For a city that hours ago had been the subject of a siege and an attack, there was no indication of anything amiss as Keystone entered its busy streets again. A few guards rushed past him, paying no attention to the dirty and bloodied monk. The sun had moved past its zenith and was now approaching the horizon, drawing long shadows over Keystone and most of the street. The howl of a cool seaside wind was barely audible over the murmur in the packed street. Movement was constricted as more and more people flooded the streets to offer aid, take a look at the long procession of soldiers carrying zombie and human corpses to the city gates or to work their trade. Keystone experienced some of these trades as he made his way past a particularly congested area and found that his purse was missing. Despite his earlier experiences he never caught sight of the thief. Not all gold was lost as Keystone found forty one gold coins that somehow managed to fall out of the purse during the fight with Glith.

He passed several empty side streets with their fair share of bodies in red robes, with crossbow bolts through their bodies and multiple stab wounds, if not entirely missing limbs. He saw a few other bodies next to the wizards, but the numbers of dead were in favour of the mages on every battleground. Every once in a while he spotted glimpses of shadows moving, dragging off those nameless and unmarked corpses. The rest of the townsfolk passing the same alleys deliberately ignored the carnage and moved past the bodies like they weren't even there, as if such fights were frequent in the seaside trading town.

On the road to the dwarven blacksmith, Keystone got a slight tap on his shoulder, turning to see the same monk he had spoken to earlier. The monk bowed, handed him a small package consisting of a potion and a note and vanished as quickly as he came. The potion was easy to identify as a small vial of healing, capable of restoring some vitality to a wounded person and close some small wounds, but not enough to completely cure all of one's injuries. The note was written on a piece of brand new parchment in Common and by the practiced hand of a scribe:

"Dear Keystone,

This shall be the last communication between us. You spoke of having defeated the enemy I mentioned, yet I still sense a foul presence close to me, in this city. The threat to the temple is still imminent and closing its claws. Be wary of your surroundings and don't let down your guard.
The monk who informed me of your request said you were gravely wounded fighting a common enemy, so you shall find a potion we can spare in the temple. It is not much, but the rest we need take care of our own. I am sure you will understand.

Signed,
Shein-Fang"

The Merchant's square was packed full of people, making the journey to the blacksmith a long and arduous one. The first drops of rain dropped on Keystone's weary muscles, and soon the trickle turned into a light summer rain, coasting every available surface in a reflective, wet coat. The huge crowd quickly drained out of the market square just as Keystone made his way to the dwarven blacksmith, catching the looks of more than a few women on his way. He quickly put a profession to their attire: paid wenches, good for a night of pleasure or, given enough coin, information.

The blacksmith's workshop was empty, but the forges still radiated heat from the work that ended hours ago. Heavy laughter, followed by a heavy, coarse cough, echoed out of the same door Keystone had seen earlier: the inside of the workshop where the smith's helper, Tim, had come from. The boy's voice soon joined the dwarf's raspy tone as the two debated something in Dwarf that Keystone couldn't quite understand. A third voice, a husky female pitch, yelped from the same room as both men laughed and clinked their tankards, by the sound of it. Keystone picked up the aroma of fresh salad, smoked chicken and a light spring sauce often used in the Eastern Realms.

Loud voices drew his attention away from the smithy. A large group of armoured soldiers marched through the merchant's square, clearly seeking something, or someone. Several of the men were battered or wounded, but all walked straight and proud. The armour of almost all carried the marks of a recent battle, from holes inflicted by heavy bolts, to scorch marks caused by fire or lightning, to several bloodied arms and shoulders one would suffer in a sword fight. The gazes of several men locked onto the wounded monk as the group passed and Keystone could hear the soldiers talking about him as they stopped a few dozen feet from him. The commander of the group looked his way, trying to make sense of a bloodied man standing next to a smithy and debating this inconsistency with his soldiers. The longer the group stood there, the more the commander nodded along with the arguments of his men, encouraging him to take the suspicious man prisoner and interrogate him on some topic Keystone didn't catch.

Some of the paid wenches eyeing Keystone noticed the group and wasted no time on distracting the soldiers, weaving all about them, enticing the men with liberally laced corsets or raised skirts. Some guards paid more attention to the girls than they did to their commander, who himself was still focused solely on Keystone, weighing his options.