Daryle’s natural stealth must be working over time, because even after calling out, the man in the alley couldn’t seem to locate him. Daryle draws another arrow back to his ear ready to loose it, should the man make any sudden moves, but the man runs off back down the alley the way he came.
‘And now for the prize’ Says Daryle, collecting up his arrows and placing his Bow crosswise across his chest to free up his both hands so that with a careless ease he slides down the nearest drain pipe to street level.
‘Oi! Miss!’ He calls to the woman in a harsh whisper. He notices the man has run into a couple of authoritative looking men at the end of the alley and has pulled out a knife on one of them. ‘Quick Lass, we’ve gotta get you out of this mess. Up the drain pipe where the gentry and thier horses can’t follow. Step quick now!’ Daryle holds his hand out to the girl waiting for her to take it.
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"The word rustic doesn’t even begin to satisfy the requirements of an adjective used to describe this town. Rustic is a looming butressed cathedral to this town’s Stone Henge. Rustic is the ocean to this town’s mud puddle. Simply put, rustic is a word inadequate to describe the squalour."
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