He carried the nightstick he'd been issued on curfew nights. He hated these shifts. It was his duty, keeping peace and protecting, but god damn if he didn't prefer to spend his nights in the taverns already suffering from the effects of the curfew.
And it always turned into street-rat chasing. Make them scurry down one hole, only to pop up at another one. Eventually, they got bored of it and fucked off.
Owainn heard her before he saw her, and he groaned inwardly. Her little hat, covered in flowers, giving the illusion she might be something dainty, completely ruined when she opened her maw. "Oi, move your ass, you." His tone was stern, brusque. Nightstick drawn. Not that he'd hit her, but a few well-placed nudges might not be out of order.