Third night of the riot
The Dives
Fellix Malanastre part of a battalion of six Seventen pressed on chrove-back through the narrow, rutted streets of the Dives. The air was thick with smoke and the roads littered with debris, pocked with pits, and soiled with the sad remains of the melee. Both Seventen and mounts were ran ragged and nerves frayed. There'd been near to no rest and their abilities stretched beyond their limits. The orders, unfathomable in the escalation, was restrait. Clocking restraint! The violent, senseless wicks were going to burn down the entire city and they were supposed to bite Monite?
But the guidelines couldn't survive the streets, not if the Seventen wanted to stay alive not if they wanted to keep the body count low. For many of the younger officers, this was their first true test of their mettle after their recruitment from Brunnhold. Even those who'd performed valiantly at the start were beginning to crack. Fellix Malanastre had held his own, but three days with only a few hours sleep during the hottest hours of the day, and riding an unfamiliar chrove, he was running on the blessing of the Mona alone. There wasn't time to question orders, there wasn't a shred of his reckless optimism left in him. It was three days in and no end in sight; he could only see the ticks just in front of his face. Just keep moving, just get through it. The only things he felt were the need to get through it. And anger.
The riot was senseless. The wicks were behaving like barbarians. And the commanders were tying their hands. Fellix wasn't a savage person, but the riot needed to be put down and peace-keeping wasn't working.
As Fellix and the battalion approached the edges of the burning quarter, the chroves began bellowing in protest. The setting of the sun had brought only the slightest reprieve from the heat; the streets of the Dive held the hot air in her chest and now it was choked with ash. The wick had created blockades adorned cleverly with broken wagon wheels, the spokes make-shift deterrent spikes. As they approached the blockade, a barrage of stones began to rain down from the upper stories of the ramshackle buildings. At the same time, a band of wicks emerged with pikes and flooded between them.
An ambush.