The sun began to set, and the fading light chased the workers away from the docks and into the warm embrace of the Red Sail. Prudence always enjoyed the evening rush because it meant drunken chatter and music performances, which drowned out the noises from the performances behind closed doors. It was another story during the day when the Madame didn’t pay for performers and the bar was mostly empty. Then Prudence was stuck listening to boots knocking and girls overselling. She thought she’d get used to it after two years, but cries of alleged ecstasy still made her giggle like a child—it didn’t help that some of the girls repeated the same outbursts from client to client like they were reading the script of some bawdy play. She could hardly make eye contact with the johns as they left because it was difficult not to burst out laughing at their big smiles and inflated egos. Fontaine once told her that most of their clients didn’t pay to get their rocks off; they paid to have someone give them attention. If Fontaine said so, then it must be true.

Usual nights Prudence would be posted at the stairs up to make sure that the only people going up were accompanied by one of Fontaine’s girls, but tonight was a different night and Garzo had the stairs. She wasn’t going to be in the Red Sail at all once the big guy took his post. It was a shame too, because the fiddle player could really work that bow. However, Prudence had heard a rumor about some going-ons out in the Slums that might be bad for business. It wasn’t something the Madame needed to be bothered with—she was cooking up something and was out for the night, although Prudence didn’t know what—but it did need to get handled. Prudence scanned the crowd to make sure there were no faces there that shouldn't be than pushed her way to the bar. Garzo was late. Maybe the tender had heard something.

Selena was working the tap. She was a sweet lass with blonde hair and a low cut blouse that really left little to the imagination. The girl was pretty enough that it confused Prudence as to why she only ever poured drinks and talked shit, or at least it confused her until Selena showed her that rash. Selena told her it was benign. Prudence didn’t know what benign meant, but she assumed it meant fucking disgusting. She had seen bloated corpses in better condition. After it had appeared nobody wanted to buy her, but Fontaine kept her on largely out of pity—plus she could pay her less than other bartenders. Crafty.

“Thought you were off tonight, love,” said Selena as she filled a mug for a client, making certain to lean over and give him the full display. Fontaine may have paid her less, but she made up for it with tips.

“You know I ain’t never off,” said Prudence, brushing a strand of red hair out of her face. Her voice sounded strained as always, like she was recovering from a sore throat. More likely it was just damaged from yelling. “But I am going out. Just waiting for Garzo to watch the stairs. You know where that good-for-nothing got off to? I swear I saw him earlier.”

“Is that really a question?” asked Selena, glancing upstairs.

“I’m gonna kill that stupid goatfu—” Prudence screwed up her face. Fontaine once said that swearing made people look unintelligent. She swallowed her rage. “With Priscilla? Again?”

“He gives that girl nearly his entire salary,” said Selena with a smirk. "Thinks they're in love. Poor lad."

“Stupid lad,” said Prudence as she cracked her knuckles and turned towards the stairs.

“Stupid indeed,” said Selena as Prudence walked away. The bartender had seen that look before. It usually meant unpleasantness.

Prudence made her way to Priscilla’s room. Garzo was a good boy, maybe twenty at best, a big of an ox and with a face like he had been trampled by one. He wasn’t very smart, but he knew how to stand in a spot and look tough. At least Prudence thought he knew how to do his job, but this was the third time this month that he had missed part of his shift because he was being entertained by Priscilla. Prudence could forgive it once. She warned him after twice. And now he had done it a third. Again, he wasn’t very smart. As for Priscilla, well, she and Prudence never quite saw eye to eye. The girl always acted all high and mighty, and if it wasn’t for Fontaine then Prudence would’ve made Selena and her weird rash a more enticing choice for a companion than Priscilla. She rapped her knuckles on the door.

“Occupied,” said Priscilla.

“It’s Prudence.”

“And yet despite that fact, it's still occupied!” called back Priscilla in that sing-song voice of hers. Prudence fumed. She promised Fontaine to protect the girls, especially when the Madame was away, but Prudence hoped for a day when she heard violence from Priscilla’s door. She’d take her sweet time opening the door that day. However, all she heard today was the stifled laugh of a deep bass and the annoying titter of a little twat. She tried the knob. Locked, of course, but she had the key. However, the little click of the latch wouldn’t quite send the message she was trying to communicate. A vicious grin appeared on her face as she took one big step back then—

Boom!

—Prudence kicked open the door and snapped the latch, the hinges barely keeping on as it slammed against the wall. Priscilla screamed and went to cover herself while Garzo, naked as the day he was born, was ripped from the bed and slammed up against the wall. Being six foot two he had a few inches on Prudence, not to mention many, many more pounds, but she was strong, she was angry, and she had a dagger on her belt within inches of Garzo’s favorite prized possession. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as she continued to pin him to the wall, bringing him down to eye level so her green eyes could cut through him. She wasn't really mad at Garzo—it was hard to hate an idiot—but being firm worked best with him.

“Get your clothes on, go down stairs, and stay there for the rest of the night. You can see her after your shift. If I ever hear of you taking that thing out again when you’re on Madame Fontaine’s clock, I'll give it to her with your resignation. Do you understand?” she said, seething.

Garzo nodded and grabbed his slacks. He was a good boy, and maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Now there was just Priscilla to deal with. Technically, she had done no wrong by taking a paying client, but Prudence knew that she was letting the lad believe that there was something more romantic than a money transaction going on between the two. It was a fine technique to use on other clients, but not one of their own. Tended to make things complicated later on. Garzo was the replacement for the last guy who had fallen in love with a whore. He had tried dueling a client for his woman's honor. Prudence had to drag his body out of the street. It made her wish she had shot him herself.

“You broke my door!” whined Priscilla, a sheet wrapped around her. Prudence could see why Garzo was so infatuated with her between her raven hair and her pale skin. She was a notch above the other girls. In looks, that is. Looks aren't everything in bed. “I can’t work without privacy. I, I can’t! It’s not fair!”

“I broke Madame Fontaine’s door!” barked Prudence. She’d be docked that pay, but it was worth it to see the look of terror on Priscilla’s face. “You don’t own the door. You don’t own this room. You don’t even own your body. And that sheet too. You don’t own that either. You’re property. You’re a chair. You’re an annoying little chair with one leg shorter than the other so it wobbles when you sit. So be a chair, and shut up.”

“I, I, I...I’ll tell Fontaine! I’ll tell her you tried to hurt me!”

“Then Madame Fontaine will know that you’re lying,” said Prudence, taking a step towards Priscilla, “because I would not have just tried to hurt you. We can get other girls. You can’t get another face. So no. You won’t say a word.”

“But!”

“Is a word. You’re done now. Go downstairs. Work the bar with Selena and we’ll have no more of this. Got it?” Priscilla nodded. “What, you’re a mute now? I asked you if you got it. Got it?”

“Got it, Pru—”

“I told you to shut your mouth. Go on now, get out of here before I shut it for you,” snapped Prudence.

Priscilla practically sprinted out of the room, still wearing just a sheet. Prudence stared out the door for a moment and then laughed, a hand going up to her mouth to cover a smile. She was probably going to get in a heap of trouble for that, but it was definitely worth it. She stepped out of the room and looked over the banister. Selena was scolding Priscilla behind the bar, and Garzo was standing at the bottom of the stairs where he should’ve been ten minutes ago. Everything would be in order for Madame Fontaine when she returned, which meant Prudence was fine to leave. It was a good thing, too. That little incident had gotten her blood boiling, and she was just itching to hurt someone. This rumor better have checked out.

A bright, cloudless day shone against the water as Ayden strolled along the docks, counting buildings and scanning signs as he went. He breathed the salty air and sighed contentedly as he thought back to his days working aboard that pirate ship. For all the scurvy and near death experiences, he still enjoyed his time out on the open ocean. He internally shook the memories away and resumed his brisk walk past the rows of vendors and docks. There were things to do before night fell so reminiscing would have to wait.

He didn't have to walk much farther before he found the building (more of a upscale shack really) that he was looking for. Rather than walk in the front door, he glanced over his shoulder before squeezing into the narrow alley between two structures. Ayden made his way around to the back of the building and casually glanced around once more before reaching into his shirt and producing a small roll of cloth. Opening the package revealed a set of lock picking tools and he set to work without hesitation.

A cheap building had complementary cheap locks which Ayden made short work of. He eased open the door just a crack and peered inside. Fortune favored him that day as the back room was vacant. Satisfied with his solitude, he closed the door behind him and took in his surroundings. The room he found himself in was some sort of records room packed with documents, letters, and held only a single desk in the way of furniture. A single door was positioned on the opposite wall and he could just make out soft humming from beyond the other door. Provided nothing went especially wrong, Ayden would have little trouble acquiring what he needed without detection.

His eyes swept over the room and locked onto a large chest sat in the corner. A smile spread across Ayden's face as he silently crept toward the chest with tools in hand. This lock was of a notably higher quality than the door lock and gave him a bit of trouble both due to its complexity and the added trouble of working extra quietly. Eventually the lock would yield with a muffled click and he returned his tools to his shirt as he opened the chest. It was filled with dozens of small holding various amounts of gold coins and silver bits... much to Ayden's disappointment. He closed the chest, replaced the lock, and was about to move away when something caught his eye. The grain of the floorboards changed drastically just under the edge of the chest. "That was almost clever," he thought to himself with a smirk.

Ayden took a near-silent breath as he gripped the chest and hefted the container up and to the side. The softest tap of wood against wood deafened him and he cringed, waiting for the inevitable "Who's there!?" but it never came. A soundless sigh of relief escaped him as he carefully pried open the trapdoor almost entirely concealed by the chest. He reached inside and retrieved a wooden box just big enough for a cat to curl up in. The contents of the box appeared rather mundane, just more documents and odds and ends. However, Ayden shifted through these diligently until he came across a letter sealed with wax. A grin spread across his face as he pocketed this and returned the box to its hiding place.

He nearly lost his grip on the chest as he set it exactly back where he found it, but just managed to stop it from dropping. Other than that, a rather mundane break in. Still, he whistled happily to himself as he made his way down the street toward the slums with his prize safety in his possession. He had need of a quiet place to work away from prying eyes and the inns there were at least the latter if nothing else. The cheap prices were also a welcome upside provided he was not robbed on the way there.

The inside of The Faded Lantern was mercifully cool compared to the swelter of the city that surrounded it, but the smell was ultimately no better Lucien had decided. From the moment its almost black oaken doors set with panes of opaque smoke stained glass swung inwards, the dockside armours of tar, salt, and sewage was instead replaced by the stink of sawdust, stale sweat, and spilt beer. The uneven floors and low timbered ceilings gave a sense of claustrophobia to the warren of darkened taprooms, lounges, and snugs that made up the ancient tavern. But dark and dirty were a boon to Lucien right now, after all, he was trying to be inconspicuous.

As he walked into the largest of the public bars Lucien surveyed the room. It was relatively quiet, the lunch time crowd were long gone and the evening rush had yet to begin. A few old drunks sat solitary or in pairs at the small tables that littered the corners and sides of the room. A group of four sailors on shore leave were dicing at one of the trestle tables that took up the centre of the stone flagged floor. Aside from this the only other soul was a dour barkeep with a face the colour of boiled meat who stood behind the counter wiping away at a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag.

Lucien sauntered up towards the bar in as relaxed a many as he could muster under the circumstances, whistling somewhat tunelessly as he did so. When he reached the expanse of darkly polished wood he leaned upon it with one elbow, wincing slightly as he felt the the fabric sticking to the surface. These were his nice clothes. The barman set down the rag and glass at his approach, Lucien gave him one of his better smiles.

"Greetings, my good sir. Would you be so kind to tell be whether his Lordship frequenting your venerable establishment this fine afternoon?"

The barkeep looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses. Was Vargas not in? He had been laying low these last few months, but surely Lucien thought that someone would have notified him if Hell itself had frozen over. Vargas was always here. As he stared longer at the blank look of complete and total incomprehension the realisation dawned on Lucien. Oh Gods, he thinks I mean an actual member of the nobility doesn't he? As if a an actual fucking noble would drink in this piss pot. His smile strained slightly.

