Gerart Bromin let out a sigh. "It just doesn't make any sense," he muttered to himself as he walked down Garusk Street, his hands buried deep into his pockets in an attempt to shelter himself from the winter air. He let himself assume for the time being that Clen Thoran--or whatever might be controlling him-- wasn't just creating a random disturbance and capturing one of his guards for no reason. If that was the case, why G1 Elmo Benok?
Bromin reached Benok's house and paused in front of it, trying to look at things from Clen Thoran's perspective. Of course, the Lord Marshall could just be mad. Benok's house was the only permanent structure in the neighborhood, a decent-sized cobblestone cottage that was actually larger than Bromin's own house. Bromin hrumphed as he tried the door. It was locked. He circled the outside of the cottage, in search of a window, but there was none. "No windows," Bromin mumbled, "How dreary." He limped back to the front of his house, his prosthetic leg wearing let another blister on the nub end of his leg. He sighed again, then gritted his teeth as he ran shoulder first into the door. He heard a cracking sound as he stumbled back, his shoulder in pain. He felt for a moment around his arm to make sure that the cracking he heard wasn't his bones, then regathered himself. Painfully, he balanced himself on his wooden leg and kicked at the door with the other foot. It budged a bit, and with another good kick it was open. Bromin peered inside, the sunlight illuminating a small stove, an old Ellurian Army cot, and some metal bars... Bars? Bromin squinted as he studied the shadows. Inside the darkness, there appeared to be jail cells along either side of cot and stove. Benok had built himself a mini prison. Bromin spotted movement within one of the cells. He stepped inside, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a young girl pressed against the bars with something covering her mouth. Bromin recognised her. She was Inela Menek, daughter of the butcher that lived across the street from the guardhouse. She was the most recent of several missing fourteen-year-old children, having disappeared last month. There had been a dozen children missing over the past year, a case which Bromin was never able to make heads or tails of. Gerart Bromin reached through the bars and touched the girl on the shoulder. She was shaking horribly, and in the dim light, Bromin could see that she was ghostly pale. "Don't worry," he said in the most soothing voice he could muster, "I'll just break this lock and you'll be out of here. You'll be safe then, I promise." -- To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: [EMAIL PROTECTED] Archives & Other DMI Lists: http://www.dragonmyst.f2s.com/lists.php3
