《The Rise of Rose》


 Prologue, An average night.

    A scream cut the air, a tortured blast of visceral noise and emotion. But that¡¯s nothing new. Someone was always screaming here. Pain filled wails, angry bellows, shrill shrieks. All were common companions to the damp clinging night air of this city. So Avery didn¡¯t even pause his work on the cursed lock that was keeping him from being rich.


    Being a thief in a town like this was a mixed blessing. Sure, the guards are all corrupt or lazy, and moving ¡®second-hand¡¯ goods was slick as snot. But the bloody locksmiths here were masters of their craft.


    *I suppose I should just be happy it¡¯s not a gnomish lock.* Avery thought to himself, as he contorted his body even further, seeking a better angle for his lucky lockpicks. Gnomish locksmiths were renowned for the ridiculous array of traps they could cram into such a small piece of metal. From curses and wards, to poisons and paralytics, and all manner of mechanical bladed horrors.


    There was a reason the First Gnome Bank was an institution in the kingdom. Nobody had ever successfully robbed it. Dozens had tried, and all had died. Death being one of those career ending afflictions that seemed to plague thieves. Well, with this score he could hang up his cloak and dagger, and Avery very much wanted to retire intact. So he thanked the lazy landlord for buying sub-par human made locks, and redoubled his efforts in bypassing them.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    When the lock gave that lovely little ''click''and he thought of his prize just inside. A satisfied smirk grew under his cowl. Now he just had to get the goods, and get out. Moving like a shadow cast by a whisper, Avery made his way into the dark room beyond the lock. Shadows seemed to congregate here. A gloaming flock of silent sinister shade. Just what any good thief loves to see. Avery sliced silently through the dark. Slipping through doors and down hallways.


    *Quickly now, quietly now, almost there.* He could already taste that sweet victory mead. Maybe tonight he¡¯d finally ask Emery to dance with him. She¡¯d been eyeing him, the newest Shadow in the Culls, but he hadn¡¯t managed to work up the confidence to make a move. But after a score like this? Any man would feel confident.


    Avery could picture it now. He¡¯d returned, triumphant and loaded. His storys of the score had her hanging on his every word. Then he¡¯d ask her to dance. She¡¯d blush, but shyly nod. Enthused to be spending some time with her new hero. He could already feel her against him, dancing, and then- ''SHLUCHK''


    Averys daydreams were ended forever. By a half seen sliver of silver. The last thing he ever saw, was his own body. Still connected at the shoulders to the cruel crescent of an axe blade.


    In the damp night of Ramsom, yet another young thief met his end. The city moves on, unperturbed by the loss. His life unknown by most, forgotten by the callous, and remembered by the precious few who give a damn.

 Ch.1 Another day, another fight.

    It¡¯s a heady thing, adrenaline.Rose considered, as she dodged her opponents charge. It fills you, makes you feel unstoppable, unopposable, powerful.She kneed him in the face as he passed by, sending him bouncing back into the short shabby walls around them. It takes away pain, and fear, and leaves only aggression and excitement.The stubby bearded annoyance popped up off the walls, and charged at her screaming.


    Rose hated adrenaline. She knew, better than most, what it was like coming down from that high.The feeling of invincibility is just a feeling.She sidestepped his charge once again, bringing her elbow around in a downwards chop to the top of his head. Once it passes all the cracked ribs, bruised knuckles, and broken noses catch up with you.He dropped to the ground, and immediately started flopping about. Struggling to rise.


    It¡¯s like, getting a taste of paradise, before being plunged straight to hell.Rose pondered the existence of hell for a moment as she kicked him while he was down. Her thick leather boot colliding with his nose. He was sent flying into the walls, spewing blood and curses, again.A journey no one would enjoy, unless they were insane.


    Like the stupid rockhead she was fighting for example. She had knocked the dwarf on his ass dozens of times. Blood seeped into his beard from his crushed nose. Staining the scraggly auburn curls a deeper shade of red.


    The way he fought was suicidal. Blind charge after blind charge. Just swinging wildly in the vain hope she would just let him hit her.This is getting annoying. Rose gritted her teeth. Ihave hit him hard enough to put down an ox, dozens of times. But he just. Keeps. Coming!


    Rose studied her opponent. Some asshole has spiked him.She realized. Those glazed red eyes, the cracked blackened teeth, the thin pale skin riddled with sores and ruptured veins. All signs of serious spike addiction. Some bastard had thrown a spiked addict in the ring with her.


    Spike was a rather nasty type of illegal ¡®life enhancers¡¯ that got passed around the back alleys these days. Originally it had been a dwarven concoction, designed to give miners and soldier a boost to their Strength (Str) and Endurance (End) Attributes.And it had, but the side-effects were nasty.


    A temporary but severe drop in Intelligence (Int) and Wisdom (Wis), up to three ranks in some cases, and a permanent dip in Charisma (Cha). It also gave a feeling of euphoria and invincibility, which quickly led to addiction and overuse. All of which led to lots of stupid mistakes that killed lots of miners and soldiers. So it¡¯s production was banned, and its use outlawed.


    Which of course meant its use immediately exploded amongst criminals. The addictive properties meant that any mook with some cash to burn could hook a bum on the stuff, and boom, instant pitfighter. It was by and large considered rude to actually send one into a fight against anyone except another spiker. But sometimes people are assholes. This particular dwarf was a good example of why it was frowned upon. Spikers were mad, not just angry, but actually insane. They never backed down, until they either died, were paralyzed, or the drug had run its course. That made for some amazing brutal fights, but had ruined lots of good fighters.


    Depending on the strength of the user and the purity of the drug used. Some spikers could crack stones with their fists, and shrug off hits from siege equipment. Luckily, the one in the ring with Rose was a weedy shrimp, even for a dwarf.


    And I am done playing with him. Rose coiled herself into a knot of explosive violence, and when the ragged dwarf came barreling at her this time. She whipped her leg into his head. The iron plate she had tied to her shin crushed into the side of his skull, sending skin, teeth, and bone bursting in the opposite direction. Lets see him get up with half a head.She thought, smiling through the burst of pain in her leg.


    She calmly placed her foot back on the rough sand covered panks of the makeshift arena. Ignoring the insistent throbbing from her abused shin. Waiting for the drunken elf referee to wake up enough to declare her the winner. If she left before that, then Scar, the greedy kniver who owned the establishment, wouldn¡¯t pay her the winnings. On account of ¡°Well now, I didn¡¯t hear no winners be called, and I can¡¯t be just handing away purses to any layabout says they won them now can I? It¡¯d be bad fer me reputration.¡±


    So Rose waited, ignoring the crowd of drunks and idiots who had shambled into the Drunk Skunk that day. They were shouting and cursing. Those who had lost money were calling out challenges and accusations of cheating. Those who won money calling out offers of bad sex and worse beer. Not a one of them would get in the ring with her though. Try to make good on their threats and offers.


    Rose was an intimidating woman, she knew it, and used it as best she could. She was a mutt, a mongrel, a mixed breed. Not even she knew exactly what she was. But there was some orc in there. Her fangs were tiny in comparison to an orcs tusks, but still razor sharp. She kept them clean and gleaming. It gave her smirks a certain level of menace beyond most. She must have some giant in her blood too. Because Rose was tall. Seven feet and a bit of long lean muscles. All covered by deceptively delicate looking light blue-green skin. She¡¯d had shivs snap on her skin before.


    All this put together made Rose look like a threat, despite her young age. She wasn¡¯t sure exactly how old she was, but around 15 or so. She went to great lengths to hide that age and enhance that threat. She covered her face and arms in tribal looking markings using some sheeps blood. It hid her more attractive features and freaked out city folk. A necklace of ¡°fangs¡± hung from her neck. She had hunted down some of the giant sewer rats, torn out their long incisors, and whittled them into an approximation of fangs. Thick leathers and furs hid her body from view, and made great places to hide knives and tricks. Like the iron plate strapped to her shin.