"By which I mean, Lord Vargas, of course. I believe he is a most loyal patron here?"

A spark of recognition lit in the eyes of barman who began to nod his balding head most vigorously. As he raised his head Lucien noted that he could see directly into the his upturned nostrils, which bristled with long protruding hairs.

"Oh aye, Vargas'll be round t'back." The barkeep stuck a thumb behind him to a small dim corridor that snaked its way off round the side o the bar.

"Thank you most kin-" Lucien began but he was cut off before he could continue.

Course I'd wait a while, til' he's done with whoever's in there now. Hav' a drink." The smile died on Lucien's lips. He had no love for this place, the sooner he finished his business with Vargas and left the better frankly. It served piss as far as he was concerned. Maybe he future he would be more careful when passing out compliments, he would hate for anyone to actually think he liked this dive.

"My pleasure... A glass of your fines- Lucien's fingers began to rummage through his coin purse, it was rather light. "Ahem... your cheapest wine."

There probably wasn't much a difference in a place like this really.

The wine came in a glass tumbler, which wasn't as clean as Lucien would have liked it, but certainly looked cleaner than the rag hanging out of the front of barman's apron. Small victories he supposed. He slid a silver bit across the bar and perched at the nearest stool. As he sipped at the glass of mostly vinegar that he had ordered, Lucien heard the doors to the bar swing open and young three men enter in some conversation.

"Of course everything's been in the air since old Delaney filed for bankruptcy. Poor bastard's been dealt a bad hand these past few years, what with the market like it is and the insurance on his cargo not coming through last year when the Julia sank. This was just the final nail in the coffin."

They were better dressed than your average dockworker and significantly more so than your average sailor. Maybe warehouse clerks or some other kind of junior port officials. When he heard what they were talking about he turned his head the other way and took more than just a sip of his drink.

"But I don't understand how he got mixed up in all this crap." Another one of the trio piped up. "Delaney was a wool trader was he not? Local goods mostly, how did he get into these silk trader bonds that are causing so much trouble?"

"Some huckster pretending to be a noble with high up friends in foreign ports. Ran the same the thing on half a dozen merchant men that I know of and probably twice as many that I don't. All local traders who wouldn't know squat about the silk markets. Most of them could take the hit, but Delaney was leveraged up to his eyeballs as it was and sank everything he had left into this scheme in the hopes of it paying off big. Looks like it didn't for anyone other than this 'Bowman-Dunbar' or whatever his name was. Fucker is probably long gone by now anyway. Beer?"

The conservation turned to ale and girlfriends as the barman served each one of them in turn, and in time they made their into one of the snugs across from the bar where they carried in slightly more muted tones. Lucien downed the rest of his vinegar and rubbed his chin in some consternation. He had quite liked Delaney, shame the old man hadn't had a head for business. His chin and cheek were rough his stubble, had he forgotten to shave this morning? Wait no, he had pawned his razor two days ago for the measly collection of bits currently in his coin purse hadn't he. Paying off big indeed.

He thought of ordering another drink, but at that moment a darkened figure slid surreptitiously out of the corridor that led to Vargas's snug. His afternoon appointment was now free.Things were looking up, he was sure that a change in fortune was right around the corner if his business with Vargas went well. He felt good about this, in fact, he felt positively lucky today. Lucien 'Lucky' Beaumont-Dubois gently lifted himself from his stool and began to saunter into the corridor where Lord Vargas awaited, whistling as he went.

The slums. If Prudence had grown up in Gullian she would’ve lived in the slums, but she had grown up in Rigomar. The desolate there lived in camps set up around spice plantations. It wasn’t paradise, but the weather was pretty nice outside of monsoon season and a permanent aroma of delicious food seasoned with whatever spices the workers could pinch filled the camp. The slums here had the permanent aroma of the head of a ship after the cook gave the entire crew food poisoning. Even the sea smelled different here. Rotten, almost. Prudence knew for a fact that there were at least two things rotting down there, per Fontaine’s orders. That could never be the case in Rigomar. The water was too clean. Too clear. She missed it sometimes, in a stupid, sentimental sort of way.

However, Gullian had things about it that Rigomar lacked, too. Like opportunity. Being a soldier was perhaps the highest post someone like Prudence could’ve gotten in Rigomar. Assuming she didn’t get gutted by a pirate or tossed overboard in a storm then for all her hard work and dedication she would’ve been given enough pay to afford a tent in a camp next to a spice plantation. All of that just to end up back where she had started was hardly the right motivation. Even with paying Fontaine for her room and board, Prudence was making more than she ever would’ve in the merchant navy. Plus, there was a lot more freedom, significantly more fun company, and a lot less bowing. The only person she dipped her head to these days was Fontaine, and that was purely out of respect for the woman.

In fact, the only damn reason Prudence would willingly trudge through the slums at night was because she respected that woman. She didn’t hate the idea of walking through it in the dark because it was dangerous—she loved that it was dangerous, especially now with her fury still burning behind her eyes. Nothing would make her night more than for a gang of young thugs to try and test their luck against her. In fact, if Prudence didn’t know that it would immediately put her in Fontaine’s bad graces she would’ve turned around, marched into the Faded Lantern, and start a damn turf war right this moment. That was how badly she was itching for a fight. But she didn’t want to anger Fontaine, blissfully unaware of the fact that she was living with that woman’s leash around her neck. Vargas’s boys were off-limits. But a bunch of nobodies just trying to snag enough coin to put bread in their bellies? Well, most people would consider it a courtesy to have their kind removed from the streets.

She stopped in the middle of the uncrowded street, turned her head over her shoulder, and frowned. Hadn’t she already passed that building? She turned on her heels and took a few steps back before she shook her head, spun around, and continued on the way she had originally been going. This was why she hated going into the slums at night. It was hard enough as it was finding her way through the narrow and winding unmarked streets in the daytime, but in the poorly lit night it was nearly impossible. She stopped again. Listened. Prudence should’ve been able to hear the sea, and she most certainly didn't. She sighed, and turned back around. When had she made a wrong turn?

Frustration ate at her as she retraced the path she had already come down, passing by what...may have been the same burnt down building as before? Or was it a new one? She didn’t remember the doorframe still standing, but then again she hadn’t studied it so much on the first pass. She grumbled to herself and kept moving. She turned left, then right, then left, then followed an alley, then took another right, followed by a left, and found herself staring at a burnt down building once again. Prudence didn’t hold back her rage as angry gibberish flooded out of her mouth, her fists raised in fury behind her head as if she was about to smash the cobblestone.

“You lost, lass?” said a kindly older voice from behind her. Prudence snapped around, her scarf fluttering at her waist as her hand brushed against her dagger. An elderly man, bent at the back and with skin like melted leather, lifted a lantern up and smiled a toothless grin at her. Prudence winced at the brightness of the lantern as it shone in her eyes. “You should get a light.”

“My eyes work just fine in the dark! This place is the problem. It makes no sense at all. Just endlessly roads and identical buildings. How can people stand it?” she said, venting to the stranger.

“You get used to it, dear. We’re in Centrage right now. Which borough do you live in?” he asked.

“Which borough do I live in? I don’t live in the slums,” said Prudence, a hint of disgust in her voice. As if it was a superior living situation she added, “I live in a brothel.”

“You’re a whore?” asked the old man.

“Do I look like a whore?” asked Prudence with a growl, her face hardening as she took a step forward.

“I am sorry, miss. My eyes do not work just fine in the dark; hence the light. It’s quite obvious when I see you up close that nobody would ever take you as a whore,” said the old man. He chuckled at his own jab.

“Good to hear,” said Prudence. She didn’t even realize for a second that he might’ve been insulting her. She didn’t have what most people would call an attractive face. Her lips were chapped and chewed, her skin was nearly as dirty as it was tanned, her nose had been broken more times than she could count (which, to be far, wasn’t very high), and her eyes were sunken. She was far from the ugliest woman in the world, but she still wasn’t anywhere close to being pretty. “So you know you’re way around here, old man?”

“Better than some. What are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a whore.”

“Well, it’s been a spell since I’ve been with one, but I’d wager that your house would be a good place to start,” he said with a wink.

“Not one of those girls,” said Prudence with a groan. The old man seemed so harmless that it was difficult to get upset with him. She might’ve seemed annoyed with him, but that hatred that had been inside of her had cooled down to its usual simmer. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something about old people that she just liked. They were kind of cute, she guessed, in a gross kind of way. Much like a pug. “I’m looking for one in this area. Works kind of close to the docks. Golden hair, dark skin. You know of a girl like that?”

“Oh, maybe,” said the old man. “I’m really more interested in my boys.”

“You know, grandpa, I don’t really care if you enjoy them with an innie or an—”

“No, no, not boys, my boys." He smiled that toothless grin again as he interrupted her. It didn't seem so cute this time. "The ones behind you,” he said as he straightened out his spine and stepped back, killing the lantern. Prudence found herself drowned in black.

"The ones be-what?"

Prudence heard the padding of footsteps running towards her. She was getting exactly what she had wanted, but nowhere near how she thought it would happen. She’d let the fact that she was getting mugged by an old man amaze her later. She dropped into a crouch, tore her dagger out of its sheath, and pivoted around as she sliced into the darkness. However, thanks to the man’s bright lantern her eyes hadn't yet adjusted back to the black of night. Instead of blood splattering to the ground and the cries of a man dying she heard the tearing of cloth and a sharp intake of air as the tip of her knife scraped against his side. Just a shallow cut, and she didn’t have time for another. Her attacker’s elbow smashed into her back and sent her off balance. She stumbled and fell to her knees, but Prudence still had her dagger in hand. She twisted it back with hopes of catching her assailant off guard.

She did just that. The mugger was used to fighting the weaklings who lived in the Slums and gave up after the first hit. He wasn’t ready for a ground assault. Prudence’s dagger drove into the back of his leg, and he screamed as she ripped it up the back of his thigh. Her attacker dropped to the ground and grabbed at his wound as Prudence stood up. Her eyes had readjusted. Her attacker wasn’t quite a man yet, but he was old enough that “boy” would be insulting. Still, he must’ve had the brain of a boy if he thought he could take her on. The idiot didn’t even have a knife, just some kind of stick that could pass as a club. It made that situation all that more ridiculous. Attacked by an old man and his idiot ass boy. She wiped the blood off on her jacket. This how charade made her want to laugh—

”Oof!” A cudgel cracked against her shoulder and almost made her drop her knife. Shit. The old man had said boys, not boy. That bastard wasn’t going to hit her again. As the second of boys went to swing his club Prudence snatched her free hand out to catch it, ripping the club away as she delivered a kick straight up his center. Boy Two crumpled to the ground and Prudence saw red. Doing this was a courtesy after all. She reversed her grip on her dagger and grinned as she readied to teach these nobodies what happened when they messed with a real killer.

Her arm had just barely raised when she heard something singing through the air from behind her. Prudence turned just in time to have the lantern crack her in the face and knock her senseless. Her frame went limp and she crumpled to the ground, her dagger clattering beside her. Her vision swam. There seemed to be an unusual amount of stars in the sky. Then, the shadows of night began to consume her vision again. She could hear words, but could hardly make sense of them. They blended together as they got further and further away. Shadows shuffled around her.

“My leg.” If she just. “Fucking bitch.” Managed to hold. “Get that away.” On a little. “My leg!” Longer. “Don’t kick it, take it.” Then she. “Almost died!” Had a. “Shut up!” Chance. “MY LEG!” To. “Shut up!” Kill. “Hurry, before people come.” These. “Ooo.” Fucking. “Got it.” Bastards. “OOOH!” Bastards. “Help him!” Bastards.

