Snippet #1228101

A narrow side street, caught somewhere betwen rain on one side, and mud on the other. It was no mere precipitation, but rain with a vengeance. This was the kind of rain that drew entire cities to a standstill. This was the kind of rain that decided the fate of wars, one way of another. In fact, this was the kind of rain for which the term "rain check" had been invented. It was rain that resisted activity of all kinds with a force commonly attributed to divinity.

"If you ask me, you've got to be a damn fool to try to pull anything in this kind of weather. How are you supposed to even see two feet in front of you?" A number of dark figures stood under an eave, sheltering themselves against the downpour.

"Silence." Why they refused to take full shelter inside was anybody's guess.

"I mean, they've got to practically kill themselves, in this kind of stuff! Stupidest stupid buggers in the history of stupid..." The woman shivered and drew her coat up tighter around herself.

"I said stop your tongue or I'll stop it for you, Maste!" He leaned forward slightly, squeezing his eyes shut as the rain plastered his already-thin hair to his scalp.

"Captain, if you succeed in that, I'm sure there'll be no end to those waiting in line to give you a medal." Despite the temperature, her voice managed to find a small reserve of warmth for that statement.

A pause.

"Lake! Brogen Lake!"

"Yes sir, Soble sir!" The younger voice took a running tumble on the sheer obstruction of sybilants in the sentence.

"I think it's about time they're showing up. Make sure the others are still concious."

"Right away, Soble sir!" He took off running, feet padding squishily against the unpaved street. Just befre he rounded the corner, a charm twisted around his neck and trailed over the right shoulder. A silver bird, glinting in what little lamplight there was.

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"'Allo Marie. Amy. Shan'." Brogen Lake then addressed the pile of metal lying against the wall. "Tarn." Lake's diminuitive stature, boyish face, and higher-pitched voice concealed his true age and veterancy: as old a hand as it was possible to be at tweny-five. He was going on his ninth year of service.

The pile gave an angry snort. "Yes. Lake?" Tarnalin Beative replied.

"Mister Soble sir says we're to be prepared. It could be any time now, he says."

"Very well. Now shove off." As Lake set off to alert the next post of Lemon Seeds, Tarn drew himself up steadily, rubbing some of the mud off of his chainmail and looking closely at the women. "Well, you heard the boy. Weapons out, get going. And you better be ready to run."