    When a stranger looked at her, they would see a towering savage brute. Complete with dull vacant stare and even, if she was feeling theatric, a bit of drool leaking from her mouth. People, she had found, tended to see what they looked for. So she showed them a dumb brute, and they only saw a dumb brute.


    That meant the dangerous people saw her as a blunt instrument to be used instead of a threat to be eliminated. While the weak people saw her as too dangerous to provoke, and a boon to befriend. So far it had worked out alright.


    The elf finally managed to wake up enough to declare Rose the winner of the match, before bending over and vomiting into the crowd under his elevated chair. Shouts and swearing erupted behind her as Rose headed to the pay cages.


    ¡°Topher! Pay me!¡± She barked, deepening her voice to a growl while slamming her arm against the iron cage the paymaster hid behind. Topher was a weasel. Literally, a weasel beastkin. He was an alright sort, for a coward.


    ¡°R-r-r-rose! H-hey th-th-there! J-j-j-just a mi-mi-minute pl-please.¡± He also stuttered. A lot. How someone like Topher got a job at a place like this was a mystery. But not one she intended to worry about. She just wanted her money, so she could walk out of here and find a healer for her blasted shin.


    Topher extended his quivering fur covered hands out of the tiny gap in the cage. Holding a small purse, her winnings. ¡°H-h-here it is. Fi-f-fi-fifteen silvers, a-a-and-¡± Rose snatched the purse from his paws before he could finish his painfully slow sentence, grunted at him, and walked up the stairs into the tavern proper. Trying her best not to limp.


    The Drunk Skunk was famously the worst bar in the city. The drinks were cheap, yet still overpriced. The food was was both burnt and soggy, and the waitresses all had the itch. But the Drunk Skunk provided a valuable service to the poor in the Cull around it. A cheapened parody of the nobles gladiators and arenas.


    In the basement was the cheapest, bloodiest, dirtiest of all the fighting rings in Ramsom. Bums fought for scraps of clothing or food. Addicts beat each other to death for a taste of their drug of choice. And Rose killed the poorest of the city for a pittance of silver.


    She had a plan, of a sort, and that plan called for a reputation. So Rose stomped out of the basement, and plowed into the crowded mass of sweat and dirt stained wool that was the clientele of this establishment. Shoving, elbowing, and at one point kicking her way through the throng of dwarves, humans, and beastkin that occupied the place. The Drunk Skunk was only ever this full for one reason.


    Sure enough, numerous leaks dripped happily onto the molding wood floors of the Skunk, and occasional blasts of sound rattled the cheap leaky tankards of sour beer. It was springtime. Which in the Fold, as the hilly plains around the city were known, meant thunderstorms. Lots of thunderstorms.


    Rose finally cleared the press and stepped out into the sheets of pounding water. The driving rain plastered her thick dark hair to her scalp, and washed the sheeps blood markings from her skin. Her leathers and furs got soaked through quickly. She squelched happily through the rain. In the Cull, the poorest part of Ramsom, the only time to find some peace and quiet was during these thunderstorms.


    The rain cleared the stench of the tanneries and slaughterhouses from the air, and one could only see a couple of feet from their face in the thick curtains of rain. Luckily or unluckily, Rose knew the route to her healer of choice by heart. And soon she was standing outside a doorway. Nothing stood out about the door, besides its flaking layers of various shades of green. The traditional sign of a healer.


    Rose knocked, and waited a minute before knocking again, much harder this time. She couldn¡¯t hear anything over the rush and patter of the rain. So she lifted her arm to knock a third time, and clobbered the irate healer in her face when she jerked the door open abruptly.


    The bent over woman was a human. In her forties or fifties, and was proving that one did not live to that ripe age in a place like the Cull without learning a vast array of curse words. ¡°Sorry Violet.¡± Mumbled Rose, not sure what else to say in such a situation. The unfortunate healer finally straightened up her hands still cupped around her nose, and now glowing with a dull green light.


    ¡°Gor damn it, Rose! What in the hells do you want!¡± The portly woman scowled up at the giant teen.


    ¡°Healing. Hurt my shin.¡± Rose offered, wiggling the offending appendage and clawing her thick black hair back out of her eyes. They walked, Rose limped, back into a extremely clean room. A small bed with white sheets lay in the far left corner, a comfy padded chair in the far right. Along the right wall were a set of drawers and cabinets containing Violets tools of the trade.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to keep up the act Rose, we¡¯re alone.¡± The older woman finally took her hands from her nose, and produced a handkerchief seemingly from nowhere. ¡°What did you do this time dearie?¡± She asked as she wet the cloth in a nearby bowl of water and dabbed the blood off her face.


    Rose grimaced. ¡°Some idiot put a spiked up dwarf in the ring with me.¡±


    ¡°And what?¡± Violet interrupted her. ¡°You decided to be smart for once and refused to fight him, so he kicked you in the only place a dwarf could reach?¡± She sounded sincere, but the smirk on her face gave away her teasing for what it was.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Not exactly, I knew he wouldn¡¯t stop coming at me. So I crushed his head with the shin plate. But you know how hard dwarf bones are even without spike.¡± Rose shrugged apologetically. ¡°I had to put some real oomph behind it,¡±


    While they¡¯d been talking rose had been struggling to work her wet leather trousers up over her shin. Violet watched the giantess in amusement. Watching the towering girl hop about on one foot bent nearly double was an amusing sight indeed. ¡°Take a seat on the bed dear. Wouldn¡¯t want to do yourself another injury.¡±


    Rose glared at her, but the look was without heat. ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯m a clumsy accident prone fool Vi.¡±


    Violet sighed. ¡°Yes, yes, I¡¯m sure you¡¯re the very spirit of restraint and caution.¡± The Healers words positively dripped sarcasm. ¡°But you only ever come to visit me when you are in fact injured. Is it really so odd I might think differently?¡± She gave Rose a look reserved especially for difficult young patients. Rose rolled her eyes but conceded and plopped herself down on the bed.


    Wet leather is a miserable material, but she finally managed to expose her shin. The dented sheet of iron was molded around her shin, and tied there with numerous strips of leather. Underneath was a layer of wool to absorb some of the impact when Rose decided to hit things with it. It hadn¡¯t worked as well as she had hoped it would.


    Violet knelt down next to the wound, and gently snipped away the leather ties. Rose exhaled in pain when the dented sheet of metal fell from her shin. The wool underneath was stained red, and blood started to drip onto the floor. ¡°No worries about the mess dear, that¡¯s why I don¡¯t keep carpets in here.¡± Violet murmured gently as she slowly worked the sopping red wool off of her patient.


    Under the wool the skin on her shin had split, and her whole shin was badly swollen. Violet gently cleaned the wound with a fizzing yellow solution, numbing the area and showing her the extent of the damage. She ran a gently glowing hand along Roses calf. ¡°That dwarf must have had a particularly hard head indeed. Your tibia is cracked, and as you can see your skin is split. I recommend not using that ¡®shin plate¡¯ again. As far as I can tell, it prevented your bones from flexing as they normally would have.¡±


    She prodded the wound lightly with a glowing finger. ¡°If you¡¯d kicked him without the plate, I think you wouldn¡¯t have even broken your skin. Rigidity isn¡¯t always a good thing dear.¡± The glow slowly spread over and into the wound. Rose gritted her teeth and groaned. Feeling an itch inside of you is a disturbing sensation, and not one she had ever gotten used to.


    ¡°Got it Vi, but I need to make big moves like that if I want to catch the eyes of a big fish.¡± Rose growled and tried to look away from the steadily closing gap in her skin. Then the itch reached her bone. Itchy bones are indescribable, but decidedly unpleasant.


