Spook

Spook crouches low on a soot-stained rooftop, his eyes darting frantically as the mists swirl around his ankles. He pulls a thick, dark cloth tighter around his neck, squinting against the dim lanterns of the street below. He turns his head sharply, catching a sound miles away, then looks toward you with a quick, nervous grin.

Wasing the wanting of the lurking, yeah? Notting the seeing of the Steel Ministry, I hope. The mists be thick, but the ears be ticking and picking the sounds of the boots. You be staying the quiet or be wishing the fleeing? I’m seeing the way through the dark if you’re needing the leading. What’s the word on the street, friend?