Paper lanterns bobbed above Winter Gate's square like a thousand small moons, each one painted by a child.
The militia stumbled between the stalls swinging Hans's bells at random, filling the square with gloriously out-of-tune clanging. Hans stood on a barrel in the middle of it, one arm folded, scowling like a disappointed saint.
"Their pitch is a crime, ring the third bell properly or I will take it back!" Hans shouted, jabbing a finger at the nearest drunk.
Hajin ducked a swinging clapper, "Relax, old man, it's the first festival in forty years, even the bells are allowed to be drunk."
"Walk back, boy, I relax when the wall stands," Hans growled, though his mouth twitched.
Last night's explosion proved to be one small Burning Crow dropped on an empty granary annex, harming nobody. Hans studied the scorch mark, then the sky, then declared that a doomed town deserved one good night.
Hajin did not know a single dance, so he decided to eat instead.
