scanned the crowd too often. They noticed the slight shift of the weight she carried when a market woman bumped into her. A faint smile touched the watcher's lips in the gloom of the alley.
Ms. Anscalt, feeling the prickle of danger on the back of her neck intensify into a burning heat, made a sudden, decisive turn. She ducked down a narrow street that led toward the less populated tannery district, a place she knew would be less crowded and easier to manage an escape.
The sound of the bustling market—the constant roar of commerce, the distant clang of the smiths, the shriek of a lone gull overhead—seemingly faded instantly as she slipped into the silence of the alleyway, vanishing from the main thoroughfare, leaving only the sound of her quickening footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The watcher across the street began to move, subtle as smoke, following her path into the shadows.