[Something about monsters]

You figure too much wandering wouldn't do you any good, so you decide to return home. Turning to a quiet alley, you dodge piss and puke like they're bear traps, looking for a shortcut. In these quieter parts, the few people you encounter either mindlessly walk about or talk nonsense to kill the day.

There are some exceptions. Girls leaning against walls with practiced smiles, eyes half-lidded and lips too red for the morning. One of them, chestnut hair and lashes you've only seen on deer, gives you a slow blink and a wave. If the lipstick didn't tip you off, the playful skirt tugs and flashes of skin should do the job. Surely you must realize it by now. She's looking for a cock to paint on and scratch her guts with.

Not that you can afford it... But the attention is welcome nonetheless. You return the wave and a heavy smile, minding your business afterwards.

Soon, you arrive in front of the city's main gate, the walls towering eight meters above you, or twenty-six feet if you used your legs. The bore-struck guards give you no more than a glance as you pass through and head for your shack, just a few hundred feet away.

Back in your rundown home, you pat down the hay-stuffed wooden bed and take a seat. The room's the same it's been for the past twenty years. A fireplace in the center, on a pine table a few trinkets filled with memories, three wooden chairs that may kill a well-fed burgeois... And that's about it. Hard work doesn't pay off for a farmer the way it does for a noble.

You decide to sleep off the rest of the day.

...

Morning comes as quickly as night slips away.

Now, your chest feels lighter, as if it's shed the weight of the past few days. It is as if the world is a shade more colorful, as if the sparrows came up with better songs today. The path ahead finally seems to have gained some clarity. Whatever lies ahead, you're done sitting still.

Then, a shout disturbs your inner peace. There's arguing outside, fucks flying like the morning birds. Screaming and crying. Without a pause, the furious voices continue hurling insults into the morning air.

What could it be? A wolf? A drunk? A drunk wolf?

You reach for your sheath and tighten the belt around your waist. Your sleep clothes will do for now, as the conflict is growing louder by the second. Be it wolf or drunk wolf, maybe you can reason with them.

You hesitate... Could just be a drunk. Or it could be worse. You've seen how quickly a morning can turn bloody.