[center][H1][color=#f46b42]R [/color][color=#f17a57]Y [/color][color=#ee896b]L [/color][color=#f69071]A [/color][color=#fd9677]N   [/color][color=#fbb5a0]T [/color][color=#fca68c]W [/color][color=#fd9677]Y [/color][color=#f69071]F [/color][color=#ee896b]O [/color][color=#f17a57]R [/color][color=#f46b42]D [/color][/H1][/center]
[right][color=#ae9c9c][i][b]Vauclause, streets[/b]
Dusk[/i][/color][/right]

[color=silver]Ever since Rylan first set foot in town, he found himself unloved by Vauclause's most crooked. 

As far as they were concerned, he was nothing but a foul stranger, a sudden threat to a delicately upheld hierarchy. He was met with distrust and stares, and he returned both in kind. Unaware of the ongoing turf wars or the blood spilled during them, he strode the back alleys like a king without a people, not understanding that every stretch of cobblestone was already claimed in someone else's name.

Once the first dusk settled, he understood. If he wanted to hunt, sleep or piss, he had to fight for the right to do it where he wished. So, fight he did, and turf he claimed. But though he was a force unstoppable when it came to acquiring rights to streets, he never did best the others in hunting. The beasts he shared the nights with were fearsome and raw, built from head to heel to hunt and kill. Compared to them, Rylan's daggers were dull and his slingshot slow. 

They were hunger made manifest, and to this day, they still stole his kills on the daily without a shred of pity spared.

He was, of course, talking about the cats.

Rylan hated cats.

On principle, the boy much preferred animals to humans. Much simpler in nature, they were unable to hide ill intent behind sweet smiles and sweeter yet words; if you failed to tell apart an angry animal from a pleased one, you entirely deserved to catch their claw. 

But when a particular animal was practically built to undermine every attempt at food acquisition you made, animosity was unavoidable. If the cats weren't stealing his kills with their nimble feet and acrobatic prowess, they were winning over what little alms the townsfolk were willing to give with their large beaded eyes. 

It wasn’t even something Rylan could blame the townsfolk for. Who [i]would[/i] spare their scraps to the smelly scoundrel boy likely to rob you off your coin, when a tabby stared up at you just [i]so[/i], little fuzzy chest rising in tandem with its purr?

A disturbing - if faint - cracking sound pulled Rylan from his thoughts. He raised one sore foot to see what he'd stepped on, and immediately his brows pulled into a furrow. Under his feet, a pile of brittle bones lay in a tuft of bloodied feathers. [i]Grey[/i] feathers, as was often the case; ravens were much rarer a sight in town than pigeons, and way more cunning still. It wasn't them the cats caught with effortless ease by the dozens.

Idly, Rylan wondered it that very kill was one he'd been robbed off earlier in the day. 

With a small sigh, the boy wiped the bottom of his shoe on the corner of a cobblestone and pressed on. With his mind back in the present, he was suddenly all too aware of the discoloured sky. 

Many said the sunset was a beautiful, inspiring time, one that had buttered many a troubadour’s tongue in the past. Rylan had always found sunset [i]upsetting[/i]. One need only think of the implications to be disturbed; every day the sun would tirelessly journey across heavens, and every evening it would reach the end of the world and meet its demise. It would bleed orange across the horizon for man and beast alike to behold, and then be wiped from existence and memory alike end dusk. In the morrow it would begin the cycle anew, only to meet the same gruesome end.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe he could have made a living as a bard instead. Or perhaps he was just too well acquaintanced with what came [i]after[/i] sunset that made him think of it in such twisted terms.

The thiefling's steps hastened now, as the bright western horizon was slowly diluted with greys and blues. By the time the sky was black, the cats wouldn't be the only predators prowling the roads. Rylan swore he'd seen them before; shadows come to life, twisting and turning and [i]convulsing[/i], filling the air with the discordant crack of a dozen bones until they stood in a vaguely human shape. 

On some nights, Rylan could swear he saw them blink in and out of his peripheral vision. There in an instant, gone the next - almost as if intent on driving him mad with [i]doubt. [/i]On other nights, the town was quiet as a grave, and the worst monsters one could encounter were the lowlives with loose cloaks, waiting in shady alleys with baited breath and sweaty fingers for maidens to stumble by.

Yet on others, [i]he[/i] didn't see anything out of the ordinary - but even the bravest felines hissed at something unseen, baring their dirty fangs and slashing at the putrid back alley air as if fighting away an invisible threat. It was usually then that Rylan bolted, so he never did find out which side won.

After the bizarre disappearance of three kids only a block from his usual sleeping place, the thief had finally decided he could no longer risk a night in the streets. He'd tried inns at first. Any rundown place with a roof had been good enough, but most would not accept a boy in smelly rags. He had managed to fool a few places with his finer clothes and foreign flavour of words, but that had drained him of coin faster than he'd liked. In the end, he'd been forced to stalk the fringes of town for stables and farmhouses to slip into for the night.

Then, one night, he'd been running from something he could only[i] feel [/i]giving chase, and had dived into the first stable he'd found. Inside, he'd expected to find horses rearing at him surprise - and had nearly soiled himself when he'd come face to face with [i]them[/i], instead; proud stryxes with sharp beaks and sharper yet stares, eyeing the scrawny boy that dared trespass in their turf with all the disdain of a king scorned. 

Rylan had managed to win them over with food over the following weeks, and had now become an almost nightly quest at the aviary. He was well aware that every visit carried a very real risk - but he preferred the real risk to the ghastly, corporeal, [i]haunting[/i] risk that awaited him outside.

The boy was half-way to his destination when he caught a glimpse of quite a scene. It was, ironically, the stryx that first caught his eye. Rylan recognized it as one from the very aviary he was headed towards and quickly duck behind a building to avoid detection. From there, his gaze wandered; to the boy that walked beside the bird to the man he was giving a passing wave; a young man draped in clothes all too fine to be worn at such a dangerous hour. His posture betrayed a drunk, one with quite a reputation among the town's night-dwellers. Tristan Baske, currently wrapped up in conversation with another man and--- 

Rylan rubbed at his ear in the wake of the woman’s words. A... [i]someone [/i]with a mouth fouler than the nest of a dozen rats. But then, the bar she was peeking out of was hardly a reputable place, anyway. Rylan wasn't entirely convinced the owner wasn't a bull wearing a man's skin.

Considering the boy with the stryx was not yet home, Rylan figured he could not yet make his way to the aviary. He had to wait until everyone else was asleep before he could slip in, or risk detection. He didn't know what the Durands did to scoundrels in their stables, but he wasn't all too eager to find out.

So, while he waited, he leaned against the wall he was hiding behind and figured he might as well enjoy the show. If the situation devolved into a fight, all the better; he could stalk past the chaos and perhaps earn a coin or two.




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