    Violet gave a dismissive sniff. ¡°Why you would want to spend any time around those animals is beyond me.¡± Her tone contained disgust and barely contained fury.


    Rose was silent for a couple seconds. ¡° You know why Vi.¡± Her voice was quiet, subdued.


    The two woman sat in silence. One tall, young, and strong. The other short, old, and wise. They looked nothing alike, they sounded nothing alike. But in that moment, they seemed identical. Filled with worry, and anger. Locked in shared memories of an unspoken past.


    Finally, the healing finished. Rose stood slowly, testing her weight even though she knew her leg was good as new. She reached into one of her many coats pockets, dug out her recently won purse and handed it to Violet. ¡°Make sure they get it Vi? Don¡¯t tell them it¡¯s from me.¡±


    The healer suddenly seemed to grow much older. Worries and old pains carving furrows across her brow. ¡°They¡¯ll get it Rose. But they¡¯d love to know you¡¯re doing well.¡± She wiped her forearm across her brow. ¡°Come visit more often, ok dearie?¡±


    Rose nodded and gave Violet a gentle hug. Then stood and left the older woman kneeling alone in her surgery. She headed out the door and back into the rain. Embracing the welcome rushing noise of the rain to fill the silent parts of her mind.


    Rose headed into the rain after a moment. Letting the capricious rain soak her once again. She jogged through the downpour, splashing and squelching every step of the way. The sewers were supposed to drain excess water from the streets, but the sewers were home to the some of the darker brands of scum in Ramsom. They had plugged, blocked, or rerouted so much of the sewers under the Cull, that everytime it stormed there was a small flood as the water rushed towards the Ramsom river.


    The Cull was a sprawling mess of wood buildings crammed in next to one another. Mixed with slaughterhouses and tanneries for the main resource of the Fold. Sheep. The only way to get anywhere in the Cull was to head into the bewildering maze of alleys and side streets that wound crazily throughout the Cull. Gangs set up shop in this maze. Fiercely protecting their small slices of crappy city against one another. It would almost be amusing if they didn¡¯t accost everyone they came across. Demanding money, or other currencies to enter their territory.


    Rose was sploshing through the streets. Unaccosted as she weaved her way through the various territories. Nobody came outside in a Fold thunderstorm. Why bother? All you¡¯d do was get wet, and you couldn¡¯t see jack shit in all this rain. So the thugs and goons stayed inside. Content to threaten tavern keepers and whore houses. That was the norm at least.


    Which is why when a thunderstorm came around there were always a handful of people who tried to take advantage of the slackened border security. Whether they tried to smuggle valuables past the usual checkpoints, or used the opportunity to pounce on a rival unawares. There was always someone up to no good in the Cull.


    So it wasn¡¯t that big of a surprise when Rose walked right into a brawl. A tight knot of ten goons with yellow cloths tied around their arms were being assaulted by at least three times their number of goons with purple cloths tied around their arms or necks or foreheads. The leaders of both parties were pretty obvious. A thick necked orc with a pair of double headed axes strapped to his back was bellowing at the purple people. ¡°Get in der an get da boss his prize!¡± Rose was actually quite jealous of him. It seemed he didn¡¯t need to try at all to be a dumb brute.


    The leader of the yellow people was an elf, a rarity in the Cull, and was wielding a rapier with deadly effect. Between stabbing people in the eyes or groin he or she, it¡¯s hard to tell with elves, was rallying his/her troops with cries of ¡°Protect the Lady.¡± and ¡°For Sir Fulter!¡± Now that caught Roses ears for sure. ¡®Sir¡¯ Fulter was a notorious gang boss. He pretended to be a noble knight. Called his territory his ¡®fief¡¯ and was generally a bastard to everyone. Just like a real noble.


    Rose settled in at the edge of the fight. Mildly interested in what would happen next. She only got to watch the fight for a little while because that blasted elf saw her just standing there, and sent her a wicked smile. ¡°Ah, our reinforcements have arrived! Come fine sir! Enter the fray!¡± Rose was stunned. To actively seek to involve a bystander in his/her fight for his/her own benefit! Surely his opponent wouldn¡¯t be stupid enough to fall for it?


    Rose shot a look at the orc, and saw he was glaring at her furiously. Right, he was exactly that stupid. ¡°RAAAAAAAARRRGH!!!!¡± He roared as he pulled his axes off his back and came rushing at Rose. Five of his underlings peeled off of the yellow bastards and came at her as well.


    Well.Rose thought. This sucks.She turned to run, why fight an angry orc if you don¡¯t have to? But had barely taken three steps before she heard a grunt behind her followed by an unnerving whistling sound. He can¡¯t be that dumb, right?!She thought frantically. There is no way he would actually throw away his weapons! That¡¯d be damn near suicidal!Still, she looked back. Sure enough, two rapidly spinning axes were heading right for her.


    Diving to the ground Rose pulled her favorite knife from under her furs, and managed to dodge both axes. But before she could get back to her feet the orc was on her. With a victorious bellow he tackled her to the ground, shoving her face into the flooded streets. She felt her nose break against the cobblestones, and water filled her lungs as she tried to regain the breath that had been knocked from her. Her knife had been knocked from her grasp in the fall.


    This, this right here. This is why I hate orcs.Her right elbow shot backwards, and caught the orc in the ribs.They always do stupid things. Like throw their best weapons away at the start of a fight.With a grunt she felt more than heard he was knocked off of her back, and she shot to her feet. Coughing and wheezing. I¡¯m going to need to see Violet again today aren¡¯t I?But that was a worry for a different time. Right now she had to deal with the orc and his approaching underlings.


    Rose rushed towards the doubled over orc. It looks like I busted some of his ribs. He was gasping for air, and grasping his right side.Good for me, bad for him.He swiped feebly at her, but Rose battered his arms out of the way. Then she grabbed him by the back of his head, and started slamming her knee into his face. Once for my nose, twice for losing my favorite knife, and thrice because you suck!She snarled in her head. She let him go and the much flatter faced orc collapsed to his knees.


    Then Rose turned her eyes on the five approaching threats. Now, what am I gonna do to you?They skidded to a stop, and two of them started back-pedaling frantically. Smart, I¡¯ll let you have a head start.She cracked her neck and snarled at them.


    Rose looked terrifying. She towered over the bowed and broken orc. Her soaked furs made her seem even bigger than she really was. Her long pointed ears looked like horns, emerging from the sides of her head. Her wet hair hid her eyes, so all they could see of her face in the rain was her toothy snarl. A wide grimace of vicious fangs, tinted red by the blood seeping from her nose as she was illuminated in a flash of lightning. She looked like a monster, something parents tell their children about to get them to behave.


    The smart ones had run, the other three froze. Tut, tut, never freeze in a fight.Rose cajoled them in her mind. Naturally, none of them heard this unsaid advice.Then she was upon them. It makes you such an easy target.She punched the front man in the nose, breaking it. Then swept his legs, dropping him to his back in the water. As she stepped over him she stomped on his throat. See? That would never have happened if you hadn¡¯t stood still.Strained wet gurgles filled the air behind her as she advance on the last two.


    One turned and ran, screaming. The other stepped forward, swinging wildly.Really? Is he even aiming? Hey buddy, that''s not how you hit, this is how you hit! Catch!She snapped her left leg up, and kicked the attacker in the chin, he started to fall. Rose grabbed him by his hair and the seat of his pants. Turning to face the ongoing scrum between the gangs.Why don¡¯t you go play with your friends, and leave me alone!With a great heave Rose then sent him stumbling and flailing into the melee.


