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[Nh'bdy]

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The Larger portion of the entry and exit from central Brit are to be viewed from a downward angle over the town, soundless.

An awkward man strides across the city of Brit, emerging from the Sewers he brushes his person on and makes for the Northern portion of the city. His garb is odd, especially for this town, mostly bronze in colour, a black suit of chain mail beneath a tunic, finally, green lenses span his shallow eyes.

Making his was across the town the ponderous figure is greeted by a nearby exit, a redheaded youth from the local Real Estate compound, after some idle conversation the more ponderous of the two youth curses loudly, quickly running to Blackthorn's Castle's approach.

Now, the view is low, as if set next to the approach, allowing the length to be accented, also note worth, the castle seems miniature, but a swaying body, aforementioned, is clearly visible.

The ponderous youth stands before the slurring waters, green sandals seeming ponderous before the shimmering of the midday sun, again, he curses, the waves consuming his pungent phrases into the deep, crashing, nearly groaning sound of movement.

Casting the mail and cloth aside, leaving on his britches and sandals, he leaps, entering the waves, surely in pursuit of his lewd cry of disdain for the act.

The greater portion of a day is spent in the water. The ponderous man submerges, breaches, rests, surveys, then finally, moments before the sun exits the stage, he emerges with a parcel, swimming back to shore he takes his prize and absconds to the narrow alleys of Brit. At long last, coming to rest in the still night air, atop a most familiar conservatory, the ponderous youth who's toils have gone unnoticed by the world, opens the parcel.

A cloak, wrapped hastily with a shoe lace, apon opening it, the makeshift pack contains the follow. One Fancy shirt, multiple pockets, containing a series of odd objects reflect some jack-of-all-trades. One pair boots, missing a lace. A belt containing syringes, and empty vials, in addition to another myriad of odd objects. The rest is waterlogged and barely identifiable in the low light of the night.

Taking one of the knives, the man carefully cuts into the soul of each boot, retrieving a few addressed envelopes, lined in tryian purple, slowly, the youth whispers into the night[i]

[i]"Where did you leave your face comrade..*sniffle*


Looking to the first name, washing the sorrows of a fallen soldier away, the youth stands, hefting the waterlogged parcel over his back and looks to the messages, speaking the target aloud

"Songbird."
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