Mongrels and Mystics? A WIP Snip.

Clouds the color of soiled wool and urine threaded past a gibbous moon. The atmosphere may have produced them but the city had tinted them. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" ?>

For Fanule Perfidor, the city was too close. Lying just to the west, that packed jumble of flaking bricks, weathered clapboards, and belching chimneys was a gritty distraction. Fanule sensed the pulse of life there. When the mania seized him, as it had tonight, he craved the city's humid crush of bodies, the revelry that made them sweat and steam.

Wind...