Somewhere in the close streets of the city, a horse whickers its unease and bites at its bit with a metalic 'chink!' sound.

A gloved hand reaches foreward to pat the bay neck, murmuring soothing nothings even as green eyes scan the shadows from beneath a steel helm.

The City had changed, these last few months, and not for the better. Kenrik knew this street. He'd played up and down it many times as a child. But now, the shops were closed for the night, the people huddled in fear, and he - in Guard half-plate armor and weilding a stout spear - was a target.

The assassins no longer considered the Guard too dangrous to engage. In fact, some felt like they were -targeted-. Footmen prowled in groups no weaker then five; and many considered Kenrik and his fellows' days numbered as they continued to patrol the streets atop horses.

He often wondered what'd finaly made them snap...the murderers had always been just that, of course...but their quarrels and their buisness had taken place behind closed doors. Now it'd spilled out onto the streets - his streets - in bloody and elaborate affairs.

Fly, the bay mare he rode, made again known her dissatisfaction and stopped cold with a single 'clop' of a heavy hoof. Leaning foreward to rub her ears, he gazes about once more. Was it potential danger or just stubborness that'd caused his beast to halt?

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