Her eyes snapped open. Her head hurt like she had suffered the world’s worst hangover. There was something warm on her face. Blood? Hers? No, no, no, it better not be. It better not be. A growl began forming in the pit of her stomach. Someone did this. Who, who, who? Three men around her. One old in rags, two young in black. Young One was helping Young Two. Old One had a pouch in his hand. He beckoned the boys with another. The growl was in her throat. Blood was in her eyes. Head hurt. They did this? Didn’t matter. It was their fault now. Hand on cobblestone, hand on cobblestone, knee, knee, up we go. Dizzy. Head hurt. Didn’t matter. This was happening. She lifted her head. The growl escaped her mouth. Feral. Rabid. Inhuman.

Old One noticed her first. Called out to the boys. Young One noticed her second. Dropped Young Two. Dropped her knife with him. He ran. Old One ran. Young Two couldn’t run. Good. She lunged. Her hands wrapped around his leg, fingers going into a hole where there normally wasn’t one. He screamed. Good. He fell down face first. She was on him. Her vision blurred. The fire was there, but the body couldn’t. Didn’t matter. Didn’t need long. She grabbed him by the hair. Cut it short so the enemy can’t grab you. Whose voice was that? Not hers.

Didn’t matter.

She lifted his head. Crunch. Still screaming. Good. She lifted his head. Crunch. She lifted his head. Crunch.

<sub>World got darker. Didn’t matter. Still screaming. Good. She lifted his head. Crunch. She lifted his head. Crunch.

<sup>No screaming. Good. World got darker, world got darker. Didn’t matter.</sub>

She lifted his head and the world got darker and darker and darker and darker and</sup>

The slums, late evening

Dizzy. She felt so... dizzy. Slowly she forced her eyes back into focus. Dizzy. Focused again she took a deep breath and continued washing out her appliances. The deal she had landed was rather helpful for her. A local substance merchant had opted to give her a room to work, under the condition that she provided him with a stimulant called rainbow cinder.

Rainbow cinder was a very potent stimulant, leaving the user with a wonderful extended or altered sensual perception. She had heard an user tell her he could smell touches - something she definitely could not comprehend. Seeing colours or hearing them was as likely. And it was wonderfully addictive because of this. The issue of rainbow cinder was another one: It was hard to produce. Pure rainbow cinder was not too detrimental for one's health. The production process produced vapours leading to a rather potent high. Most alchemists would mix different additives in during production, which reduced the vapours but made the end product less pure and more dangerous.

Lexaja had other ways. She just took the high, which was a lot lighter than it would be for other people. She finished scrubbing the basin. Dizzy. She focused her eyes again, put the basin aside and took up the dish containing the cinder. She just needed to fill it into something she could close.

Dizzy. Her hands nearly slipped from the dish, she just grabbed it more firmly and slowly shook the cinder into a clay flask. A rather big one for the purpose of clean rainbow cinder. When her exes tilted back to focus some of the mother-of-pearl coloured, shimmering powder was on the work bench. She sighed and scooped it back into the dish, than concentrated to get it into the flask. Dizzy again.

Slowly she put the flask at the agreed position in the room. She held onto the wall for a second, jerked herself up. Just the bench... Dizzy. she nearly fell over her bag on the ground and just grinned. Oh shit she needed to be done here, it would still get worse. She wiped down the surfaces and then opened the door.

Lexaja liked the idea of taking in a deep breath of fresh air. She took a deep breath and started coughing. The makeshift laboratory was in the slums and hell the slums were not the place for a breath of fresh air. She new the foul smell lingering, but she forgot. She gagged for a few moments, then closed the door and strolled onto the streets. Slightly swaying. Humming.

The voices whispered again. The slums were a horrible place for a medium. Never silent. She grinned and waved at a figure - that was not there. She did not care and just went onto her merry way.

Her first destination would be a place with cleaner water. Salt water. She wanted to cook something that needed salt water and a port city may also hold some other beings or plants that could be useful.

Dizzy... The first shock of "fresh air" had cleared and her mind turned again to also make her world turn for a while. Maybe she should just stumble into a tavern... it would most likely be safer.

It was still dark. Prudence stirred and coughed. Her head pounded. Her ears rang. The blood on her face was thick. Most of it wasn’t hers. There was something below her. She remembered the attack in flashes. She grumbled. It was what remained of the boy. She rolled off of him and landed on the wet cobblestone. She stopped rolling, but the world kept twirling. She held her breath. Waited. Waited. The world leveled out. She tried to sit up. She was too quick about it the first time and the spinning started again. The second time she was slower. It worked. Through her double vision she could see the burned down house in front of her. The still-standing door frame look like a mouth. With her swimming head it looked like it was laughing at her. Asshole door.

She took a moment.

And then another.

Okay.

Prudence had woken up next to boys plenty of times before and regretted it, but never quite like this. She looked over his body. Even in the dark she could see what remained of his skull. She had done that? Prudence let out a ragged breath. She wasn’t a stranger to violence, maybe even revelled in it, but even that made her look away. Another memory of unbridled rage to shove deep, deep down until it was forgotten except in the occasional nightmares. Prudence put her head in her hand and massaged her temples. She couldn’t stay here. Constables didn’t really come out this deep in the slums but she couldn’t stay here.

She tried standing up and found that she could still do it. Prudence reached down to check her scarf, paused, took off a stained glove, and then checked it. It was still there, but she doubted the moisture was just water. She frowned and then felt for her coin purse. It was gone. Shit. She patted her dagger. Just the sheath. Double shit. Her eyes moved in a rapid panic and she spotted it a few feet away from her defunct bunkmate. Small miracles. She replaced her glove and grabbed her knife. It was frustrating to lose a handful of bits, but she could easily get them back with that knife alone. Now being unarmed? She wouldn’t live long enough to worry about money problems.

It was time to get the hell out of the slums. The task was easier said than done. She could hardly find her way through it when she was fully coherent, and now she could hardly see straight. However, walking wasn’t so bad. She tried to ignore the pain as her heavy footsteps echoed throughout the slums. Nobody was out now. It must’ve been real late. She kept pushing onward, the creeping feeling that she’d turn a corner at any moment and be met with a brutalized corpse and a charred house weighing on her heavily. Yet then through the ringing in her ear she could hear the sound of waves smacking against the seawall. If she just kept the sea on her right she’d make it home. Now if only that pesky blackness would stop coming...in...and…it was chased away by a red light.

Wait, where was she? Prudence whipped her head back and forth and triggered a shot of pain—stupid. She was outside of the Red Sail, the red lights burning away in there oil lamps to turn away the night and signal in lonely souls. Fontaine had explained to her how the flame burned so red once, but Prudence never understood any of that alchemy mumbo jumbo. It just meant she was home. Which was strange, because she didn’t feel like she had been walking for that long. She looked up at the purple sky and saw that the moon was barely above the neighboring buildings. She was missing time. How good had that old man beaned her? She was still alive, so she supposed the answer was “not good enough.”

Prudence stumbled against the door and propped herself up against it. At this time of night the Red Sail would be locked tight and the girls would be given some time for their all very important beauty sleep and a bit of self-reflection. She fished for the key on her belt and was relieved to find that it had not been stolen. After a bit of work she was able to find the hole, a phrase regularly uttered around the Red Sail but generally in a different context, and let herself in. Only the glow of the red lights lining the windows lit the room, casting eerie shadows across worn couches and chaise lounges. Prudence made her way to one of the couches and sat down. She just needed to give herself a second to let her head stop spinning.

The Red Sail — Dawn

When Selena woke her it was morning. The red lights were all extinguished and sunbeams poured in through the windows. The gentle rumble of dock workers and food peddlers outside mixed with the quiet gossip of the upstairs girls who weren’t sleeping off their hangovers. While getting poked with the handle of a broom wasn’t the most pleasant way to being woken up, it was the smartest thing for Selena to do—Prudence occasionally awoke swinging. Prudence rolled over and sat up; Selena took a step back as Prudence’s hood fell to reveal her face. Beneath the matting of deep red was a rainbow of purple, black, and yellow surrounding the cut around her temple from where the lantern had hit her. Selena’s initial shock wore away. It wasn’t the first time she had seen Prudence return looking like this, and if Prudence kept her luck then it wouldn’t be the last time.

“Let’s clean you up, love.”

There was no protest from Prudence as Selena set to work. Again, not the first time. Selena guided her to the bath, helped her undress, and gently cleaned the grim as Prudence prayed that the water had been changed from the night before. Even still, she doubted that all of the scented soap and hot water in the world would be enough to clean the leftover residue from whatever three gold coins and an hour of privacy bought. Once Selena had time to wash her clothes and Prudence had forgotten her thoughts and just enjoyed the relaxing water the barmaid set about to dressing the enforcer’s wound after she dried. Prudence stared into the mirror as Selena finished wrapping the wound. Even with Selena’s care and the much needed bath she still looked like absolute shit. She sighed as she followed after her friend and took a seat at the bar.

“So you going to tell me what happened or sit there being glum all day?” asked Selena as she set down a morning meal of hard bread, spiced meat, soft cheese, and a bitter tea in front of Prudence.

“I ain’t being glum,” said Prudence between ravenously shoveling food into her mouth. It was simple but good, although every chew sent a sharp spike through her head. “I’m thinking.”

“Haven’t you hurt yourself enough today?” said Selena. She leaned forward, snagging a bit of cheese off of Prudence’s plate. “C’mon, you know how the other girls love to spread rumors. Let me set the story straight.”

“Uh,” Prudence squinted as she tried to come up with a lie. She was rubbish at lying; they almost always came out as questions like she was unable to bring herself to believing in them. “I took out a couple of Black Hands?”

“You said that fisherman and three of his buddies you kicked out last week tried to jump you and that they look tenfold as shit as you do?” clarified Selena. Prudence nodded dumbly. Selena leaned in closer so that no eavesdroppers could hear them. “So what really happened?”

“I..." Prudence sighed. "I got mugged by an old man and—.”

“An old man? You? Mugged by an old man?” Selena threw her head back and barked with laughter. Certainly the girls upstairs had heard her outburst. So much for stopping rumors. Prudence’s nails dug into the countertop as her friend waved her hand in front of her as an apology as she tried to stifle her continuing laughter. Prudence’s lips grew thin. "What he bore you with stories of the back-in-my-days til you passed out and brained yourself on the street? Accidentally hit you with a hard candy? An old man! Hah!"

“With two lads! I killed one of them,” growled Prudence. Selena stopped laughing. “Fontaine’s gonna be furious. Couldn’t have been any older than Priscilla.” Prudence stared at the countertop. “Just some stupid kid following someone else’s orders.” The wood on the countertop was beginning to warp; it was now the hull of a ship. She could smell the seawater. “Just some stupid kid.” Don't be so soft, stupid girl, pirates are pirates. That voice again. She shuddered. A glass clinked down in front of her. Prudence blinked her eyes rapidly at the whisky as she was drawn back into the Red Sail Brothel.

"Grandpa's medicine," said Selena, smirking.

“Fontaine don’t like it when you give away booze,” said Prudence matter-of-factually as she slid the glass away. Besides, it was too early to imbibe and her head was already foggy enough.

“Then don’t tell her,” said Selena.

“She’s gonna know.”

“It was that damn fisherman and his goons.”

“What do fishermen have to do with drinking from the supply?” asked Prudence.

“Oh, c'mon Prue. You don’t remember because they hit your head. But I saw it through the window. Helped drag you in here after you chased them off,” Selena said with a wink. “It. Was. The. Fisherman.”

“The fisherman?” Prudence repeated. Her eyes widened with understanding. Fontaine didn’t like bodies, or at least she didn’t like bodies left out in the open where they could draw prying eyes. With Selena’s story there wasn’t a body. She smiled. “Yeah, the fisherman.”

Selena smiled back, and then in a flash snagged another piece of cheese from Prudence’s plate and popped it into her mouth before the enforcer could stop her. "Hey!"

"Payment for my services," said Selena as she poured herself a glass of whisky and pushed Prudence's back towards her. "Now it can't go back in the bottle, so drink up and let me tell you about my night. You weren't the only one hit on by an old man..."

