The Watchmen of The East

"Worthless," Hubert muttered as he left the tavern in spite. The information about the pirates the tavern keeper gave was of no value, mere stories for the children. Despite that, he was one silver coin shorter.

"At least the tea's good," he said again as he turned his footing to a direction, following the address on the paper—the address of the recruiting office of the watchmen.

A place he soon reached. A place located near the end of the dock, hugging the wall tightly, surrounded by rubles and slums. A building that was in shambles, with its wooden walls having seen better days and its brick roof that crumbled.

A doubt rose in his mind, yet the address was correct. A sign hanging down, suspended by what should have been two ropes, but one that had given up long ago, proved that he was in the right place nonetheless.

"The watchmen," Hubert read softly what was written on the sign.

Thus, he stepped forward.