He rushed to the wardrobe, flung it open. Within, metal gleamed darkly. Brushing through the implements of death that lurked within, he selected a crossbow of ebony and swirling silver. From underneath a folded cloak, he produced a small briefcase. Snapping it open upon the bed, he perused the variety of vials nestled amidst the padding within. Jahn carefully selected a jar of inky liquid, placed it in his pocket. He replaced the case, locked the wardrobe with a slim key, and swept across to the window, a spectre clad in black. Opening the window, its hinges squealing in protest, he swung his legs out onto the windowsill. As he hauled himself up onto the crumbling slate roof, Jahn breathed in the clear air. His cloak flapped in the crisp breeze that seemed to blow away the dirt of the past days, and leave him clean and clear.
