The gendarme whistled through his teeth as he patrolled the Crescent City on the shortest night of the year, enjoying the scent of sweet olive and jasmine flowers as he traveled the well-maintained streets of the wealthy neighborhoods. The lights dimmed and yellowed as the crescent curved toward the port, dripping at last into murky lapping seawater. The fresh-faced young soldier felt impervious to harm in his smart uniform and cap, on his well-bred horse with its echoing clips and clops, but most of all with the smart, sharp sword strapped to his belt. The sword glowed with imbued blue magic energy, a rare sight in Crescent City. He enjoyed the way the locals melted into the alleyways in fear as he rode deeper into Islander territory. His nose wrinkled with distaste at the stink of old wood, coffee and fried meat there.
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