High upon the Cathedral of Ruoen, Patrice sat and waited for a sign. She knew that she was supposed to do something. There was a lot unrest along the River Seine lately. She stifled a yawn and promised herself that if nothing happened soon, she would go back to bed.
Securing a sticky-whip to the same gargoyle that she had used as an anchor before, she rappelled down the side of the Cathedral, pushing off to gain momentum. It wasn’t long before she had enough to swing between the spires and angles of walls and rooftops to make it safely to the ground.
She no longer wondered at her exceptional strength and agility, accepting them as God’s gift to her; a blessing she didn’t deserve. She did hide it from everyone else, knowing that what could be gained from God could as easily be attributed as fruit of the Devil. Which was why she wore a hooded cloak and dark clothes during her rounds.
A wail of hopelessness tore through the air. It resonated with Patrice and she hurried toward the sound.
“God protect me.”