Grey dawn.

[Cinnabar]

Myrkentown lies quiet in the pre-dawn murk, deserted save for the odd night-prowling cat or fox. The curfew keeps the streets clear, for the most part, enforced by Street Constables carrying lanterns and the authority of the Law. It's as peaceful as the town ever gets, as the night things retreat to their lairs in advance of the coming dawn, before the townsfolk stir from their slumber to go about their day's business.

On this particular morning, however, some of the streets are not as empty as they might be. Dark figures move in the deep shadows in twos and threes, purposeful, intent, hurrying through the backstreets and alleyways, avoiding the main thoroughfares. They are clad in charcoal-grey, blending with the shadows, their faces are concealed by hoods pulled low over their features; they travel quietly, no words exchanged between one another, the occasional clink of a buckle or creak of stiffened leather the only sound of their passage.

One of these groups moves through the town, heading for a residential area; three shadowy figures striding through the gloom, heads turning to watch their surroundings as they travel. Eventually they seem to reach their destination: an unremarkable street corner where a half-dozen stern-faced and heavily-armoured men wearing the grey uniform of the Street Constables stand in a group, waiting. Two of them incongruously bear crossbows, while another pair carries some weighty object of iron and timber between them. There is a brief glimpse of light as a dark-lantern is uncovered, long enough for badges of polished brass to be displayed; the light also illuminating the moulded leather masks worn by the shadowy figures beneath their hoods, scowling visages of stern, implacable authority. Then the two groups are moving off together, making haste in the grey light of dawn.

A short way down a nearby street they come to a halt, and divide; three Constables move round to cover the back of the house; two of those who remain at the front hold the iron-bound timber between them by leather straps, the remaining Constable covering the door with his crossbow. Silence for a moment, then a nod from one of the hooded men has the constables swinging back the ram, and applying it to the door with considerable force.

On the first blow the door shakes. On the second, the wood begins to split. On the third blow the abused timbers burst inwards, and the three hooded men swarm in through the doorway.

Muffled shouts of alarm sound from within, but within minutes the intruders emerge once more; hauled between them by his shoulders is a struggling male figure in a nightshirt, barefoot, wrists bound behind his back and a black cloth sack over his head. Even as they are leaving the house a covered wagon rattles to a halt before them; the prisoner is bundled into the back, and the wagon moves off almost as soon as the door is slammed closed.

It is a scene that sees itself repeated across Myrkentown as dawn breaks, a carefully-orchestrated operation carried out by teams of Constables with relentless, terrifying efficiency; doors smashing inwards, men and women awakening to the sight of those baleful masks looming over them before the bag descends over their head. Some prisoners resist, and are dragged out limp and unconscious; others are caught as they try to flee, more than one receiving a fowling-blunt to the leg for their efforts. All are bagged, bound and loaded onto those unmarked wagons; by the time the sun rises fully over Myrkentown a full score of prisoners have been taken, their homes and businesses cordoned off by impassive Street Constables, and the hooded figures evaporate like morning mist.

As the day progresses the Detectives move in, systematically sweeping homes, business premises and other holdings; frequently to the bewilderment of the prisoners' friends, families and colleagues. They are clearly searching for something specific, and as soon as they find it they move on, grim-faced and relentless.

No answers are given at this point, save that those taken have been arrested as part of an ongoing investigation. That is all. A couple of further arrests are made as distraught family-members assault members of the Constabulary, but for the most part the reaction is one of stunned uncertainty and confusion. There are some who have a different reaction, and a number of those are watched carefully.

Of the prisoners, meanwhile, there comes no news.

[Vanidor]

The Constables were a model of efficiency, moving from house to house as though they were ghosts. No. Like wraiths. Their actions were almost perfect as they raided house after house and collected their due. The man who watched, who moved more like a shadow born than a man (thanks, it was told, to accoutrements of magical origin and a barrel of skill), was more than impressed by these men. He smiled as he observed, noting that Aeryn would be -pleased- to know of their skill. It would make his plans all the more easier to continue.

Scout-Sergeant Rautha smiled once more, then shifted a piece of paper into his waistband. The writing was sparse, no more than the location of the houses taken. But it was a piece of paper that didn't really need filing. It was information for himself alone, unless the Captain -really- wanted to know. So, as the wagon moved on from the last of the houses, Rautha would step out of the shadows that contained him and headed down the street for the Barracks. As the man moved along, he would allow the magics that concealed him to wear off and proudly show the grey-coated uniform of Janerio, whistling the entire while.