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“I couldn't think of a better solution, sergeant.” Radan is as cheerful as ever, his spirits lifted by your show of integrity in the face of corruption. Janos remains sceptical, though he's more interested in sneering at the Lhotunic than debunking your words.
“No one likes a bootlicker,” the bastard grumbles.
By the time that you hear the second bell ring, you have already left the waterfront behind and have made your way around the outskirts of the city, to where Tavan Gate stands. Here is where the road westward lies, that leads along the edge of Hew's Bay and towards the city of Gilane. This is where the Goldmoor's scrubland starts to give way to the sandy Alik'r to the west and stony Dak'fron to the north – this is where Hammerfell truly begins. For that reason, this is the gate through which nomads and tribesmen visit the city, where a day never goes by without some sort of culture clash.
You have barely had time to relieve the previous patrol and begin your shift, by the time that you get your first complaint.
“Officers!” A colourfully-dressed man calls out to you, waving a hand as he approaches. He's likely a vendor of some sort, hawking wares to travellers seeking to enter the city. “Ulbazar is at it again! For the love of the Divines, could you please ask him to move on?! He's scaring away my customers!”
“Did you ask the last patrol the same thing?” You're familiar with old Ulbazar. Everyone who regularly patrols Tavan Gate knows the crazy old Crown and all of the complaints about him.
“Well, yes, but they didn't do anything! You have to understand that the madman's babbling isn't good for business, it makes the city look bad!” You're half-tempted to shut down the whining merchant here and now, but a chat with Ulbazar might be refreshing after that business with Stanno. You relent.
“Fine, I'll have a word with him. Janos, keep an eye on the road in the meantime.”
“Understood.” Janos seems relieved by your decision. “Glad I'm not the one who has to deal with that mad bastard.”
You don't need to walk down the westward road for long before you're able to hear Ulbazar, bellowing mantras for all to hear. A few steps further and you're able to see the old man, dressed in little more than rags and sat cross-legged by the roadside. His only true possessions are the wooden bowl resting beside him for the collection of alms, and the burnished scimitar that he balances on his head. The flat of the blade lies against his scalp, from which a wild mane of grey hair springs, almost as unkempt as his bushy beard.
