[center][h1]Gardale[/h1][h2]Around 7:45 p.m.[/h2]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/B7VTUix.jpg?2[/img]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/olp6rXf.png?1[/img][/center]
	No matter how many Curse-run cities she visited, she would never get used to the stench. Even on the outskirts, the rotten twang of old meat soured the sweetness of baked goods. Perfumes and flowers mingled with decay, sweat, and sewage.
	Elayra crouched behind a low, crumbling stone wall. It had once marked the boundaries of the magic field of the town’s defenses. Now, it was just another withering reminder of what once had been.
	With no need to hide, Drust stood beside her, scanning the decrepit one- and two-story homes at the edges of town. Other, taller buildings towered behind them in the town's depths.
	Bits of the color and architecture hinted that they were once proud things. Now, time had eaten at them, and the denizens had taken to using whatever was laying around to make repairs.
	Across the weed-choked lawn, half of a wall of the house in front of Elayra had fallen victim to a said repair. Cracked mirrors and piano keys were mounted into oddly pinkish mortar. Some of the sharp edges of the glass stuck out dangerously like quills. In spots, hardened feathers dripped from its roof in place of shingles.
	If not for the whisper of manic laughter carried on the wind, it could almost be mistaken as intentionally artistic, rather than the mindless work of the insane. 
	A thin alley gaped between the repaired home and its neighbor, waiting to serve as the trio’s entrance.  Above, the sun had turned the sky into a battle of fiery colors, staining the town.
	She grimaced. They were cutting it close. 
	The Forsaken were one thing—rabid as they were, they were typically fairly predictable. Dare she even think, easily avoidable. But the Forgen…
	“We have maybe twenty minutes before the Forgen get extra rabid,” she whispered, glancing to Ghent. “Once the workday’s over, the Forsaken usually just go home. But the older Forgen are left to their own devices. Remember. If it looks even remotely under fourteen, avoid it. Once we’re inside—”
	“Keep quiet,” Drust snapped without looking to his charges.	
	Elayra’s mouth shut and she reached for her sword. She scanned their surroundings, trying to find the reason behind his command.
	“And keep your eyes hidden,” he finished. 
	She scowled, realizing he’d only been finishing her instructions. Biting back her frustration, she nodded. “If you make eye contact and they don’t see the Curse in you, they’ll attack. And if [i]one[/i] of them senses something's off…”
	“Hive mind. Any nearby will know.” Drust’s head twitched down, then to the side. His shoulders spasmed as if his ticks were communicating with each other. A growl rumbled in his throat. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.
	Limiting her breaths, she drew her hair around her face like a vail. 
	“We need the center of town.” Drust’s hands clenched and unclenched. “It’s not far. But far enough.” 
	Drust gave the overgrown lawn a last quick sweep, then stepped easily over the half-wall.
	Elayra hesitated the length of a heartbeat. She looked to Ghent, her jaw and shoulders stiff, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring nod. She vaulted over the stone wall, then paused to check that he followed.