    The purple thugs at the back of the encirclement were knocked off balance under the weight of the unusual missile. They grabbed on to each other, seeking to stay on their feet. But the slick wet cobbles below them sent them all crashing to the ground. In an amusing wave of swearing and splashing the falling thugs took their neighbors with them until almost all of them were floundering around on the ground. Everytime one of them nearly gained their feet their desperate and panicking neighbor would drag them back down again.


    The Yellow group took advantage of this. Hurriedly cutting throats and stabbing faces as they fought free of the encirclement. The elf waved cockily at Rose. ¡°My thanks kind sir! This boon will be remembered!¡± He/she shouted as the yellow group ran away. Rose flipped him off. Then Rose looked over the remnants of the purple group.


    They were in rough shape, but there were still plenty of them alive and getting to their feet. So Rose jogged back to the unconscious orc kneeling in the rain, scooped up his axes, and she got away from there.


    Rose went back to Violets for her nose. ¡°You know, Rose, when I asked you to visit more often. This is not what I meant!¡± Much squawking was done before Violet finally decided to fix her nose, and not just leave it broken ¡°As a lesson in recklessness!¡± The healer sent the tall young woman on her way. Recriminations still ringing in her ears.


    I am not a disaster magnet!Rose thought. If I were, then I wouldn¡¯t have dodged those axes, now would I? If anything, I¡¯m lucky!With several similar internal conversations, all ending in self-satisfied nods, Rose put the matter behind her for now.


    Finally, she reached her home. The windowless attic of an abandoned slaughterhouse. The place had been grimy, gloomy, and gross. But rent was cheap (free), and some time spent cleaning up had made it liveable. There wasn¡¯t any furniture besides her tool chest, and she slept on layered mats of woven grass. But it was hers, and it was more than enough, for now.


    She smacked a few scrap bits of metal she had hammered into spikes into one of the walls, and hung her shiny new axes on them. Next to a polished and brutal looking club, and a set of vicious looking knives. Her collection updated and her body tired, Rose flopped onto her mat. She enjoyed the smell of the dried grass, reminicsing about other days as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

 Ch. 2 Lessons

    Waking up in an abandoned slaughterhouse should be a terrifying prospect. The spirits of the thousands of, relatively, innocent sheep that had been cut open and torn apart within its walls should haunt your mind. The stains that cover the floors and walls should fill you with unease, and the occasional odd noise should keep you on your toes and on the verge of panic. The brutal rusted tools that lie abandoned should haunt your dreams with their gory purpose.


    It is not the kind of place one should wake up in with a contented yawn, and a big lazy stretch. And it most certainly isn¡¯t the proper place to perform a series of stretches and movements to promote flexibility and good health.


    Rose walked over to the wall containing her armoury. She considered the axes for a few moments before shifting her attention to the club. Pulling the sturdy length of hardwood studded with metal off the wall, Rose started her second workout of the day.


    This one was started with a series of flowing dancelike movements with the large club being slowly swung into imaginary enemies, and blocking imaginary blows. The movements start slow, almost glacial. Then they gradually speed up to a writhing blur of violence, only to wind back down to that initial glacial movement.


    That was exactly how Rose started this, and indeed, every day. The tortured sheep spirits must be most upset. But the concerns and worries of those already dead were of no interest to Rose. She had enough to worry about without adding them to her plate.


    Although yesterday had not gone as she had planned. Rose was certain today was going to be a good day. She hung her club back up, polished her fangs with a frayed stick, ate some giant rat jerky for breakfast, grabbed her second and third favorite knives off the wall, and strode outside to find out what was in store for her. She swung by a nearby, functioning, slaughterhouse for some sheeps blood to renew her tribal-ish markings. Then went looking for her favorite degenerate.


    The world of Dunia was a wonderful place. Jam-packed with ancient temples, forgotten kingdoms, and mysterious dungeons. Once you stepped outside of the established kingdoms borders, a place known simply as ¡®The Wilds¡¯, you could hardly throw a rock without hitting a treasure, relic, or artifact of some kind. These treasures were always guarded. Whether by ingenious traps or indigenous peoples acquiring the treasures was always a dangerous venture.


    Enter, the adventurers! Brave, or poor, souls willing to leave their homes behind in the hope of finding fame and fortune. Most adventurers were from poor backgrounds. Desperate, hungry, and untrained they rushed into the unknown. Looking for their big break. Most never returned from their first adventure. Of those who did, most never went on a second.


    The stories they told spoke of haunting horrors, wretched deaths, and terrible injuries. And yet, every year there were hundreds, if not thousands, more young, poor, and delusional people rushing happily into The Wilds. Certain, that it couldn¡¯t happen to them. That they were special.


    But they were not. No, the special ones were the nobles. Sons and daughters who had no chance of inheriting their parents titles or lands, and were unwilling to spend their days lounging about drinking and gossiping. They were trained by veteran adventurers. Who had been hired to teach the little lordlings and ladies all about the dangers lurking in The Wilds, and how to best survive them.


    They were given the best gear to ensure their success. Status stones, teleport tokens, life shields. All things that had been plundered by adventurers long ago, and then replicated by the various kingdoms since. These items cost incredible amounts of money, and quite often couldn¡¯t be bought for any price. As they were a significant part of a kingdoms strategic strength.


    The system worked like so, adventurers found the treasures, and sold them to nobles. Nobles funded research groups, and sought to replicate and mass produce the treasures. If they were successful, then the nobles would offer the replicated tech to their liege. Who would then reward that noble house with an increase in rank, or comparable prize. Then the rulers would make use of the new tech to improve their kingdom or army. Which has resulted in an ongoing arms race between nations.


    This entire system is based upon successful adventurers. So rulers will often give promising young adventurers some of the best gear available, in return for vows of loyalty. In the hopes that they would find more treasure, and increase the power of the rulers nation. Loyal and successful adventurers would be praised and rewarded lavishly. Parades, propaganda, peerage, and massive monetary rewards were common.


    This leads to adventurers being idolized. Which leads to more desperate poor young people rushing off to seek their fortune in The Wilds. Even so, those who run off to be adventurers are a minority. The dreamers, the desperate, or , in the case of nobles, the dreadfully bored. Those who are comfortable with their lives might enjoy hearing stories of adventure. But have no desire to seek it out themselves.


    And so all is good for those who return bearing treasure. They are heroes to the public, useful tools to the powerful, and if they can repeat their success they become fabulously wealthy. They are treated with respect by all. As long as they don¡¯t try and slip their leash.


    But what of those who return empty-handed? Who managed to fight free of The Wilds but came back with nothing more than the clothes on their back and new scars, both physical and mental. What about them? They are reviled. Considered cowards and fools. ¡°Better to have died seeking treasure, than to have come back with nothing!¡± Shout their former friends and allies. They often take their own life, or crawl into a bottle. Seeking to forget the things they¡¯ve seen.


    And it is one of these reviled survivors that Rose is looking for. As she ducked into the twisting alleys of the Cull. Avoiding large groups of toughs, and scaring off small ones with her looks. Rose swung past his favorite bars, known for having lazy bouncers who don¡¯t care if a bum makes off with a half-drunk beer. No luck there, so she shoved through the crowds at the markets, where a bit of food might be vanished with none the wiser. No sign of him there either. Which means he must be in his home. In the sewers.


    Rose typically didn¡¯t mind entering the sewers. They¡¯ve been occupied and blocked up by people for so long, that they were usually fairly clean. As long as you watched your step and avoided the mystery puddles you¡¯d be fine. But they were cramped, especially for someone of her stature. And her target lived in a place that was more akin to a swamp than a sewer.


    Aurus Voler, her target, was a reclusive paranoid. He had deliberately flooded the area around his shack with the usual contents of a sewer. And the only way to reach him without swimming through the unspeakable was by hopping across a series of posts he had set up prior to the flooding.


