‘Well, my Thane,’ he mused, ‘I have no such illusions. Nor, I think, do you.’
Goaded by a growing sense of isolation, many of Mirrindale’s inhabitants began keeping vigil, watching the approach to the city from atop the wall, hoping to see lines of refugees arriving from the surrounding countryside. There was no one living within the city who did not have family or friends on the outside. Oddly, these people stood not all together, but rather individually, or in small knots; a group of teenaged girls here, a mother with a babe in arms there, a pair of loudly-conversing Merchants in bright and expensive garb with their backs to the direction everyone else’s eyes were fixed, a never-ending stream of petulant criticism issuing from their mouths, their body-language eloquently expressing an irrational attempt to dismiss out-of-hand the events the citizen’s of Mirrindale were all equally embroiled in . . .
The Thane thought to curb this practice, as it interfered somewhat with the duties of those soldiers who patrolled the walls. Instead, he compromised by cutting the number of civilians to a few at a time, to avert the complaining and suspicion that would inevitably follow.
During this time of interminable anticipation, a cold weight of dread began eroding the confidence of those who waited in vain for news. This feeling soon permeated the fortress-city, seeping unabated through its walls as though the fortified stonework itself had become suspect. Dread for the outcome of the fighting. Dread for the safety of loved-ones, including the soldiers that were fighting to protect their homes and families. And dread for those that lived in the unprotected territories that had never known warfare or violence. Dread now stalked the streets at night, laying in wait in dark corners; its pall seemed to lay thick about them, even to hang in the sky above like a bad dream.