Ayden ran a few more spur of the moment errands while the sun was still up before turning in for the night at the Faded Lantern. He purchased himself the second cheapest room in the establishment and made a point of locking his door behind him as he stepped inside. It wouldn’t do to have someone waltzing in on his work. He removed his coat and emptied the contents of the numerous hidden pockets lining the inside onto a tiny wooden desk in the corner. Opening his shirt, he removed a cloth wrap from his waistband and set that on the desk as well along with the paperwork he’d stolen earlier. All together the items constituted a sort of homebrew forger’s kit and he planned for it to be put to good use that night.

He cracked the seal on the stolen documents and scanned the contents. The signature and the contents of the paper designated the holder as a member of the Wagorski Shipping Company and a licensed traveling merchant. Ayden smiled. It was just what he’d been looking for. He used an ink well and a rock to hold the paper open and weigh it down as he set about analyzing the handwriting and practicing the wide, sweeping curve on Mr. Wagorski’s E’s by the light of the candle provided to him.

Ayden barely had half an hour with his tools before the sound of multiple pairs of heavy footsteps quickly approached his door. There was a brief pause before Ayden sprung to his feet, snatching every scrap of paper off the desk as he did so, and cast them all to the floor. He gripped the desk with both hands and heaved, dragging it across the floor, and pushed it up against the door with a muffled thud. The footsteps reached his door in the next instant and the door knob jiggled as whoever was on the other side attempted to open the door.
“Give it up, Newport!” a gruff voice called out, “No windows for you to jump out this time!”
Ayden didn’t bother listening to the accompanying chuckles as he snatched up the lit candle on his desk and set the collection of papers on the ground alight.
“C’mon, mate just unlock the door and we promise to go easy on you.”
There was only the sound of Ayden’s frantic shuffling as he gathered up the last bits of paper and cast them on the now somewhat sizable fire.
“No? Can’t say I didn’t-- you boys smell something burnin’?”
A second voice spoke up from farther down the hall with an edge of urgency “He’s torchin’ the evidence, Captain!”
“Oh bugger me! You won’t get off that easy you bastard!”
The man on the other side of the door attempted to kick in the door which visibly bent under the force of his armored foot but held. The weight of the desk provided little protection but wasted the precious few seconds it took for the flames to char and blacken every last piece of parchment Ayden had with him. Unfortunately, his tools were metal and wouldn’t be disposed of so easily.

The desk and door finally gave as Ayden was busy throwing his forger’s tools under the bed.
“Jeremy! It’s so good to see you! How’ve you been?”
The constable, Jeremy apparently, swore colorfully and stamped on the flames as much in an effort to put them out as a display of frustration. He met Ayden’s smug grin with a glare to curdle milk as he seized the crook’s arm and twisted it behind him, dragging a yelp of surprise and pain out him.
“OUCH! Hey! What’s going on? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“You and I both know that’s a lie,” the constable growled as he slapped a set of iron manacles over his wrists.
“You can’t prove that!”
“You attempted to set fire to the building and resisted arrest so you’re coming with us either way.”
“It was an accident! My elbow caught the candlestick and--”
Ayden’s head snapped to the side as he was glass jawed by an iron gauntlet and the last thing he heard as his head cracked against the floor and the world faded to black was something about how much someone hated listening to him flap his gums.



Ayden woke in near darkness with the smell of urine and mold flooding his senses, almost overpowering his splitting headache. He fought back the urge to vomit as he made an attempt to stand. His balance was already off and the fact his hands were still shackled behind him did little to help. He did eventually manage to stand and took a moment to take in his surroundings. Cold stone on three sides and a door made of iron bars.
“Shit.”
He did an awkward self pat down to see what he had to work with which turned out to be almost nothing. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. They hadn’t even allowed him shoes which he usually kept extra lock picks in for just such a scenario.
”Shit!”
He sat back down on the hard stone and rested his head against the wall with a sigh.
“Shit...”
Without some kind of miracle, he’d likely be stuck in that cell for years to come.

Lexaja

Slums, night

Her footsteps seemed to echo loudly from the walls, each time creating a few little blinking sparks around her feet. Slowly, ever so slowly, the high started to change from the dizziness created by the fumes to... something similar and not quite similar to the real product. Lexaja chuckled and tried to grab one of the sparks she knew fully well were not real - but she was accustomed to things not being real.

Her feet let her in the direction of the waves. Crushing, washing over each other. After a while of wandering the streets like a chuckling child and thankfully not meeting anyone something passed her vision. She blinked. And prayed for it to be just born out of the drug. For a moment she stood there and contemplated. Should she really turn around, back to that alley? At the thought alone her heart raced, pounded, louder and louder, filling her ears, louder, pounding against her chest, louder again, so loud...

She spun around and slammed her hand flat against the next wall. The pounding stopped. The impeding panic stopped. A sharp pain wandered through the flat of her hand, up her arm into her brain. Which mixed it with some loud ringing. She drew a breath and leaned against the wall for a moment.

She pulled herself up again. Her mind was... well not cleared. She was still more out of it than she would care to admit. But the fear had been fought down. And she was open for other stimulants again. Where are you..? I am sorry.

Lexaja closed her eyes. She was not in the right mindset for this, coldness rolled over her, dampness. Then pain. She grabbed her head. Pain... A pain she had never felt before, never wanted to feel again. Her head felt like it was being split open. She gagged. Her leg felt oddly warm at parts. A crushing sound rang in her ears, coldness and heat washing over her again and again.

With the last bit of clearness in her mind and force in herself she jerked up "They are not here. Go home. They will be waiting. Everything will turn out... fine." The words were pressed. She had no idea if they were true. She did not even care. But she felt the presence lifting. Her mind took back in the normal stench of the slums. Her head stopped pounding.

She did not take her chances to look inside the alley. What for? She was no undertaker and had no interest in seeing the bloody body of someone who had been killed. And she was fairly certain that nothing else would be there.

Instead she marched a little faster than before, right out to the sounds of the wave. Her head up to the stars which seemed to move and turn. This time she reached her destination - maybe because she was not completely consumed in playing with her own mind's creation. She turned and marched down as near to the shoreline as she could. The sound of the waves trickled over her, creating images of playing sea creatures in her peripheral view, snatching at the still moving stars.

After a while she reached the port. For a moment she paced up and down, muttering sweet words to the dancing colours of the sea, before she found a safe way down to the water. She collected some in a waterskin, put it to her belt and collected a bit of the sea weed growing here. The sensation of water against her fingers made her giggle slightly. The last batch was rather potent, or her ventilation had been better before.

Standing up Lexaja contemplated what else to do. And contemplating in this sense meant she was starring ahead at the sea and moving her hands slightly to again touch creatures that were not there. After another moment, or minutes, or maybe an hour she stepped up again and walked. She just had decided to take a look at the city and wandered aimlessly. Her mind did not once jump to the possibility that this might not be a good idea.

"Stop. What are you doing?" The voice was loud and demanding. Shaking her head - and then having to sort out her brown hair again - Lexaja turned to it. Now in front, originally to her side, were a few guards "Taking a look around?" Had her mind been clearer she most likely would have known that this was not the right answer. If guards got antsy they were looking for thieves. Thieves took a look around at night. But, well. "At that time of the night? Surely not!" The voice bellowed again and she could just help herself from asking why his voice sounded so ugly.

Apparently her little training in self-control had made her miss something the ill-tempered guard had said. At least she had no other pointer to why the two other guards had rushed to her side and turned her arms on her back. The last one took a step closer "Spaced out, huh? Where'd you get it?" She blinked, shook her head "Search her." A little shock went through her. She had not taken all her belongings with her as her bag had stayed behind, but she always had the sleeping powder on her. She was slowly stripped first of her dagger, than one by one of the things on her belt.

The small bag of seaweeds were first and ignored. Her waterskin was emptied, she sighed, than gasped as a flash of sound, colours and feelings washed over her, shortly but still making her feel drowning for a moment just from the water splashing against her. When she came back to her senses they had found the small bag and opened it, the guard holding her slowly lifting it up to his face with his free hand "I wouldn't.." "Shut up!" She flinched as she was shouted at and could not really help it.

He took a really deep breath and blinked. It took a short while until his grip loosened and she took the opportunity to snatch the bag and close it before the man sat down mumbling, yawned and fell to sleep.

The view of the two other guards was burning, it felt as if it was to impale her. Without even thinking about running away she lifted her hands up, still holding the bag "I tried to warn you..?" The voice was that of a child trying to calm down a fuming parent and it did not work. A moment later she found herself on the floor, being pressed down by one guard while the other inspected his fellow. She tried to speak, but she could not get enough air into her lungs against the pressing weight. Air... she felt another wave of now rather uncontrolled emotions rush over her, shutting out the world.


Royal Complex/Stronghold Keep - Dawn

Lexaja slowly came to her senses to someone shouting. Or talking loudly? She tried to recap where she was, and why and vaguely remembered the guards. As she had no memory how she got her she concluded she must had passed out.
Opening her eyes revealed a stone wall. Not too unexpected. She took in a deeper breath than what was good for her, the stench of mould and urine throwing herself of. She turned to one side and gagged, but there was nothing more. She had not eaten in... many hours apparently. She just spit out the sour and bitter taste and rolled back. Her body was shaking. It drew out small noises from the shackle at her foot and it made it nearly impossible for her to move. Getting down from these fumes was hell. She felt ill, dizzy and the tremble was the worst. At home she would have known a remedy, here she tried not to vomit again.

She took another look around. Iron bars... a shackle? "Hell where did they bring me?" It was the first time she sensed a little bit of nervousness coming up. Walls like these were usually not in simple prison cells.

Torril Morvayn was what could probably be described best as a mildly important figure among the criminal societies of Guillan. His motives most likely were the same mixture of primitivity, egoism and thrall-like obedience to whomever was secretly pulling the strings as they were with many others of similar rank, but at least so far he had been reliable in terms of payment and his information trustworthy. If not Vodilic, in chronic need of additional funds, would not have accepted yet another... let's say 'task'... of him. Said task was about delivering a message, but the message would involve enough of a crime to get any perpetrator behind iron bars if caught. However, according to Torril, the receiver would be out of home this evening and busying himself on a party.

The sun had already settled below the horizon, the remaining dim reddish glow was not enough to illuminate the streets. A rather chill wind was underway, so not many people were left out here. The majority of them apparently had already prepared for the night and was at home, but not so that semi-rich, allegedly quite arrogant snob whose house Vodilic was about to break in. There was no light to be seen behind any of the windows and no other activity to be seen around it. For moments Vodilic wondered if he should try to climb up to that opulent balcony, but considering how many workers might have died already by falling off ladders during its construction he abandoned the idea.

The much more simple solution was the main door. There was the chance of some passer-by spotting the tiny bits of damage that would be caused by Vodilic's method of getting inside, but given the poor illumination it was only a very slight risk preferable to breaking one of the windows. With that certain, satisfying snap the door's lock gave way to the brute force applied via the iron bar lodged into the seam between the door and its frame. Vodilic, having to duck in the process, slipped in and slanted a small stool against it in order to keep it closed at all times again. Now was the time to see what he had at hand here...

The most immediate observation: Richness. The desk alone was so decorated with inlaid work and shiny metal fittings that it must have cost more than an average dock worker could afford in several months. It would make an excellent platform for the message, so Vodilic gently placed the folded piece of parchment he had been given by Torril onto it and secured it with the bronze paperweight. The plan was for this to be the only piece of written stuff to survive this evening. The victim whose house he just had broken into was a tradesman, someone who had to keep record of what was in stock, what was to be bought, what had just been sold, who was working for him and countless other things. What could be more devastating than obliterating some of those ? The ordinary blackmailing job was to get in and wreak havoc upon every piece of equipment inside, but Vodilic liked the cleverness of this different approach. It was silent, efficient and would allow him to snatch away whatever he could make fit into his pockets.

