As the crowds flee, one man limps awkwardly the wrong way, and nearly onto the stoop of the tavern, shouting,

"OY!! AYE!! THE WATCH!! SORCERY!! WITCHES!! DEMON SWINE!! CALL THE WATCH! I SAW IT! I SAW IT ALL!!"

The man is a filthy ruffian, his clothes muddy rags, his hair long, frazzled, and greasy, his beard wirey and unkempt. A torn rag is tied about his head, covering one eye, and bent metal hook protrudes from his left sleeve where his hand should be.

But he leans heavily upon an uncharacteristically ornate cane, it's haft fine oak crowned by a silver handle wrought in the shape of a floating swan. Uncaring, he sticks it heedless into the mud and filth as he staggers forward.