He marched down the street, followed by a column of soldiers, thirty in total. He looked left and right at the houses lining the cobbelestone street. The moon-shadows cast by these structures creating pockets of pitch blackness.
Soon, his men would be breaking into the homes of many and retuning from their open maws with books and other literature. If a poet or writer was found, they too would be dragged to the street.
The ironclad boots boomed, rattled, and grinded their way across the stone. The sound was music to the Captain’s ears. The sound of panic, the sound of chaos, the sound of doom.