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. The walls were deserted, the streets empty.
The only living being they saw was a mongrel dog, trotting
past with a dead hen in its mouth, having taking advantage
of the situation to raid an unguarded chicken coop.
They hurried through the merchandising district of New
City, the streets of which should have been filled with
people at this time of day. Stalls were closed. Shop
windows were barred and shuttered.
"It looks like a city preparing for a holiday," said
Michael.
"Or a war," Nikol said grimly. She walked with her
hand on the hilt of her sword. "Look. Look at that."
One of the shops was not closed. It had been destroyed,
its windows smashed. The shop's goods - gaily colored silks
from the elven lands of Qualinesti - lay strewn about the
streets. Ugly epitaphs had been scrawled across the walls,
written in blood. Lying in front of the shop was the body of
an elven woman. Her throat had been cut. A dead child lay
beside her.
"May the gods forgive them," murmured Michael.
"I trust your disks can explain this," Nikol said bitterly.
They continued on, passing other sites of senseless
destruction, other wanton acts of violence. Palanthas itself
may have escaped the ravages of the Cataclysm, but the
souls of its people had been cracked and shattered.
It was at the Old City wall that they first heard the sound
of the mob, the sound of a thousand people gone mad, a
thousand people finding anonymity in their numbers,
driven to commit crimes one alone would have been
ashamed to consider
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