The first task was to reignite the fire in the chimney, an issue that was greatly alleviated by the fact that there were still some embers left from hours before. Like said, it was a cold evening... Then Vodilic started searching the drawers, cabinets and other containers for the things to burn. In order to save time he didn't look at them, but just fed them into the flames right away. Trying to check if the plethora of numbers and words on them was relevant information to be destroyed or not would just give him a headache anyway, just burning everything suspicious was much easier. It would get rather hot in here.

Then, with Vodilic already having reached the second floor, a creaking noise could be heard. Vodilic's ears told him that it was not one of the floorboards suffering under his weight. He twisted his head in order to look downstairs and could only watch in horror that it was the stool rubbing against the entrance door. It was forced open from outside and a man whose general body shape clearly had seen better days entered the building among with two other, armed persons.

Instincs told Vodilic to try and jump out of the next window and make a run for it, but he barely was able to slow down in time in order not to jump. There were more people outside and they too were armed.

"Ohh how cute. Thanks that you already have arranged for a comfortable temperature in here Vat... Vod... Vodilic ? Is that your name ? Well neither I'm sure nor do I care so I'll just call you cuddle bear if that's okay for you ? That party really was disappointing from the very beginning so I decided to leave early. Or no... wait... that was yesterday! Today I just left in order for you to come in!"

The man burst into a bit of laughter that would have raised Vodilic's anger level even if he had not just been realizing that he had been set up. He shoved his chubby frame over towards the fireplace, bent down and pulled out a piece of parchment that had not yet completely incinerated.

"Let's see what we have here. Trade records from... like 10 years ago ? Good luck that I've been so lazy about cleaning up my archive, certainly don't need this anymore do I ?"

Vodilic stared at the tradesman's stubby fingers as he used them to crumple the piece of parchment and toss it back into the flames.

"Thanks for disposing of this crap! Maybe I should have waited a few more minutes but my colleagues became nervous." The tradesman patted the shoulder of the armed man standing next to him, putting up a nasty smile while the other maintained his quite disciplined grimace. Vodilic was about to say something, but the tradesman who identified himself as Garan raised his index finger as an indication not to say anything.

"Now you're certainly wondering what has happened. Well... let's say this beautiful city works like a giant set of gears. Big ones turn the smaller ones, but without the smaller ones the whole thing would come to a grinding halt as well. Now unfortunately this set of gears suffers from a slight error: Some of those smaller gears hang so low that, as they turn, their teeth touch the ground and dig up dirt and pieces of sand. They either don't realize that this is dangerous for the entire machine or they can't change much about their situation anyway. Most of this dirt and sand drops off in time, but some pieces get sucked in and start to annoy. Pieces like you. And the small gear I'm talking about is your brave master Torril who stopped asking critical questions the moment he was confronted with a sufficient amount of coins. I guess he doesn't even know that his very latest contract was a trap for one of his employees and that the one contacting him was my loyal secretary. Now please do me the favor and arrest this cuddle bear. The machine must continue to turn!"

The armed men had waited halfway partiently so far, but now all three of them rushed up the stairs while those waiting outside around the place continued to stand by. Even Vodilic could see that it would be lethal to try and resist against this summoning without solid armament on his own side. This bootlicker of Garan must have called for the entirity of his low-cost private guards that usually protected his warehouse. They put Vodilic in chains and forced him to walk towards the castle, Garan accompanying the bunch of men along the whole way. He appeared to have enough authority to claim that Vodilic had broken into his house and tried to sabotage him.

A not so comfortable cell awaited Vodilic. The ceiling was a tad too low for him to stand completely upright, but there was a rich supply of water seeping in from various places. There was no such thing as a bed, just a pile of hay for him to sleep on. The question was what would come next for him: Just this or a trial ? An uncomfortable, tingling sensation started to appear around Vodilic's neck.

"Well... that could have gone better..."

Lucien reflected bitterly on his earlier meeting with 'Lord' Vargas the fucking guttersnipe of a kingpin. Lucien was sure he could pull more in one good day than that man made in a year off the measly little commissions he collected from all the ragamuffin pickpockets and petty thieves he associated with. He was a nobody, but a useful nobody when Lucien had been setting stage for his whirlwind seduction of the nobility of Gullian. Now he was turned away, cap in hand, at the doors of men such as Vargas.

He kicked in impotent rage at a puddle of sewage and detritus as he made his away through an alley that was practically a tunnel by virtue of the sagging overhangs of the buildings on either side. A few months ago Lucien wouldn't have been seen dead in this section of Gullian, now it served as his home neighbourhood. No one here during his time in Gullian had possessed enough money to warrant his attentions, therefore, few here would know who he was.

The question that raced through Lucien's head first and foremost however, was how Vargas had seemed to know that he had sunk so low. Most people thought that he had fled the city with all of those misbegotten gains and was living in luxury somewhere else. In fact, Lucien was fairly sure he had started several of those rumours at about the time things went south in order to cover his tracks. He had been careful to keep a very low profile these last few months. So how had Vargas seen through him? He had given him that contemptuous little smile when Lucien had told him that he still had quite the tidy sum behind him and simply asked if that was the case why wasn't he on a beach in The Rigomar Islands in that case. The man had known the money was gone, and Lucien had been in his power from then on.

An old woman, grey-haired, shuffling and bent back was pulling a cart laden with rags along in the opposite direction. As they met they both eyed each other contemptuously, she clearly thinking Lucien another petty-bourgeois come to the slums to indulge some sick perversion, he loathe to step aside to the sort of peasant he would run down with his carriage previously. They stood there for a few moments in the half light of the alley and amongst the leavings of the great anthill of Gullian. Lucien shifted to the left to squeeze past the cart at the same moment the old woman did. Irritated, he turned to his right to attempt the same again, but the rag-woman also turned right and they were at an impasse once again. His temper got the better of him.

"I say, hag, move aside for your betters or I might talk to my friend the high commissioner of the courts and see to it that you're horse whipped!" The harsh bark of his own voice surprised him, he didn't normally get like this, where was it coming from?

The old rag-woman looked back at him with a fierce look in her eyes. It surprised him, where had he seen that look before?

"Just cos' ye come down 'ere with yer fancy clothes and yer shiny sword, doesn't make ye better than us!"

Lucien leaned back a moment as the old woman shouted him down in stunned silence, before he threw back his head and laughed.

"You're more right than you know, grandmother. My apologies." Then he bowed to her and stepped aside for the cart to roll on through. The old woman looked at him wearily as she passed on by, expecting some kind of cruel trick no doubt. But there was none. As she turned the corner Lucien looked at the empty alley behind him, before turning himself to scurry off back towards his lodgings. Just another ant in the great anthill.

Somehow the whole incident had improved his mood. The Vargas had held him in the palm of his hand had made him angry, but he supposed the whole thing hadn't been a complete waste of time. Vargas had refused to lend him money, he also had turned down all the schemes that Lucien had spit balled to him in that cramped booth in the Faded Lantern. However, Vargas had said he had Lucien in mind something and that he would be in touch again if Lucien was interested. It galled him to work 'for' Vargas, but honestly he needed the money, if it got any worse he'd start turning tricks for wealthy widows.

Lucky began to whistle as he made his way up to the front door of the miserable tenement house he was sub letting a tiny attic room in. Everything would be alright, he would trust his luck and hang on for a little longer. Vargas would come through, he might be able to run a few small cons, as soon as he had a little capital behind him he would find somewhere to move on to. A little capital could grow big if he invested it right or won big at card table. New name, new city, new life. The pickings would undoubtedly be poorer than Gullian, but he was souring to the place as much as its notables had soured to him. A little money and a change of scenery would put the worlds to right.

These idle thoughts of the future kept Lucien from really paying attention to his surroundings as he bounded up the worn and cricked brick steps to the peeling painted door of his block. If he really had been paying attention Lucien might have noticed three shadowy figures watching the building from down the narrow street. All of them were dressed in leathers and had cudgels at their sides. He might have recognised them as hired bailiffs. Unfortunately Lucky did not see these men until they standing behind him as he fumbled for the key to the building.

"Lucien Beaumont-Dubois."

A shudder of fear run through Lucky at the sounding of his full name. It seemed that one of his creditors had caught up with him. He turned and looked the three men in the eyes. All three were big stocky men, roughly shaved and mean looking. The one at the front who had spoken was balding and had a curved scar running from his temple around the side of his head. They weren't asking, they knew who he was, question was how did they know where to find him and how was he going to get out of this one?

"Ah Gentlemen, I didn't see you there! Fumbling away with this damned lock wasn't I? Sometimes I think they are more trouble than they're worth. What can I help you with" He swung the key chain around in his hand nonchalantly. Be relaxed, be confident. He would play it nice an cool, there could still be away to weasel out of this.

"I am afraid Mr. Dubois that you owe our employ-

"It's Beaumont-Dubious actually, and technically Esquire as well, but please continue. He smiled politely, as if to ask for forgiveness for the intrusion. Put them off their guard.

"Beaumont-Dubious, then, regardless you owe our employer the Baron Ulrich Von Dragomir the sum of-

"Ah Ulrich! I haven't heard from him in months! How is the old man, still as much as a lecherous rogue as I recall? Has he received my letters?" He laughed heartily, and then looked around as if slightly confused as to why no one else was laughing with him. Imply some kind of higher more personal relationship with their employer, invoke a familiarity that makes them uncomfortable. "Sorry, I cut you off there old chap, what was it you were saying?"

"You owe the Baron the sum of three thousand gold pieces which you took out as a loan in order to finance preliminary surveying work for the construction of a new canal linking Taratino and Bordia." Only three thousand? Lucien was sure he had borrowed more than that from the Baron... "Failure to pay will result in the confiscation of your remaining assets and your interment into a debtors gaol until such a time that your debt is repaid."

Lucien looked around between the stony faced bailiffs as if this was some kind of joke, something not be believed or taken seriously. It was of course very serious, these men wouldn't hesitate to raid this building, ransack everything he had and toss him behind bars. All-Seer knows, that was what they expected to do today. So put them on the wrong foot. Act like you have the money, act like its a trifle to you.

"As I said, hasn't the Baron been receiving my letters? The survey was a success, the canal is feasible, I've been meeting with investors all this week. In fact I've just come from the docks, talking with a notable merchantman who's interested in committing many thousands to the project. The first few instalments of the Baron's money is with the Gullian Stock Exchange in an account under his name. Has no one retrieved the money yet?" He raised an eyebrow and gave them all a disapproving look, as if this was somehow their fault.

"No matter of course, I have the rest of the Baron's money here in promissory notes that can be exchanged at any reputable bank in the city." He opened the leather pouch at his belt and drew out one of the small rolled up scrolls of paper within. "I only have a few hundreds on me right now, but if you accompany me up my little love nest above." He winked at that. "I think I have a few larger denominations in the safe. Then we go to bank together and sort this all out like gentlemen. Please, do come up with me."

Lucien opened the door to the tenement and beckoned them inside. The men seemed slightly put off by this, being invited in my the man they were sent to apprehend. It was working. Of course the note he had showed them was worthless, it was a forgery, worth nothing as soon as banking clerk got the chance to look at it properly. But these goons didn't know that, he just had to string them along until he had an opening, then he would run.

They followed him up the tight and winding stairs to the hot and stuffy attic that his rooms shared with several others. A few of the other residents peered out of their doors as the strange party tramped up through the building, stamping dust and dirt from their hobnailed boots. As they went up Lucien began to chatter aimlessly to keep the casualness of the situation bobbing along.

"So how the devil did you actually find this place then? Its where I take any peasant girls that catch my fancy for a little bit of secluded romance, you know. But I suppose I've been spending a little bit too much time here lately, the most recent one is really such a pretty little thing, I can hardly stand to leave her along. But such foolish things they get into their heads, she's convinced we might yet marry! Ah here we are now, one moment please, don't want you boys disturbing my 'bride-to-be'."

Another wink elicited a chuckle from one of the men as Lucien sidled through the door and into the room beyond. Now was his chance, time to get away as far and as fast as he could. Fuck Vargas's job. Gullian was dead to him. Let Lucien Beaumont-Dubious be dead too. Time for a new life.

