Dead man walking.

Darkness hung like a widow's veil over the alley, its black shadows blotting out the ground and walls. The blue of the moons' light barely reached through, softly illuminating the edges of something laying in the dirt. The dark figure lay completely still, its features blackened by the darkness, and by something else. There was silence, until the small sound of tiny footsteps came, accompanied by an equally small squeak.

The rodent moved curiously out of the dim blue light and into the black, pausing to sniff at whatever this body was. Another set of tiny footsteps came, following the first in suit. Soon, there were many of them, sniffing and squeaking about the corpse. But when the corpse moved, the rats screeched in panic, and scattered, fleeing into the depths of the alley.

The body's arms slid forward across the ground, its skin flaking off as it moved across the dirt. A low, inhuman moan came from it, as its arms pressed against the dirt and slowly raised itself onto its knees. The head moved into the blue light as he rose; the face was scathed, charred, and broken. The rest of him barely seemed to come together as he stood, as though held together by the thin threads of sinew. The Guardian stumbled forward until he found the wall, and he breathed in, his voice gasping in a high-pitched rasp.

He moved weakly, his hands pressed against the wall for support. His garments were black, torn strips of cloth that hung from his arms and shoulders. They did not cover his skin, and when he moved out into the light, it was easily seen that he was a walking pile of black, rotting flesh. Screams of nearby villagers resounded in his ears, and he pushed himself off the wall, staggering towards his horse.

The horse did not immediately recognize its master, and stepped backwards as the man neared. It reared its head when the skeletal hand reached out to grab its reins and pull down, so that the horse's glassy eyes stared into the man's own black holes. The horse snorted, and the Guardian used his remaining strength to pull himself onto the saddle. When he mounted the horse, he fell forward, his face buried in the hair on the back of the horse's neck. His tattered boots kicked into animal's flanks, and the horse whinnied, taking off in a heavy gallop through the gravel streets.

---

Tic held Miraye, his arm around her back, her arm slung about his shoulder, and brought her further into the tavern. He gently guided her into a chair, taking a seat in another beside her. He looked at her, almost in awe of her power, but more in care for her. Her eyes looked so tired. She would need to rest, he thought. They didn't need to work right away.

The bartender was still staring at them, dumbstruck. He thought for sure they would be gone forever. Yet there they were, two children, escaped from the clutches of a Guardian. He looked down for a moment at the broken glass at his feet, then back up to the two, lost for words.

"Well?" the girl said to him.

He stared at her for a little longer, thinking hard. He seemed to come to a conclusion, and turned away from them, reaching for something in the corner of the bar. He turned back to them, and walked out from behind the bar's counter. He held out the broomstick in front of him.

"You can start by cleaning up this mess," he said gruffly, nodding down to the shattered pieces of glass spread across the floor.