    For most, that¡¯d be security enough, but not for Aurus. The cagey old coot had set up a number of traps. He strung tripwires between posts. Set up dummy posts that would sink if you jumped on them. Released a bunch of sewer leeches into the area, foot long bloodsuckers that like to jump out of the ¡®water¡¯ at prey, and had even set up a handful of enchanted crossbow traps.


    To Rose, all that was manageable. The posts were tricky, but she knew the path via some trial and error. The tripwires could be handled by simply holding a knife before you at the right height. Neither the leeches nor the dull stone tipped crossbow bolts could get through her skin. The real problem, as far as Rose was concerned, was the height of the tunnels themselves. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    There was roughly just under five feet from the top of the posts to the ceiling of the tunnel. And Rose was seven feet and change. Meaning she had to jump from post to post bent nearly double. So far she had only managed to reach Aurus¡¯ shack once, without taking a dip. But as far as she was concerned, it was worth it.


    Rose wasn¡¯t the only one who came to see Aurus. Young toughs would often swing by, bringing the old man some food or liquor in exchange for stories about The Wilds. Hoping to glean some fragment of life saving wisdom from the ramblings of an old drunk. That was where Rose and these other young people differed. Rose couldn¡¯t care less about The Wilds. She had no interest whatsoever in becoming an adventurer.


    She¡¯d seen the parades. Heard the proclamations of their heroics. But she¡¯d also had friends who went to try and become these ¡®heroes¡¯. It was bad enough, the ones who never came back. What was worse though, was the survivors. Broken men and women, afraid to leave their homes, much like Aurus. She¡¯d heard their stories. The ones that bards ignored. Stories about commoners, coming together in the face of adversity. Through bitter sacrifice and bravery claiming one of the vaunted artifacts. Only to be cut down by noble adventurers. Their struggles, for naught, their treasures, stolen.


    So, no, Rose did not come to Aurus to learn to be an adventurer. She came to Aurus so she could fight him. Back when Rose was new to Ramsom, new to the Cull, and new to city life in general, she had gotten robbed. A cutpurse had divested the wide-eyed young woman of her precious few coins. She had been forced to sell a precious keepsake just to get some bread, and just before she could eat it. Aurus had snatched it from her hands, and gobbled it down before the stunned teen could react. Naturally, Rose tried to rip his head off.


    Aurus wiped the floor with her. Back then Rose fought much like the spiker dwarf she had killed the previous day. All blind rage and brute force. She had leaned on her great strength and toughness to pull through in her fights.


    Aurus fought like water. He flowed around her punches, and threw her about like a ragdoll. His punches seemed slow, but they always arrived at exactly the right moment. His steps seemed thoughtless, but he was always exactly where he wanted to be. Rose had watched in mounting horror as a skinny old bum kicked her ass. Despite her anger, pain, and hunger she could not deny his skill. Rose had been impressed.


    She had immediately asked him to teach her how to fight. He had refused. Said she could never fight like he did. Called her a brute, and an animal. Rose had attacked him again for the insult. With the same result. She was left lying in the dust, bruised in both body and pride. Then she had decided something. If he wouldn¡¯t teach her, then she¡¯d just have to teach herself. She wouldn¡¯t fight like him. She¡¯d fight like her.


    So once every couple of days Rose went out of her way to find Aurus, and fight him. To try and learn something from him. Try and create her own style. That first fight had only been a couple months ago, but already she felt she was a much better fighter. She had begged violet for a series of stretches to increase her flexibility. The portly older woman may not look like much, but she was still a member of Gors Pavilion.


    A religious order devoted to healing and caretaking. They were famous for both their magical and mundane methods of healing. Violet had been more than happy to show Rose a thing or two, and have a laugh as the ungainly teen fought to follow along with the simplest instructions. The stances wouldn¡¯t help in a fight, but they would certainly help keep you fit and flexible. Which most certainly would be of help in a fight. Months of practice had moved Rose from ¡®embarrassment to the practice¡¯, to ¡®semi-competent some of the time¡¯. At least according to Violet.


    Rose also tried to parry or dodge more. Instead of her old style of trading hits until someone gave in. Her morning club routine was her pretending to fight Aurus, and while it couldn¡¯t compare to the real deal it still served to psych her up. Get her in the mood to kick some ass.


    But first, she had to hop. I, hate, this, so, much. She thought, as she started her awkward bent over hops onto the posts. Why, does, he, even, need, this!? Ow! She had managed to catch the first of the crossbow bolts right in the hip, nearly tipping her into the muck below. Rose swayed wildly, her arms flailing at the air hoping to find something to hold on to. She managed to regain her balance, but the ¡®water¡¯ below her started to shift. Great, leeches, already.


    She started hopping again, moving as fast as possible. Trying to get this over with. Who, does, he, even, think, would, come, after, him? The first of the leeches came bursting from the sludgy mess. Its slimy brown body flecked with red dots, and its gaping jawless mouth full of teeth aimed at her exposed arms. Rose swatted it back into the shit, nearly losing her balance in the process. Arms windmilling like crazy again. It¡¯s, not, like, anyone, wants, him, dead.


    With her left hand she slid her second favorite knife out of its sheath, and sliced through the first trip wire without slowing. He¡¯s, a, nobody. Her knife slashed lazily through the fetid air. Cutting another trip wire, and halving a pair of incoming leeches. Another crossbow bolt slammed into her shoulder, and she barely managed to slam her free right hand into the ceiling. Pinning her body between the stone above and the wooden post below.


    Half a dozen leeches seemed to sense her distraction, and took the opportunity to leap at her. She hastily cut down two of them, but the other four slammed into her. One suckered onto her leg, and started rasping its way through her leathers with its teeth. Another two hit her layers of furs, and bounced off. One managed to land on her bent back, and started squirming about. While the other simply fell back into the mire. The fourth, and last one had successfully hit her left arm, and was trying to work its way through her skin to the deliciousness beneath.


    She could see her goal up ahead, so she left the disgusting creatures alone, and hopped rapidly towards the finish. The Leeches flailed about for a second, before wrapping their slime covered bodies around her leg and arm respectively. The one on her back still squirmed around. It¡¯s, not, like, these, traps, would, even, kill, anyone. Finally, the rickety dock that led to the shabby shack of Aurus was nearly within leaping distance. With one last hop she heard the snap of a crossbow, and took a diving leap across the remaining distance to crash into the side of the dock. Slamming her knife into the slick semi-rotted wood, she pulled herself up and flopped onto the dock.


    After taking a moment to savor her success, Rose stood up and stomped towards the rundown shack. It looked like someone had taken a pile of driftwood and scrap boards. Slapped them into a misshapen heap, and then thrown a torn fishing net festooned with empty liquor bottles over the top to hold it all together. The door was a series of warped planks held together by a combination of ropes and half rotted boards. Loud snoring filtered out of the many holes in the construct, and the smell of cheap booze and rotted cabbage filled the air around it.


    Rose shifted her knife to her right hand, and delicately ran the blade along her skin. Slicing into the mouth of the leech, and prying the would-be bloodsucker off of her arm. Unwinding its coils from her limb, and chucking it into the muck from which it came. Then she repeated the performance with the one latched to her leg, before reaching back and fished the last one out of her furs.


    This one she grasped firmly just behind the head, and as it writhed in her grip she replaced her knife in its sheath before knocking on the door of Aurus¡¯ shack. The sound of groaning, punctuated by someone vomiting, drifted through the door. Uncaring, Rose knocked harder, and much, much, louder.


    A muttered string of curses was followed by the sound of glass shattering as what was presumably an empty liquor bottle smashed into the door. More curses and whines followed that burst of noise. Rose smirked a little. And knocked again. Finally the sound of muttered curses shot up into dire imprecations, an the sound of shuffling footsteps headed towards the door. Someone, probably Aurus, then stepped onto the shattered glass with a small *crunch*. A short pause, then the swearing began again, this time much louder.


