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With a snapped command from Zivka the scraghounds tear off, bearing a message, barking loudly to draw arrow fire as trained many times. The sleek furry things are hard to hit at the speed they're leaping, and they bound down the side-passage and clip through an alley around the spearmen forming up behind you.
Everyone still standing split in the opposite direction, diving into a palatial looking building, the corner one, the largest on the street, which must be the house of the local village leader or at least some up and coming merchant or whatever passes for social clout around here. Arrows thud into the ground and kicking up puffs of dirt. It's unlnown terrain. We've never been inside. Unlike the building we negotiated for and rented from the village, a stout, secure long-term warehouse for provisions and supplies, we have no way to know if this random house in the middle of the street will make a viable place for a last stand.
But it might not need to be one - with a loud crack of noise a musket roars and it's neither Edward or Scarlett but a nervous looking supply clerk coming out of the doors to the warehouse we're sprinting away from, waving his arms, shouting desperately for us to GET INSIDE QUI-- but he's face is overcome with sheer confusion as the small group bounds towards totally unknown terrain rather than the warehouse and for his trouble he takes an arrow to the throat as more archers join the ones already perched on the roof and starts raining down death. . .