<div class="floatleft">(https://pro2-bar-s3-cdn-cf6.myportfolio.com/acfc487f628999a8d795fd4e0bac95b4/7144f155-86a7-460e-be3c-29249aa92920_rw_1920.jpg?h=751cf9fdab3ea959a3579c38026e854e)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Valerian Izyumov  (http://url=https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=324631.msg15584949#msg15584949)<br/><strong>Timeline:</strong>Week four to five<br/><strong>Where:</strong>Guild District, various locations<br/><strong>Status:</strong>Story post only<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Nil / open<br/><hr/>Mayhem was, perhaps, a subjective term. After all, there were no burning banks or strange cults, no shrieking curse-screams of malevolent artefacts being destroyed. There was, however, a rather wearisome amount of<em>nuisance</em>plaguing the Guild District – a seemingly endless tide of headaches that were neither severe enough to justify cancelling work, not mild enough to simply get on with things.<br/><br/>A scarcity of intact footwear was one such issue. Workers needed stout boots, and professionals had to maintain smart appearances, yet every second or third pair of shoes in the district was sporting gaping holes. Alas, the Cobblers’ Guild was all but paralysed by the Crown-ordained backlog of blue shoes that needed making. There were similar issues with stationary and plaques, as citizens formerly known as Reginald still struggled with the fallout of Princess Red’s edicts; new letterheads needed to be printed, signs had to be amended, and tiny little name tag in sports uniforms had to be replaced. Even the non-Reginalds felt the effects, as delays and shortages frustrated their everyday business operations in odd little ways. Valerian couldn’t do much about those issues: after all, he was no politician. That had been made inescapably clear over the last month, after his printed pamphlets and occasional rantings against magic had failed to gain any traction whatsoever.<br/><br/>Still, it turned out there were things he<em>could</em>do, if only he was willing to put his little crusade against magic on hold. The last few weeks has seen a shift in his tactics. He was no politician... but he<em>was</em>a soldier, and a hunter. He’d decided that it was time to set aside loftier ambitions, and set himself to humbler tasks more befitting his station.<br/><br/>The Bakers’ Guild had been wracked by donut heists, with the masterwork treats being stolen in the hopes of earning the Princess’s favour (and outrageous financial rewards). No more! It’d taken weeks of investigations and a few lucky ambushes, but Valerian and his minions had caught the ring of confection catburglars. There were other victories, too. Many of the palace’s displaced gargoyles had been unceremoniously dumped in the Guild District… which was particularly problematic, because said ‘gargoyles’ included both inert statues, and the live, dangerous-when-startled creatures that flawlessly imitated their stone counterparts. They littered alleys and doorways, with most passers-by too nervous to move them for fear of losing a finger. There’d been no cleverness involved there: Valerian’s solution comprised of nothing more than heavily padded armour, a veteran’s familiarity with exotic monsters, and a<em>lot</em>of heavy lifting until the creatures were more amiably rehoused on rooftop gutters.<br/><br/>It was paying off though, albeit in the unexciting fashion that hard work always does. People were starting to notice Valerian-the-soldier, instead of ignoring Valerian-the-doomsayer. Murmurs were circulating. They said that having a few soldiers around was helping with the little things. They said that, given the ordeals in neighbouring districts, maybe having a few more wouldn’t be such a bad thig after all, just in case the district started having its share of big things too...<br/>