    A small vicious smile on her lips, Rose lifted her hand, and knocked one last time. Loudly. Immediately, the door was yanked open and a short human male with long greasy gray hair, balding on top, and blood shot eyes glared out at Roses chest. Aurus raised his gaze to meet Roses laughing eyes with a baleful glare, just in time to get punched in the face by her leech laden right fist.


    The loathsome creature immediately bit into the hungover mans nose, wrapped around his head, and rode him to the floor. Rose took two big steps back as the old man rolled to his feet with surprising swiftness. He reached up and ripped the leech off of his nose, and whipped the offending bloodsucker at Rose, who calmly backhanded it into the gunk. As he tenderly felt at his, no doubt throbbing, proboscis Rose spoke up.


    ¡°Heya, Aurus. You up for a fight?¡± The cheeky teen asked him, a taunt in her tone and a wide grin on her face. She was determined to enjoy this moment while it lasted.

 Ch. 3 When trouble finds you

    The sun was at its highest point when Rose came stumbling out of the sewers. Sweat and more fragrant materials soaked into her layers of furs and leathers, and plastering her thick hair to her scalp. Bruises and scrapes decorated her arms, and one of her eyes was swelled nearly shut. The crusty remnants of a recent nose bleed outlined her mouth, and added to her ragged look. If one could see through her clothes they¡¯d see her ribs were covered in a rainbow of growing bruises.


    She looked exactly like what she was. Someone who had badly lost a fight. The only evidence to the contrary was the huge childish smile on her face. Finally out of the cramped tunnels of the sewers, Rose stretched her battered and sore limbs, enjoying the sting of her new set of lessons, and the comforting feel of the sun on her skin.


    With a jauntiness to her step that belied her clearly beaten state, she headed into the warrens of the Cull, whistling a broken tune. The reason behind her good cheer was clear to her, if not to anyone else. She had improved! If Rose had considered the conflicts with Aurus as fights, well, then she might not be so pleased. But they were just spars, she assured herself. And the only person you had to overcome in a spar was yourself!


    Besides, in a real fight he would use her favorite tricks. Hidden blades, blinding powders, cheap shots, and a few nasty surprises even she was hesitant to use unless absolutely necessary. She hadn¡¯t even used her obvious knives! Or so Rose told herself. In truth, the teen had no doubt the cagey old human had a dozen tricks up his sleeve for every one of hers, and she had no faith in winning a life or death fight against him.


    So she simply enjoyed the improvement in her skills, and let the impotent anger at her continuing losses slip away into the back of her mind. She could see the sheets of rain closing in on the city, and she heard the muted roar of the storm before it was on her. A blast of cool wet air heralded the downpour. The rain pounded the cobbles, and sheets of water started falling from roofs. Rose kept her mouth and eyes screwed shut as she hurriedly scrubbed the various fluids and semi-liquids off of her face. You only had to get that stuff in your mouth or eyes once to learn better.


    Luxuriating in the chance to get clean, the towering teen skipped through the rain. She dug a small waterproofed leather bag full of yellow chalky powder from one of her many pockets. Dried and crushed bubbleweed. It had a longer more complicated name as well, but Rose hadn¡¯t bothered remembering it. She ducked out of the rain under an extended eave, and upended the leather bag over her head. The clumps of powder drifted down, coating her hair and most of her upper body in the sticky yellow dust. She gave it a moment to set, and then stepped into the rain. Bright pink bubbles started frothing from every speck of the oddly pine scented powder. Hundreds of fizzy orbs bursting from every single speck of the stuff. Rose scrubbed herself down vigorously, ridding her hair, skin, and clothes of the special smell only a backed up city sewer can create.


    Honestly, she could have gotten clean with a quarter that amount. But Rose enjoyed the fizzing sensation the powder made when it popped into bubbles. And it¡¯s not like bubbleweed was hard to come by, as the name implies it¡¯s a weed. Rose had dozens more packets tucked away in caches throughout the Cull, and half a dozen on her right now. They were all hidden in her pockets and waiting to be used. Not just for cleaning herself either. If you dump a packet of bubbleweed powder in someone''s mouth or eyes it¡¯ll blind and suffocate them temporarily. Which is why she was very careful to keep her eyes and mouth closed when using it.


    As the bubbles washed away in the rain Rose made her way towards the Drunk Skunk. The disreputable bar was the only place in the city she could get a fight without having to pay an outrageous fee, or join the local crime family. A combination of being so awful no one wanted it, and sitting right on a confluence of gangs that would keep each other from taking it had allowed the grimy tavern to maintain a certain level of autonomy. Much like its namesake, it was best left alone.


    The rain was already letting up by the time Rose approached the shabby building. Spring rains tend to be heavy but brief. So when Rose came to the door the latest batch of ne''er do wells were on their way back out into the drying streets. Rose bulled through the exodus, and entered the gloomy pub. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she heard a vaguely familiar voice.


    ¡°Ah tell yu ladzsss, if I sssee that gangly maggot again, imma rip ¡®isss armssss off! And beat ¡®im with ¡®em!¡± The voice was probably trying for an intimidating rumble, but was the effect was thoroughly ruined by the odd whistles and the nasal tone that accompanied it. Rose shot a look at the oddity, and quickly took a second one. By some poor luck, seated at a table, surrounded by his orc flunkies, was the flat faced orc she¡¯d clobbered just last night. The unlucky brute whose nose she¡¯d flattened was also missing several teeth, and had his eyes nearly sealed shut from swelling. But when Rose whipped her head around to stare at him he still managed to peer back at her.


    There was an odd moment then. A strained silence, as both parties brains fizzled and tried to come up with an adequate response to the sudden surprise. The orc got there first. ¡°Gerrim!¡± He bellowed nasally. Before shoving away from the table and lurching to his feet. His cronies were a half second behind him. Most still trying to figure out who exactly they were, in fact, getting. But soon a full dozen enraged orcs were charging in Roses general direction within the cramped confines of the Drunk Skunk.


    So Rose did what any intelligent, thoughtful, lady would do in such a situation. She grabbed the closest table, and threw it at them. Then she turned and ran away. The heavy but slightly rotted wood slammed directly into the poor flat faced orcs ever flatter face, sending him and a few of his boys to the floor in a spray of splinters and curses. Rose sped out of the bar, punting an unfortunate gnome who had been moving out of her way too slowly. Once she was back in the streets Rose dashed off. The furious orcs hot on her tail. As she ran Rose let all worries and fear slip into the back of her mind, all she had to focus on was the path ahead. The locals started placing bets on the outcome of the chase, loving a chance at some free entertainment.


    Of all the bars, in all the city, he has to be in mine! Rose thought, briefly cursing coincidence as she sent a half full rain barrel careening into the alley behind her. Successfully losing two more of her pursuers. Orcs are the fucking worst! Rose whipped her head back to check on her pursuers. They were still there. They never let anything go! Ever! She dove under the wagon of a startled merchant and rolled out the other side. It¡¯s like they take pride in holding grudges, the longer the better!  She skidded around a sharp turn in the road, and right into the path of an angry orc. That particular orc had hastily cut through some alleys in a bid to get front of her. He made a diving tackle, intent on knocking her down so his buddies could catch up with him. Rose desperately dodged to the side. Just barely managing to avoid his tackle. Surprised and starting to get angry, she hooked a vicious punch into the side of his head as he fell past her. Sending her would-be ambusher crashing to the ground. She was off like a shot, ducking into a nearby alley. The concussed orc was just beginning to groggily stand back up. When his friends came rushing around the corner. They slammed into him, and they were all sent crashing to the ground in a wave of angry green muscle. That gave Rose a precious lead over them, and she used it to the utmost. Sprinting recklessly through the twisting maze of alleys until the sounds of pursuit dwindled and finally disappeared. Orcs! They¡¯re all like, oh, you¡¯ve been feuding with your brother about who gets grampappy orcs outhouse? That¡¯s nothing! My family''s had a feud with a gnome clan for three generations! Rose groused further about the legendary grudges of orcs as she made her way back to her home.