As soon as the door closed he slid the bolt, opened the window, and began to climb out.

It was a tight fit, with his sword still at his waist and the little dormer window not being particularly large in the first place, but he made in nonetheless. Out onto the rooftops, the adrenaline was pumping and it was telling him to fly as far away from here as possible. He clambered awkwardly across the shingles looking for a place to get down. From behind him he could here the sounds of the bailiffs breaking down his door. He leapt across a gap between two roofs onto a slightly lower building but there was still no obvious way down.

And then he saw it.

A cesspit.

A large open cesspit full of soft stinking shit. They were out on the roof now, shouting at him. There was no time to look for anything else. This had to be it. It was either this or prison. Lucky hadn't enjoyed prison the last time. Fuck it. At least they wouldn't him this way.

He jumped.

It wasn't the smell that him first, Lucien had been hurting towards it too fast to notice. The sewage covered his boots first, then his thighs, then his waist. But as his downward momentum slowed, his forward moment ploughed his chest and then, finally, his face inextricably forward into the mass of human waste and filth that was to be his salvation from the real prospect of spending the majority of his life incarcerated. It did not feel like salvation. After that initial impact with the slurry the reek filled his nostrils and the taste overwhelmed his mouth. He felt his gorge rise at the odour, and his mouth filled his own vomit.

But there was no time, they were coming, and he had to be gone by the time they were back down the stairs or it would all be for nothing. Frantically he wiped the muck from his eyes and face and began to thrash his way to the brick parapet of the cesspit to haul himself out, coughing and spluttering all the while as he did so. As he crawled out his stomach turned again to spray another gout of bile onto the stones beside him. And then he was up and onto his feet and running.

He ran in no particular direction, just away. Hopefully, once he had some distance he could get deeper into the slums where a man covered in excrement would ultimately be less noticeable. But for now he would settle with anywhere away from here.

"Please God, Gods, All-Seer, any God, fuck it, any devils or demons that might be listening too. Just let me get away from here, let me start again, I won't fuck it up next time. I won't I promise. It'll be different. I promise."

Maybe it was the silent reverie of blasphemous and futile prayer that distracted Lucky from road in front of him. Maybe it was the fear of those who were undoubtedly chasing him. Maybe it was faeces in his eyes. Whatever it was, it proved to be his undoing. As Lucien charged down the road, an old rag-women with a cart pulled out in front of him from a side alley.

The cart spilled its load of sackcloth and rags as Lucien tumbled head over the tails to the cobbles below. His head span, he tried to stand but he couldn't. Someone was shouting something at him... the old woman... from before... He managed to prop himself up on one arm and get to his knees. He knew he needed to go but his body wasn't responding, everything felt so slow, so sluggish.

A trickle of blood ran down forehead and into his eye, obscuring his vision.

But he could see fine with his other eye. He saw him, the man with the shaved head and curved scar on his temple stride up towards him. He was smiling, the studded cudgel was in his hand. He raised it up.

"No... no... Please... I can explai-"

The cudgel came down.

Everything went black.

Last night was just another tally mark on the ever growing list of Prudence’s crimes. Since her arrival in Gullian two years ago, she had committed a number of crimes acting in Fontaine’s name as well as in her own poor conduct. These crimes included some petty theft, a handful of burglaries, many vandalisms, uncountable acts of coercion, several assaults, some murders, and an embarrassing incident of public nudity following a night Prudence can’t recall. That’s not to mention the crimes she committed before arriving in town, but it’s a big world and who can say that this Prudence Stolz is that Prudence Stolz? Regardless, she should’ve been arrested, tried, sentenced, and hung some time ago, and she would’ve been if it had not been for Fontaine.

Rather, it would’ve been if not for Fontaine’s money. A few bits and a free night with a girl of their choosing was enough to make most lawmen turn a blind eye to a roughed-up trader or a beaten up crook. Sure, not all constables would trade in their honor for a free poke and some loose change, but enough of them would and the good ones were kept in check. What all of this means is that whenever a band of constables came to the Red Sail Brothel it was normally to cash in on one of these handshake deals and Prudence need not worry. She was under Fontaine’s protection, and the constables were always hungry for a certain kind of proposition. So when Selena told her there was a group of them at the door, she didn’t even think for a second that she was going to be in a lick of trouble.

“Morning, lads,” said Prudence as she opened the door. Her green scarf was styled around her head to cover Selena’s patch job, and she squinted her eyes as light hit them. For a moment she thought she was still seeing double. Usually it was just some crooked guard and a couple of his buddies. Never six. Today it was six. “You lot lost? Don’t think your captain would want you in a brothel before the sun’s fully up.”

“It’s the captain who sent us,” said the man in front. Usually the only thing that separated a constable from a back alley thug who bathed only in booze and filth was the uniform, but their leader clearly put in effort in his appearance with his shined boots, slicked hair, and manicured mustache. He was handsome, arguably, but Prudence liked her men a little bit tougher.

“The girls are hardly up. Go back and tell your captain that we don’t open until their legs do, and their legs don’t open ‘til their faces are on,” said Prudence as she started to close the front door.

“Wait.” A shined boot jammed it from shutting. “We aren’t here for that. We have a warrant to let us enter.”

“What’s that?” said Prudence. The constable took it as her asking to see it, and Prudence stared at the jumble of words on a piece of paper ordained with an official looking stamp. “Look, Madame Fontaine normally deals with these things, and she’s out. Come back tonight and she’ll handle this nonsense.”

“Afraid that’s not possible, Miss Stolz,” said the constable with a smirk. Prudence’s eyes narrowed. She had never met this man before. It was rarely a good thing when a stranger knew your name, especially when that stranger was the law.

“And why is that?” she asked, her voice turning dark.

“If you come with us I can explain it all. Slowly, too, so you can understand,” he said. The guards behind him chuckled.

“Sorry,” growled Prudence. She didn’t quite grasp what was happening, but she knew she didn’t like it. “We’re closed.”

Prudence slammed the door with all of her might. A howl of pain erupted from the mustached officer as his boot was smashed between door and jamb, a sickening crunch sounding out as tendons snapped and bones shattered. It had been a nicely shined boot; he shouldn’t have used it as a stop. However, it did manage to do the job of keeping the door from closing, and as it bounced back open Prudence was greeted with the sight of one screaming officer on his back and five angry constables stepping over him with their clubs drawn. She could hear Selena screaming from behind the bar, and a smarter person would’ve tried to run. But when Prudence looked at the five constables bearing down on her she didn’t see a good reason to turn tail and flee.

“Good.” She whipped out her blackjack. Six was unreasonable. Five? Five wasn't so bad. “Now it’s a fair fight.”

---

Royal Complex/Stronghold Keep — Day

It wasn’t. One against five never was, and perhaps one day she would learn that. Prudence had gotten a couple of good hits in before the blows from their clubs had overpowered her, but she was lucky to even be walking. Well, walking was a stretch; she was doing more of a shuffling as two guards dragged her by the shoulders deep into the pits of the Royal Complex. It hurt where they grabbed her, it hurt where her wrists were bound, it hurt where her ankles were bound, and it hurt just about everywhere else. She had come to in the carriage. Waking up with new wounds and in an awful situation was quickly becoming a tiring habit. Her two new friends had met her outside of the carriage, and since then they had been engaging in pleasant conversation.

“Didn’t realize the King was hiring chickens these days,” barked Prudence, her voice echoing down the hall. “Bunch of yellow-bellied lowlifes, coming after me with a whole bloody battalion. Got me in chains. What’s the matter? Scared of a girl? Closest you been to one, I bet, you ugly, boot licking piece of trash. Wait until I get outta these chains. Pluck everyone one of your feathers off, I will, and cook you up real nice and slow. Real nice and slow.”

“Why do I get stuck with all the assholes?” muttered the guard on her left while the one on her right gave her a smack on the back of the head. The hall ended and they entered the dimly lit dungeon. Prudence’s voice echoed off the walls; she wasn’t making a good prisoner.

“Oh a real big man, aren’t you? Hitting an unarmed prisoner. Real big. Why don’t you undo my hands and I’ll show you how to really hit someone, huh? C’mon, I’ll even give you the first punch. You hit me, then I hit you, then you hit the ground. C’mon. C’mon, let’s go.” The sound of a backhand rang through the cells. “Ha ha, there you go! Ha ha, there it is. Okay, now me. My turn. C’mon you coward. You coward, that was the game! Undo these, you coward!”

“Please, you’re only making this harder on yourself,” muttered the guard on her left as the one on the right opened a cell and began to work the chains through Prudence’s restraints.

“You know, you ain’t that bad actually,” said Prudence to the left guard with a sly wink of suggestion. “You take that club of yours, give that jerkoff over there a couple of lumps, and undo these chains. I can make it worth your while. C’mon, it’ll be fun. Gimme your club and I’ll do it. You won’t even have to let me go. I just wanna see if that coward’s gots any brains. Nobody’ll know, right? Nobody’ll know. C’mon.”

“Ugh, no way,” muttered the left guard.

“Oh you scared, huh? You a chicken too, huh? Cluck cluck, that you? That’s what you sound like? Like to peck things? Or is that what you like? A pecker? Hoping he'll give you his, is it?” She smashed her body against the left guard who yelped, but held his ground. “I could kill you—” In an instant she was on the ground wheezing as the right guard reared around on her and hit her full-force in the gut. He had been holding back.

Prudence continued to cough as the cell slammed shut behind her. The ground was cold and wet and actually felt rather good on her throbbing head that she figured she’d lay their for awhile, until the thought of what the stone was wet with made her sit up. She let out a pained groan as she righted herself and took a glance around the dungeon. Humanoid blobs of broken, beaten losers were in the other cells around her, and she didn’t like that she was being associated with such a sad company. Yeah, there was no way she was spending her day in her with these jerks. Prudence had an idea.

First, she stood up. Not quickly, and with a lot of grumbling and blurring of the vision, but she managed to get on her own two feet. Second, she backed herself up against the wall that the shackles on her ankles and hands were chained to so that they all hung as slack as possible. Third, she...took...a...moment, because her body really didn’t want to be moving right now, and so she shook her head and breathed. Then it was time for the fourth step and she took off running. Within a third of a second she was where she had first started—in a heap of defeat on the floor. Amazingly, her plan to break the chains with her speed and strength didn’t work. Not even a stone was loose.

So she did it again.

And again.

And then she couldn’t get up. From that heap of defeat, Prudence growled an empty threat to the floor below. “When Fontaine finds out what happens…”

Of course, Fontaine already knew.

A day had passed by, and the morning sun rose bright and high in the skies over the city. The air was balmy and it was still early. A clamoring could be heard from the stairwells, lots of them! It was the sounds of guards descending the stairs, their heavy armor clanking loudly as they did. It was still very dark deep in the depths of the keep where our party is held, shackled and awaiting judgement. The orange glow of torchlight could be seen first, and then Vallec was the first to round the corner. He was accompanied by 15 or so more guards, all bearing the armor of the Royal Guard..

"Look lively you rotten mutts." one of the guards barked as he rang his blackjack across the iron bars. "lets be on with it, on yer feet. Approach the doors and face the walls.."

They came to Y'vanna and Gail's cell first. Vallec leaned in close to the bars, sucking at his teeth for a moment before he spoke. "Turn and face the wall girl.." he said pointing at Y'vanna. He turned to the one with the keys. "Mind you keep an eye on this one, she's stubborn as a mule.". He took the keys from the guard and opened the door. The iron squealed as it swung open and Vallec and several guards entered. He stopped to face her and she met him with stern eyes. Another guard began to unshackle her and then Vallec turned his attentions to Gail. "Not this one.. he stays." he said. Y'vanna was struck with a dumbfounded look.

"What do you mean he-" she started loudly but was abruptly cut off. Vallec raised a hand and struck her across the face with it, the sound echoing down the corridor.

