A multitude of people each with his own story crossed the road of the capital of Yarzat. A woman navigated the throng, her basket brimming with the yeasty perfume of fresh bread; beside her, a carpenter shouldered massive planks of oak, oblivious to the wake of indignation he left behind as passersby ducked to avoid a splintered concussion.
Children, barefoot and feral with joy, wove through the legs of their elders, their wooden sticks transformed by imagination into the legendary blades of heroes.
Amidst the human current, maniples of city guards drifted like slow-moving sharks, their idle gazes scanning for the flash of a cutpurse's knife, though their mere presence usually sufficed to keep the peace.