    She¡¯d managed to lose the orcs, for now. But if she knew anything about orcs, and she liked to think she did, then they¡¯d be sure to stake out the Drunk Skunk. Waiting for her so they could take another shot at revenge. Which was terrible. Because without access to the Skunks fighting pits Rose wouldn¡¯t be able to continue her plan. She lacked the money or credentials to fight in literally any other ring in the city.


    Now, you might be wondering why Rose is so intent on fighting in the pits at all. Why not just get a job, or join a gang as a underling? Well, dummy, that¡¯s because Rose has a plan. See, Rose wants to join a gang, sure. But not as a grunt. Low level thugs get used, abused, and thrown in the refuse. And it¡¯s much much worse for women. In most cases it is only a matter of time before your ¡®friends¡¯ decide to ¡®make use of you¡¯. And after that you might as well have just started off as a whore to save yourself some time.


    So, no. Rose wasn¡¯t going to join a gang as a grunt. Well, what¡¯s the alternative? I¡¯m glad you asked! You can join a gang as a Champion! Note the uppercase C. Champions are veteran brawlers, pit fighters, and soldiers. If two gangs are having a dispute they can settle it with a Champions Bout. They set conditions, and the loser must abide by them or lose all respect. Which is a deathblow in the underworld. If you aren¡¯t respected and feared, then you will be picked apart. Your boys will leave, your businesses will be knocked, and your captains will be hunted.


    Champions are outside the usual gang hierarchy. They don¡¯t pay dues, in fact, gang leaders pay them. They only have to answer to the boss, and even then only in the case of a Champions Bout being called. Being a Champion means rubbing shoulders with bigwigs and power players. It means access to people and places you wouldn¡¯t normally ever be able to get to. All without being locked into the bitter power struggles of gang politics. It meant being able to influence powerful people, and not having to be a pawn in their schemes. Well, except for that one thing.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Rose wanted to become a Champion. And the Drunk Skunk was her first stepping stone. As it had been for hundreds, if not thousands, before her. Trying to become a Champion was a common goal among the Cull. But there were only fifteen Champions currently living. They were the best of the best, the toughest, cagiest, meanest, luckiest bastards in all of Ramsom. And possibly all of Dover kingdom too!


    The Drunk Skunk had no fighters fee, there was no need for a sponsor or patron. All were welcome to struggle for their dreams in the moldy basement of the dilapidated bar. If only because the stinking conditions of the bar meant that they had to take what they could get. The owner would happily take money to set up a fight, but who would be willing to pay good money to fight in a shithole? And now it was likely that some bloody stupid pigheaded orcs were keeping Rose away from fighting for her dream! Unacceptable!


    As to why she didn¡¯t get a normal job, well. The poor in Ramsom have four options for work. Herd sheep, become an adventurer, join the army, or hope to get an apprenticeship with a craftsman. Oh, and become a prostitute. Can¡¯t forget that one.


    Rose refused to herd anymore sheep. She knew better than to become an adventurer. Women in the army have it little better than women in gangs. And competing for an apprenticeship requires a letter of recommendation from a provincial school or church. Which Rose didn¡¯t have. The less said about the last job, the better. But the most important reason for why Rose sought to join a gang instead of get a job is simple. She can¡¯t get the level of power she needs for her goals through any of the other options. Simple, but there it is.


    Rose was pacing about her home. The slaughterhouse was a fairly large building, so there was plenty of room to pace. But Rose was a very large lady, and her problems called for lots of pacing. So all that space still seemed like too little. So, Rose thought. I need to shift an orc. Never an easy task, but even more difficult when said orc is out for your blood. What¡¯s more, this was a problem she couldn¡¯t solve with violence. Even if I somehow manage to take out all the purple gang orcs at the Skunk. That doesn¡¯t solve the problem. Their gang would just send even more after me to try and not look like a bunch of wimps. Rose paused her pacing as a thought occurred to her. What gang are they even? Depending on the gangs reputation and numbers maybe she did have a chance at beating them. So Rose left her cozy home, and started combing the streets for her favorite gossip.


    If someone had claimed to know everything about Ramsom, then they would have been laughed at and scorned. But if Rose had to name a person she personally thought was the closest to knowing everything going on in, and around, the city. Then she wouldn¡¯t hesitate to say, Dogger.


    Dogger was an orc, or more exactly, Dogger was a orc child. He ran a small gang of urchins. They made a bit of money as scurries, slaggers, and shlockers. Which is to say that they ran messages, sifted through sewage, and robbed drunks. There were dozens of such urchin groups in the Cull, and while each of them would take money anyway they could get it, each group had its speciality. Dogger, and his crew, specialized in information gathering and exchange. Somehow, Dogger always seemed to know who had done what to whom. And the whys, whens, and hows involved. And more importantly, he owed Rose a couple of favors.


    Not everyone enjoys it when a street urchin starts telling everyone that your wife kicked you out of the house because you were sleeping with whores and caught the red rot. Especially when it¡¯s true. Dogger was seven or eight, who was keeping track? And he¡¯d already had over a dozen different people try and kill him at least three times each. It was something he took an orcish amount of pride in. He actually had a collection of knotted leather cords. With each cord being a person who¡¯d tried to kill him, and each knot being one of their attempts.


    Normally he managed to trick, bamboozle, mislead, or ambush his would-be murderers. But sometimes he wouldn¡¯t be so lucky. Rose had saved his life twice. Once by clocking his pursuer who had bumped into her while chasing Dogger, and another by killing a giant sewer rat who Dogger had run into while slipping into the sewers to escape a different pursuer. Both times were luck and happenstance, but Dogger was an oddly traditional orc for a city dwelling child. He took both life debts very seriously, and demanded Rose come to him if she was ever in need.


    It should be known, however, that Dogger isn¡¯t his real name. When he was forming his little band of thieves they picked new ¡®cool¡¯ names. Pretty much every urchin gang does that actually, and many of the ¡®real¡¯ gangs do as well. Which is why they are kids called Bloodspurt, Murder, Talon, and Meany running around in this city. When Dogger had his chance he¡¯d gone for an old classic, Dagger. Sadly, Dogger is an orc, and even for an orc he has a massive underbite. He had spoken his desired name loud and clear, and his chums had misunderstood him. And thus was born the street urchin, Dogger! He¡¯d made the most of it, claiming to be able to sniff out lies and following trails of info ¡®doggedly¡¯, but his close friends knew he truly hated his name, which is why they simply called him boss.


    So Rose moved to find the diminutive greenhide and call in one of her favors. Which is when she ran into yet another problem. She had no idea where Dogger hung his hat. The urchins were never still for long, their bases made tempting targets for the worst in the city. They lacked the strength to protect their valuables from greedy grown ups. So they stayed on the move, typically having a half dozen bolt holes at a minimum. They didn¡¯t exactly advertise their location either, much the opposite really. So Rose headed for the last place she¡¯d seen Dogger.


    A fire gutted tenement housing. The roof was mostly gone, and the facade had been burnt away in large areas, exposing rotten planks and crumbling bricks to the uncaring elements. The doors were held closed with a length of old crusty rope, but that wouldn¡¯t stop anyone from simply walking through the several gaping holes in the side of the building. The gloomy buildings empty windows seemed like hollow staring eyes. Smoke stains like backwards black tears rose from them, and the whole building looked like it was one stiff breeze away from falling into matchsticks. Several weeks ago Rose had seen Dogger duck inside the dangerously dilapidated building. At the time she¡¯d noticed it she hadn¡¯t been particularly interested. She¡¯d heard there was a wandering meat skewer salesman in the area who sold the best meat skewers in the city. And she¡¯d been focusing on finding him, not on a familiar looking child entering a building.


