The city rode low on the horizon, swathed in smog like a murderer waiting in a Whitechapel alleyway. The clouds boiled overhead as a sudden wind shook the trees at his back like an epileptic in the throws of a Grand Mal seizure and whipped his small fire up into a coruscating spiral of sparks and ash that wreathed him like a devil from the old scriptures. His cloak snapped like a sail and then settled as the wind dropped as suddenly as it had began leaving a hot, treacly smell in the air.
He sat slowly, his eyes gleaming under the brim of his hat, watching the last rays of the sun play over the now gently swaying heather that reached down from the edge of the forest to the golden fields of wheat that showed where mankinds hand gripped mother natures. His hand slowly moved toward the hilt of his sword as an indefinable feeling swept over him. “Y’won’t need that lad.” said the shadowy figure emerging from the trees behind him. “We both know why y’here…”
“Aye,” said LeFfox “but I think they do too!”