Writer's block is a bitch. Somehow this popped into my head while i was trying to finish up Ironclad's last chapter. Will it go anywhere? IDK. Please R&R and tell me if you want more of this in the future (presumably after Ironclad is complete).
The small party slipped through the shadows of a dingy alleyway, an occasional rat 's scurry or the groan of a homeless man sleeping the only sounds that pierced the acrid air. The whole space was no wider than a wooden cart, one such vehicle laden with crates and covered in canvas blankets barring access to the east entrance of the cobbled road. Small shanties made of scavenged wood or in the cases of those fortunate enough to have found a vacant home, fracturing stone lined one side of the alley. Of the row to the east only a single light burned in a window of one of the stone ones. Above the houses a full moon peered through clouds, its silver rays illuminating a single figure smoking a cigar in the middle of the alleyway. He wore a brown leather trench coat, the material slightly weathered from over use. It seemed to be missing its buttons or else the man simply chose to wear it open, a chain mail vest glinting slightly underneath the jacket. Shading his face was a wide brimmed hat, a single red feather poking from a band of crimson just above the brim. Small chunks had been taken out of the brim's edge, a particularly large hole sending a ray of moonlight onto a the red and brass emblem of a flaming demonic head pierced laterally by a sword. Witch hunters. The man spat out his cigar, the embers sizzling in a murky puddle before he briefly inclined his head. The shadows spat out four men in leather armor, metal haphazardly attached to the shoulders and chest, their hands holding crossbows as short swords strapped to their legs were hidden by a passing cloud. The leader slowly moved a single hand from his coat pocket, a flick of the wrist sending the men crashing against the door of the house, splinters flying through the air, screams echoing as the ungodly powers of witch craft and sorcery were purged by silver tipped arrows and gleaning edge. Through all of it the man with the wide brimmed hat strode with a calm purpose, his flintlock pistol, fashioned in forges predating Noxus herself, cracked off a single round into the chest of the dockworker who burst from the curtained corner that served as bed room to the mother and father of the six children lying lifeless on the ground. He tore aside the curtain, a young woman, covered in the dust and grime that prevailed in the slums screaming.
"Who are you?" The witch hunter gave no answer but the resounding crack of his pistol, the suspected sorceress falling back into her covers with all the rigidity of a rag doll.