With Finn's flailing assistance, he and Silvara finally had the man pinned. Or at least restrained enough that running was off the table.
The stranger knelt in the shaft of pale fog-filtered light, the only illumination in the oppressive dark. Crows squawked overhead, their cries echoing like a funeral chorus.
Finn and Silvara lingered half in shadow, half in the light, silhouettes that made the scene look like some discount execution painting.
At last, Finn got a clear look at the guy.
He had short, messy grayish-white hair, a scruffy stubble that looked like it had given up on being a beard, and tired brown eyes that carried the weight of someone who'd seen too much—or maybe just hadn't slept in ten years. His ragged black cloak was riddled with holes, the hood hanging limp down his back. Mud-darkened trousers clung to his legs, paired with beaten street boots that screamed "lived-in filth chic."
