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Migarril swept his hat up onto his head and drew his cloak more close around his body as he stepped back out into the black and drizzling night.

He heard and felt the soft thrum of light rain on his hat and the thick outer leather wrap-cloak, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword and on the edge of his belt under the cloak. His eyes glared out from under the brim of his hat, sharp canine pupils peircing the darkness around him.

He felt the humid warmth of the night penetrate his nostrils with a sharp intake of breath, the mixed scents of sharn overwhelmed by the pervasive and powerful scent of fresh blood and burnt flesh.

Each step was a measured motion and almost mechanical in the heavy armour, he did not turn his head as he marched down the road but his eyes flared for a moment and he picked up the glow of evil in the edges of his vision. He ignored the dusting of evil, it coated most people in the city, and prudance for now turned him away from attempting to punish those he knew had transgressed.

His eyes did drift left and right, glancing at those who were stained with evil, marking down who they were and trusting that their judgement would come.

His feet slapped down on the wet stone, thick leather boots splashing aside the water that gathered in the small dips worn into stones, his massive frame marching along until he slipped into the lift beside Jazira, taking his place on the opposite side to the other highly competant warrior.