The flyer had gone up, done the rounds, and come home to roost. When the Mountain found one of his flyers - tattered, dog-eared, stained - peeking out from the trash in an ally near the Blue Note, he knew it was time.

And so it was that Green found himself sitting at his favourite booth in the quiet of an off-evening, when the single bar tender slumped, dull witted, at their charge and the music was a quiet buzz. He had his jug of his favoured pale ale before him. A chunky notebook was close at hand as was a thick pen, suitable for his lumpen fingers. For the moment he had the quiet for himself so he used the time to read through the left wing periodical a workmate had slipped him.

The call had gone out. It remained to be seen if any of the Freehold had need of their Constable this night.