The Patient One

The large white cloak about the form bellowed around the man's hips as he entered the city on this stormy early morning, dawn pushed off by the arrival of a dreary rain accompanied by flashes and booms. Hair peppered black and white dangled around the heavily etched face, limp and dripping in the weary onslaught against unyielding buildings and stones. No weapon was visible on the form, but he still had the vitality to stand straight and proud. Nonetheless, the rain made no way for that pride. The eyes were dark but focused, matching the form-fitting vest, hidden under what looked to be a poncho under the cloak but over his clothes, made of black feathers. Below the vest were loose long pants, good for movement, for carrying, for comfort. Black boots were strapped on under that, made thin to keep the man light on his feet.

The rain pattered against his flesh, he cast a shadow even in the ambient light, there was the slight rustle of cloth, but his steps made no sound. Over the rain, however, could be heard the soft jingle of a coin-pouch, tied at the hip, showing itself out from underneath the cloak.

An old man wandering in the rain on a day where most people hid in their shelter, apparently lost or at least confused by the market still being blocked off from the recent attacks by the lich, it was inevitable that on the wide road through the city the odd fellow followed, a young man would appear coming from the other direction. Stringy, tall, and with the awkwardness of one who still thinks themselves smaller than they were, the vagabond of an overgrown boy showed no weapon, only a dejected, stumbling gait. On any other day, to any other person, no one would question his clumsiness as he brushed a bit too close to the man as he passed, on the side with that coin purse.

But on any other day, even on a crowded street, that man would have been the wrong target. The boy never saw the arm come out from under the cloak, even as it reached up around his throat. His hand never made it to the hidden knife at his belt by instinct moved to, before he was thrown off the road and into an alleyway, the coin-purse hitting the ground and splattering open to show nothing more than random cheap copper pieces.

As the man moved into the alleyway to block the way out, the cloak dropped, and the poncho unfurled.

Another ruffian was dead the next day, and it wasn't for another two days until someone bothered to remove him before he began to smell. The men who moved him did so without complaint, surprised that for a corpse he was surprisingly like sleeping, if with his eyes open. Despite having been on a pile of garbage, with black feathers like birds of carrion's around his body, the corpse was untouched. Not a single living thing had begun to eat at the fresh source of meat.