"He STAYS, is what I said girl." Vallec bellowed. "If she says any more about it on the way up and help her to.. understand." he said as a cruel grin spread across his face. He then turned and stormed out of the say, speaking as he left. "Make sure the others understand as well." his words thundered so that everyone could hear. Y'vanna looked to Gail who was just as scared and confused as she was, and he offered her no peace of mind either. She reached out as they pulled her from the cell, shackling her to a great chain.
The guards then went around and did the same to each one of the prisoners, locking them in to the same chain. They were then silently shuffled through various long corridors and stairwells, it was all very disorienting. It was more than likely meant to be, as to discourage anyone from future attempts to escape, if they were lucky enough to avoid the gallows, that is. They had to stop every so often along the way as a guard would have to unlock each section as they went. It was all very redundant. As they ascended the stonework became more decorative and polished, embellished with fancy trim and moldings, and even ornate carvings and statues in some places. It was all very grand, but Y'vanna's thoughts were stuck with Gail. Something strange was definitely going on..

Great Hall/Throne Room, Late Morning

It wasn't very long before they had reached the main level. The air was crisp and fresh, and the sweet smell of cloves and amber could be smelled wafting throughout the corridors, and it was quiet, reverently so. It was just a short walk off from the side to the main double doors of the great hall, a vast and open court that held the throne room at its end. A very grand scene indeed, if one wasn't in shackles. The floor consisted marble tiles were placed in ornate designs and polished to mirror perfection. Massive candelabras and huge chandeliers were everywhere, and the hall sparkled with light. Great silk tapestries hung from both sides of the hall, vibrant hues of red and gold stitching. Immaculate. There were guards in full suits of plate armor on nearly every pillar, and adjacently on each point of entry. They were intimidating and tall. Large men with halberds. These were far more sinister looking than the blackjacks and clubs of their present masters. These bits of steel were meant for lopping off heads, and the men looked more than willing to put them to their task.
The party is escorted in to a completely empty great hall, every sound echoing from the high vaulted ceiling, and the click of heels on the marble could be heard with each step taken. The only souls present other than themselves were the tinned guards and those who escorted them. The High King and Vallec could be seen down at the end conversing with one another. A set of wooden tables was strung across the room just below the raised throne area, well within talking distance. Several servants then came in and set each table with three chairs and three settings of quail's eggs, a Cornish hen, steamed carrots and potatoes, and a large flagon of wine and horns of mead for each place. A breakfast fit for kings it was. They poured their horns full and then returned from where they came in at. Also laid out upon the tables were everyone's personal gear that had been confiscated, neatly folded and placed in an orderly fashion, and six small heavy wooden chests. The smell of the food was more than enticing, after having been starved for some time. The guards positioned everyone in front of the chairs and began to undo their chains then gathered them up and made their exit back the way they had came. The High King's voice was startling but benevolent.

"Please, sit." he said, his voice warm but strong. "Sit and eat. I am sorry for the delay but I wanted you all to be clearheaded. So eat and replenish yourselves as I speak." He said waving off Vallec's will to continue his conversation. Vallec walked a short distance away before turning and standing at ease in waiting as the King took his seat on the high throne of the nines. The courtier was clearly put off at the sight of them, and to feed them in the Great Hall, of all things? Ridiculous. The High King seemed to be in no great rush, and it was a most peculiar scene for the likes of petty criminals, that was for certain. It was one thing to be at the very seat of power, but entirely another to be fed there..

"We will get to the business of this meeting in a moment. Please, eat something." the King said, waving for them to sit down and take a moment to fill their guts.

Kill or be killed. When Prudence had first heard her captain say that, she had taken it as some kind of morbid encouragement—either you kill the enemy, or the enemy will kill you. It was simple enough for her to understand, and she proved to be pretty good at it. When cannons sounded in the distance and waves of salt water splashed them as they prepared to be boarded, she could always hear the captain’s words echoing in her head. Kill or be killed. The words were on her lips as she weaved her sword like crimson paintbrush through pirates that had come to plunder the riches of people she didn’t even care about. All that mattered were those words.

She had never considered until this morning that those words might’ve been a threat.

Prudence stood shoulder-to-shoulder with four other mariners. The captain stood to their side while the rest of the crew flanked behind them to watch the scene unfold despite the chill coming from the light rain. The sailor next to her mumbled some concern about their muskets getting ruined by the rain, and Prudence prayed for him to be right. She’d take a backfire and a couple of missing fingers over what was about to come. The captain called for them to raise their arms. She did as she was told and hoped that the others wouldn’t notice the shake in her arms. It was so strange. She never hesitated once when it was a pirate. Then again, a pirate was never survived long enough to get pulled in front of a firing squad.

Cowards, on the other hand, found their attempts to save their own skin often put them on the fast track to the one thing they had tried to avoid. So was the case for the man before them now. He had been caught hiding in the kitchen during the last attack, and the captain saw fit to make an example out of him. His head was covered with a bag, his mouth had been gagged, and his arms tied before he was attached to a pulley and hoisted up high so that all could see his legs kick in a panicked, arrhythmic fashion. Some of the men prodded one another and pointed at the dark stain forming in the coward’s pants, laughing at the sight. They usually did that. Piss themselves and get laughed at. Normally, Prudence laughed at them too.

This wasn’t a normal case.

She wiped her face and tried to steady her musket. Maybe the others would think she was wiping rain from her eyes. The captain’s voice roared above the sea. Shots rang out; she fired her gun, too. Prudence knew the rules. If she didn’t fire she’d be the next one up there. She aimed her musket high, but she had always been a rubbish aim. The legs stopped jerking and the coward’s body hung slack, the sack over his face quickly turning a muddy red. It was her bullet. It had to be. The captain smiled. The crew cheered. Only the men and women in the firing squad were quiet.

On the captain’s order, the body was swung out over the sea and cut free. Prudence passed her musket to the quartermaster and headed underdeck. Her job was done for the day. She made her way to her cot and pulled out something from beneath the mattress. She sat down on the edge of her cot and buried her face in the green scarf. It still smelled vaguely of coward.

---

---

“Look lively you rotten mutts.”

Salty air and a wet deck was replaced with the scent of despair and the feeling of cold, wet stone. Prudence stirred from her uncomfortable sleeping position and the memory of the past slipped away. Too exhausted to try and argue, military routine took hold of her as the guard’s orders pulled on her strings to make her dance the prisoner’s waltz. Her cell was opened and for the briefest of moments she thought about attempting an escape as she was unshackled. Before she could figure out the best way to inadvertently get herself killed she was chained up and marched out of the dungeon with a handful of other prisoners. They were lead through a twisted route of halls and stairs. Prudence bit the inside of her cheek, the fresh pain served as a distraction from her old aches.

Eventually they were led into a grand room. It was nicer than anything Prudence had ever seen, and it was certainly nicer than the gallows she had been expecting. The Red Sail Brothel had a certain sheen to its environment, but there was a cheapness and dirtiness to the sheer curtains and gilded bannisters that made it abundantly clear that there wasn’t anything fancy about the business that was conducted there. This room was fancy. A single decoration from that room was worth more than any one of the poor bastards chained up with her. Taperesties and pretty lights and all sorts of other rich bullshit just lying around surrounded by a bunch of guards decked out in the most expensive armor there was to dissuade anyone from snagging some art.

Vallec was busy talking with the High King. Perhaps it should’ve been strange for someone so low as Prudence to be in the same room as the king, but she hardly even noticed them. Servants had arrived and presented a massive feast on the table before them, and she felt her stomach growl as she looked at the food. Thoughtfulness, never her strong part, fled instantly as the guards guided her to a chair and freed her from her chains. She didn’t go for a weapon, even though her dagger was right there, although she did take a second to grab her green scarf and tie it around her head before she began to dig into the food.

She didn’t even bother to sit as she ate greedily, shoveling whatever she could get her hands on into her mouth between gulps of wine. It blew away the meal Selena had made for her yesterday, although there was hardly anytime for Prudence to actually taste away the food. It was only after eating more than her share of the food that she collapsed back in her chair, grabbed a horn of mead, and kicked her boots up on the table.

”Now that almost makes up for everything,” said Prudence as she picked over a bone before flicking it on the floor behind her. She looked up at the King on his throne. “So this the usual treatment for crooks around here? Cause then I’m pleading guilty to whatever crap reason it was that your goons arrested me. Otherwise, I’m already in a business with someone else, and this meeting is just gonna be a waste of my time.”

Interesting... was a not even remotely adequate judgement for the situation at hand, at least not in Vodilic's thoughts as he was guided into the very throne room of not only this great but miserable city, but the entiry continent so to speak. Since when exactly was it common practice to take a bunch of seemingly random prisoners from the dungeons and to allow their dirty feet to touch the noble ground here ? Normally the first and last time those saw the king was when the latter wanted to surveil the proceeding of his executioners or when he wanted to demonstrate something to those he ruled over. Weren't things supposed to be that way ?

The very feeling of the cold stone beneath his still naked feet gave Vodilic a weird impression. Yes, the stone in the dungeons was cold as well, but the ground here wasn't wet. It was a comfortable, refreshing coolness that this building emitted -- probably caused by its sheer size and massivity. One successful heist in any of those rooms here probably could end any thief's career, simply because there was no need to steal anymore if one already had anything. To make things even more weird it did not slip the man's attention that a set of tables with an obscene amount of food on them had been arranged for them and that exactly the same guards that usually would have been all to happy to use their halberds now apparently had been temporarily demoted to humble servants having to get some chairs...

Still, as the king started speaking, the first thing that came to Vodilic's mind was to pick up the equipment that had been laid out so neatly for him. Even the amount of cleaning that obviously had taken place could not cover up the fact that the leather had seen its best days already, but without it Vodilic simply felt somewhat naked. Even in the most desperate of situations it could make a difference he simply thought, so Vodilic was quick to put it on no matter what. And now to the grand meal...

The chair groaned in protest as a giant's amount of weight was put onto it, but at least it didn't break in front of everyone's eyes as Vodilic sat down and arranged himself properly. He reached for the wine, but the moment the fluid had almost reached the point of no return into the bottle Vodilic abruptly stopped his movements.

What if this is some sick kind of test for a new kind of poison they've cooked up recently ? I could be dead, lying on the floor with cramps with everyone watching with a sadistic grin...

The thought lastest for a mere few seconds. If this was some kind of test intended to result in their death it was pretty much unavoidable anyway. And speaking of theirs... As Vodilic continued to pour the contents of the bottle into the goblet he turned his head to take a look at those who had come with him. Just a few minutes ago he hardly could have cared less about those others who had been condemned to rot in the same dungeon, but now it seemed they were bound to form some kind of bond. For a reason unknown to them that was, at least so far...

Starting to chew away at the hen, Vodilic greedily waited for more information to come. That king better started to continue talking soon... And that woman with the green scarf next to him hopefully would start keeping her loose mouth shut before she'd completely screw up. He really was no friend of their 'host', but she talked as if she was the landlady here.

"Get your feet off... Now!" Vodilic had taken the time to swallow before speaking so his words would be as clear as possible -- and slightly threatening. Yes, he would probably not admit it, but while internally criticizing her for her behavior he too was on the verge of drifting into the very habits that had got him here in the first place.

Tach Bammo

---

The Faded Lantern Inn, Guillan
Late Evening

---

The dark oak door of the Faded Lantern closed with a thud behind Tach as he stepped from the cool night air into the hearth-filled tavern. It was hardly buzzing, filled just enough to create a dull din but not enough that he would need to push past anyone any time soon. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of drunk men who hadn't had a proper wash in days and Tach couldn't decide whether it was the old sweat or the stale vomit that smelled worse. The warmth of the dancing fires had a strange of way of making a place that was notorious for accommodating criminals and lowlifes oddly welcoming. Not that Tach was in a position to judge any of them. He was one of them. Tach scanned the room, his eyes darting from corner to corner and face to face as he walked cautiously towards the bar, making sure that the people he was about to set himself among weren't likely to stick a knife in his belly and walk away with his hard-earned bits. Satisfied he wasn't in any immediate danger, Tach propped himself up on the bar on his elbows and threw down a few of the small silver coins in his pocket, gratefully collecting the flagon of ale and taking a long slurp before glancing around over his shoulder.

