Plok... plok-plok... plok... A young man listened intently to the remains of the rain dripping on the edge of the roof above him. The drops fell in different paces; its tempo followed no rhythm, no master, and yet the composer five blocks north of where the young man stood swore his recent masterpiece, locked in a certain beat and rhythm, was inspired by water drippings such as these. It seemed that human beings never cease to assign order on nature's chaos. Somehow, the young man found this thought amusing. Plok-plok... plok... plok... The streets of Maelstren remained unlit that night. The downpour from earlier made it too much of a hassle for the lamplighters to cast fire upon the street lamps. If anybody needed to walk outside that night, they had to make do with what little light the Quarter Moon offered. Fortunately, the curfew made it impossible for most residents of Maelstrom to be out and about hours after dusk, so the only brave souls who are allowed to dare the dark are the soldiers, sailors, drunkards and fools. The young man was neither of these people and yet he was unfazed. He leaned on a wall of a storage house near the port as if the cold did not bother him. One would wonder how this is so when he did not have a cloak on; all he wore was a thin stained-green tunic strapped with a leather belt, dark pants and well-worn leather boots. He did, however, feel the need to smoke his pipe. Plok-plok-plok... plok... There was always something about the end of a storm that made this young man want to stay still and be as close to peace as he could get. Quite a rare circumstance for someone of his... condition. This is why he was quite annoyed when boisterous laughter and loud, slurred remarks disturbed his treasured peace and quiet. As far as he could tell, they came from men who had just turned from the corner to the street near where he was. He wished the commotion they brought with them would go away soon.