Mareth nervously tugged at the hem of his oversized tunic as he watched his brother push through the foliage and stand beside him. Their clothes were a hodge-podge of baggy trousers, tight shoes, and torn coats – such was the lot of street urchins. ‘What're we waiting for?’ Rowen said eagerly, looking at the stream below them, his blonde mess of hair flapping in the gentle breeze of the King's Wood. 

The cool night air pricked Val's skin and fog swirled around his stout body as he shrunk back into the shadows of the rooftop. He idly flicked at the Flashstones in the bulging pouch at his waist – their glow fortunately masked by the leather – and smoothed down the red jacket he was wearing. Six months in the military and he still wasn't used to the uniform.