Vargas was exactly where he always was, tucked away in a dimly lit corner where he could see everyone coming and going. He was busy talking to a man, balding and clad in dirty leathers that meant he was probably one of Vargas' lackeys, and from his facial expression it wasn't going the way he wanted it to. Nevertheless he had no doubt that Vargas had seen him come in. Tach swept his mop of greasy, mousy brown hair back from his eyes and drew another long gulp of ale, relishing the bitter chill that rushed down his throat to quench the thirst he had worked up. He'd had a busy day compared to most and had a suitable haul to show for it. It was hard to feel guilty when food would be worth so much more to Tach and his family than a few fancy plates and dishes were to the pompous fools who'd dared to leave their window wide open. When you really thought about it, it was their own fault. Who leaves a window open in Guillan if they aren't asking to be burgled? Those were always Tach's favourite jobs, the ones where he barely had to lift a finger to get his fill of the treasures.

Tach waited patiently for Vargas to finish his conversation. If there was one thing he'd learned about his fence in the past few years, it was that if you wanted your fair share the last thing to do was piss him off. He had an uncanny ability to make life very, very difficult for anyone who upset him. Another ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed before the balding man stood, shaking Vargas' hand and then leaving through the door with great haste. Tach tracked him all the way out, scratching the short hairs that covered his jaw and wondering what they'd been talking about but knowing better than to ask. Tach looked back to the corner and found himself accidentally meeting Vargas' gaze, who gestured for him to come and sit. The young thief finished his ale to the bottom, placing the flagon quietly on the bar so as to not draw attention before standing from his barstool and sloping off towards Vargas' quiet corner.

"Tach." Vargas was smiling and his greeting was warm. There was something almost unsettling about it. "Lord Vargas." Tach gave one last glance over his shoulder before taking a seat opposite the fence. It wasn't comfortable, but it didn't really need to be. He pulled a bag from his shoulder and lowered it gently onto the uneven floorboards. "It was a good take."

"I can see that," said Vargas, eyeing the bag and chuckling. His blonde hair had gotten longer, Tach noticed. "Show me."

Tach nodded, drawing a series of ornaments and trinkets from the bag and leaving them where Vargas could see them. "Someone left their window open. No one saw a thing." Tach finished unloading his stolen goods. "I managed to hit a couple houses, only took a few bits. Doubt they'll even notice anything's gone." "Impressive," Vargas leaned in, fingering a silver candlestick holder with a handful of small gems on it. He scratched at his tufty beard, mulling over the value. "30 bits for the lot."

Tach had to hold in a laugh, and ultimately failed. Vargas' face fell flat, unmoving, unamused. "You can't be serious?" Silence. "Vargas I've see-"

"Lord."

"Lord Vargas," Tach gulped. He needed to be careful. Vargas held all the cards. "I've seen bits like these fetch 30 on their own on market stalls. I wasn't expecting you to make me rich for a few ornaments but surely?"

"I've got people to pay boy. Can't afford to be generous these days. I can't turn a profit if I overpay for what I'm selling."

"I'm not asking you to overpay. I'm just asking you to not underpay."

"My advice? Take what you can get, boy. Those sisters of yours can eat for 30 bits, they can't eat for nothing." Tach stared hard at Vargas but not a single feature on his face twitched. After a few long, long seconds of tense silence, Tach conceded. Vargas gestured to a man nearby to come over and collect Vargas' new haul, while Vargas himself dealt out the silver bits. "It's always a pleasure, Tach." Tach himself, of course, felt very differently but opted to hold his tongue. "Take care of yourself." He gestured for Tach to leave, the unsettling smile back on his face. Tach did as he was bid and left through the door even faster than the balding man had before him.

The night air was colder than usual. Tach had formed a think film of clammy sweat over his skin, but couldn't decide whether it was the hearths or the confrontation with Vargas that had done the trick. Tach turned left, and left again almost immediately down an alley nearby. He unlaced his breeches to relieve his bladder while he counted the silver. 28 pieces. "And the bastard stiffed me anyway," Tach said to himself, annoyed beyond belief. He spat on the ground, wishing he would be able to spit at Vargas one day without risking having his eyes gouged out by some club-footed moron in his employ.

"Oi." Tach turned his head while he retied his breeches. At the alley entrance were three men, considerably taller and considerably wider than Tach. Looking the other way, Tach realised he'd cornered himself in a dead end alley. He cursed himself. A rookie mistake. One should always have at least two options for an exit.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" As they stepped closer Tach recognized the one in the middle as the balding man from before. On the left side of his face was a curved scar that he hadn't noticed before. They said nothing, just approaching silently. They reached Tach, standing over him by a few inches at least. "Whatever this is about, I'm sure we can talk it through." A thousand possibilities were racing through his mind. The city was quiet but Tach was deafened by the drumming of his own heartbeat in his ears.

"Vargas did tell you to take care, didn't he?" Before Tach could even process the betrayal, or possibly think of a reason for it, the balding man's hand shot out from behind his back. With surprising agility his arm came up, and Tach looked upwards to see an enormous meaty hand wrapped tightly around the handle of a crude club. Tach never even saw it come down.

---

---

Tach had lost track of how long he'd been in this damned cell but it had to have been around two weeks. His head was still throbbing and the lump of swollen flesh on his forehead was still tender. His days sleeping on a straw mat had given him a terrible, constant ache in his neck and back. It was cold, damp and dark, with barely a single torch worth of light in the whole place. Tach had been slumped against the thick brick wall of his cell for the last couple of hours, staring at the massive iron bars and wishing he had the strength of an ox to rip them from their place and charge out. Instead, he was weak. He hadn't been sleeping well and his facial hair had grown out into a tangled mess that itched. He probably had some sort of lice by now if his itchy scalp was anything to go by.

He couldn't stop thinking about his family. Without Tach to provide, he didn't know if they'd been eating, or if they'd been taken by Vargas or if they were even alive at all. He couldn't bear the thought of his sweet sisters starving, and the only part of his face that wasn't covered in a layer of thick grime and dirt were the tracks beneath his eyes where his tears had been rolling. Sad tears, and angry ones. The only other thought that entered his head was of Vargas. The bastard. Tach couldn't work out why he'd been sold out. Maybe he'd bargained Tach's freedom in exchange for his own. But it didn't make sense. Tach robbed a few houses for their pretty plates. Vargas ran a crime syndicate with ties all over Guillan and was a prominent operator on the black market. It was hardly a like for like swap.

Tach wasn't alone down here, either. He had heard others whispering, testing the bars, hitting walls, even a few outbursts. None of them did any good. The guards came rarely and the cells were inescapable. It was nothing like Tach's last stint inside. These cells were heavy duty, serious stuff for serious criminals. Tach wasn't a serious criminal. There had been no trial, and now he was in a cell meant for someone far more dangerous than he was. It was an odd situation, and it was about to get even more so.

"Look lively you rotten mutts! Let's be on with it, on yer feet. Approach the doors and face the walls." The shouts cut through the silence like a knife. Tach did as he was bid, albeit slowly. There was no point in resisting. He assumed this was the part where he would stand before a twat in a wig who'd already made up his mind and then get his hands cut off for burglary. He cursed his back in his head as he stood, aching all over. He leaned back against the bars for support, facing the back wall of the cell as instructed. A guard came and unlocked his cell, attaching the shackles on his wrists to a long chain. Squinting through the murk he could see the other prisoners chained to the same chain.

They were lead through what Tach had now deduced to be the Royal Complex, thanks to the ornate decoration and grandeur of it all. The journey was stop start and agonizingly slow, consisting of a shuffling pace and intermittent breaks to unlock various doors before they could proceed. Eventually they reached what was presumably the main level. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. The air was clean and sweet-smelling, a far cry from the squalor of the cell or the stench of the lower city. There were almost as many plate-clad guards as their were decorations, spaced among the pillars and ornaments and tapestries. The guards led them to the great hall, where servants were setting places. Each prisoner, seven in all, was stood behind a chair. Tach's belongings were neatly assembled, as well as food and drink unlike anything he'd ever seen or smelled. Tach didn't know where to look, what to say and especially not what to think. It was complete sensory overload for someone who was expecting to be seriously maimed if not outright dead within a few hours. The biggest shock was yet to come.

"Please, sit." he said, his voice warm but strong. "Sit and eat. I am sorry for the delay but I wanted you all to be clearheaded. So eat and replenish yourselves as I speak." Tach looked up to the raised throne area, gawping in awe at the High King. And here was Tach, a man who'd been living in his own filth for the best part of two weeks, unshaven and unkempt. He was immediately overcome with a slight sense of shame, but it immediately vanished when he looked down at the food again. He didn't need to be told twice, taking his seat and shovelling food into his ravenous maw as quickly as his hands would let him. He hadn't eaten properly for a decent while even before he ended up in a cell, and this was undoubtedly the best food he had ever eaten. When he was done, Tach grabbed the horn on the table, sipping it nervously with his arms folded and looking around the hall.

The bright sunlight that streamed in through the great arched windows was reflected from the mirror polished tiled flooring and into the eyes of Lucien Beaumont-Dubois as he was unceremoniously thrust from his cell and into the world above. The light hurt his eyes after the dank darkness of the Royal dungeons and his head still throbbed painfully from where it has been struck prior to his interment there. The cudgel had left a bloody gash at his left temple and that whole side of his face was discoloured black and blue. Not that anyone looking at him would likely be able to tell. Lucien also still bore the stain of his escape attempt upon him as well, and hence was still encrusted with all the filth of a full privy.

He couldn't remember anything of his journey to the dungeon, he wasn't even sure how long he had been there. It might have been hours, it might have been days, much of it spent slipping in and out of consciousness. Half formed dreams and hallucinations of people he had once known and places he had once been. All ghosts now, brought back to haunt him in his most desperate and debased state.

As soon as he had properly regained some of his senses he had realised he wasn't in a debtors prison. Debtors weren't kept in solitary cells (unless they could pay a gaoler for the luxury) and they weren't guarded with royal guardsmen. Why was he here? Oh Gods why was he here? Just who had he angered or swindled to earn the enmity of the monarch? After that he jumped and switched at every sound and movement, convinced it was sound of men taking him to the hangman's noose.

But instead of a noose, Lucien found himself here, in a sunlit, sweet smelling hall, with breakfast laid out before him. Maybe his luck had turned again? Sure there even more heavily armed men surrounding them no doubt ready to kill them all at a moment's notice, but if they wanted him dead they could have easily done that by now - and they didn't have to feed him to boot. A smile began to creep over Lucien's bloodied and dirtied features.

As his chains were undone and the grand looking fellow Lucien could only assume to be sovereign himself turned to them and began to address them his mood soured as he thought through the implications of why they were being treated so well. Something was going on here, and Lucien had the feeling he was about to be co-opted into doing something not in his best interests. As he looked to the left and the right, at the wall of armoured guardsmen and their withdrawing gaolers, Lucien saw that there was no way of out this. Certainly not here at least. He was trapped like a rat in a cage. He sighed, better to just make the most of it until they killed him or he weaselled his way somewhere far, far away.

Two of the louses that had been dragged in with Lucien, one a loutish woman and the other some northern barbarian already seemed to be arguing over something. He grimaced with distaste and made an effort to sit as far away as possible from the pair. Most of the other prisoners were already shovelling food into their mouths with great voracity, and Lucien was inclined to the same were it not the presence of the High King. Remember your manners, prove yourself a man of different class to the rest of these guttersnipes, there could be profit from this yet...

He wiped his face and hands down with a napkin and poured himself a glass of wine. He swilled and sniffed it before taking a sip. It was very good, light and fruity, with notes of summer berries and cherry. He used a spoon to crack one of the boiled quails egg and ate it as dainty as possible. Lucien could get used to living like this again.