    But now it was her best guess as to where he might be. So despite her many reservations about entering what was clearly a deathtrap, Rose plunged inside. Well, she didn¡¯t plunge inside really. That¡¯d be damn near suicidal. She very slowly, very carefully snuck inside. But make no mistake! She was plunging in spirit!


    The inside of the ruin was open to the sky, and smelled of damp rot and old ash. A few rooms near the bottom had been almost untouched by the fire. But falling debris from the blazing rooms above had gutted them all the same. Rose could see nothing that would show that anyone had been squatting in the ruins. Which was deeply suspicious. Homeless people would move in anywhere, no matter how dangerous, if the place wasn¡¯t guarded. Or haunted, which to the homeless simply meant the place was guarded by ghosts.


    So, the lack of shabby tiny huts and patchy moldy tents meant that someone had been keeping the bums out of here. Rose thought as she paced slowly along the crumbly perimeter of the ruin. But there was no sign it was being used. She stepped over to a empty doorway. Peering through to find only more burnt building. So, logically, if someone is keeping the bums away, and yet there is no clear use of the bum free zone. She prodded a charred hunk of timber with her boot. Then there must be a hidden or camouflaged thing nearby! Pleased with her assumptions Rose started poking at every suspicious cranny, and peering deeply into every suspiciously dark shadow.


    Surprisingly, Rose was correct. As she proved with the discovery of a trapdoor made of cleverly glued together bits of debris. When she lifted the trapdoor it exposed a staircase to the ruins basement. Happy to have her logic proven Rose merrily, and cautiously, headed down the stairs. There was little light in the basement, but someone had lit a few slow burning candles. Further proving Rose right. However, before she got a chance to get all smug she heard some voices ahead. The sensation of stealthily approaching a unwary soul brings something primal to the surface of most people. And with Rose that primal feeling was never buried too deep.


    So it was with the utmost care and concentration that Rose stalked closer. Melding into the shadows far to easily for someone her size she moved down the stairs. The stairs led to a short hallway at the end of which was a doorway. Inside that doorway there were more candle lights and the sources of the voices. As she neared the voices, and began to pick up the conversation in progress. ¡°-y you should go and check again! You¡¯re supposed to check every ten minutes! Boss says!¡± That last phrase had the sort of wheedle and whine to it that only comes with extreme repetition. A vocal polishing, if you will. Rose padded silently down the narrow hallway closer to the voice and the light.


    ¡°Gurm it! Fluff, if you want it checked so bad, then go check yaself! ¡®m busy!¡± A young voice. Trying to sound both older, and more dangerous. Which only served to highlight it¡¯s youth. Rose reached the doorway. Through it she could see more candles, and what looked like a series of blanket forts. She carefully stayed out of the light, not wanting to give away her position just yet. She was hoping for more entertainment from the arguers, and she got it.


    ¡°MY NAME¡¯S NOT FLUFF!!!¡± Shrieked the first voice in outrage. ¡°IT¡¯S CAPTAIN MURDERDEATH!!!¡± The odd name and the shrill delivery it was given in made Rose snort with laughter involuntarily, which thoroughly ruining her cover. ¡°W-W-WHO GOES TH-TH-THERE!!!¡± The shrill voice shrilled shrilly with notes of panic hysteria, and followed by the gentle pattering of urine on stone. Rose stepped into the light facing towards the two wide eyed children panicking in the corner of the room. She raised her hands and presented her empty palms towards them in a sign of peace. Then she made a mistake, she smiled.


    Now, Rose has a lovely smile, if you know her and are expecting it. If however, you were, say, a small child in a dark room that was fully expecting demons and monsters to come bursting from the darkness. Well, you might not think it so lovely. The flickering candlelight showed the gleam of her fangs and the misshapen lump of her black eye to great effect, but the rest of her was mostly just a terrifyingly large mass of twisting shadows. One that had just pushed its palms toward you.


    ¡°Fluff! Look out! It¡¯s doing magics!¡± The taller of the two, a scrawny blonde human, shouted as he brandished a rusted knife at Rose. The shorter one, a chubby curly haired beastkin with soaked trousers, didn¡¯t respond. He was much too busy fainting to bother listening to his friend.


    And that¡¯s how Rose met two of Doggers lieutenants, Spike and Captain Murderdeath AKA Fluff.


    Not the greatest of starts, all things considered.

 Ch. 4 We all come from somewhere

    There are many ways that one may seek to comfort a scared child. Gentle words and slow soothing movements immediately come to mind. So when Rose instead rushed quickly towards the human urchins fallen friend, well, he quite understandably panicked. Seeing the fanged mystery monstrosity crouch over his fallen ally. With its fangs flashing unsteadily in the flickering candlelight the brave lad didn¡¯t hesitate. He introduced his knife to the situation. The gentle creek and sharp snap of old poorly forged steel filled the air, and the urchin stared in shock at his newly bladeless knife. He was a bit too focused on it, in fact, as he didn¡¯t notice the blurring mass of shadow that was rapidly approaching him.


    Which is how Rose found herself in another persons secret base, standing over the prone bodies of two children. ¡°Whoops.¡± She murmured, beginning to realize she¡¯d rather made a mess of things. She¡¯d only been trying to check on the fallen beastkin, and hadn¡¯t been expecting a sudden stab from its companion. When she¡¯d felt the attack months of street honed reflexes kicked in without so much as a thought to hinder them. Luckily for him she¡¯d managed to pull her punch at the end there, or she¡¯d have a much bigger problem than a pair of unconscious urchins on her hands.


    With a sigh, and a gentle recrimination to herself for being clumsy, she went back to checking the kids. Luckily, the beastkin was just unconscious. His breathing was even and his pulse strong and steady. Which was about all that Rose knew to check. How do you even begin to examine someone to figure out what caused them to just randomly pass out? She thought, completely oblivious to her culpability in that regard. So she moved on to his friend. Ah, yeah this is more my speed. He had a glorious goose egg growing from his scalp, and what looked to be a lovely shiner blooming over his left eye.


    Well, I¡¯ve got just the thing for that. Rose reached into one of her many pockets, and pulled out a small pouch. The pouch was made from the hide of a snow hare, and as the gleaming white fur caught the dim flickering of the candlelight ghostly and fragmented auroras shimmered around it. That was the defense mechanism of the snow hare. When startled their fur acquired a special quality. When it was touched by light, but especially direct sunlight, the fur gave off a dazzling array of dancing auroras. While their would be predator tried to deal with the sudden eyeful of shifting lights the hare dashed away to safety. The only way to get that kind of effect on the dead beasts hide was if you killed it while it was using whatever natural magics caused the effect. Which was easier said than done.


    But the object Rose was looking for wasn¡¯t the fur, no matter how dazzling it might be, but the object that had been wrapped in the fur. A slender sliver of glossy blue white material. The odd thing seemed to almost glow with an inner light, and as Rose ran the long edge of it along the urchins swollen and bruised face something wondrous happened. The bruises melted away like ice before the sun and the swelling vanished like snow drifts at springtime. Nyvi blessed ice, the answer for all your bruises and bumps. Rose smiled fondly as she remembered the very same sliver of ice being used to soothe her many childhood related injuries. But then she remembered what had happened later. What had happened to the old man who had been so kind to an angry and destructive child, and her smile melted away into a frigid grimace of pure hatred.


    Which was unluckily the same moment that the beastkin child had finally stirred. The unlucky Captain Murderdeath had opened his eyes, and spotted the monster from his recent nightmares huddled over his friend. A blood freezing bone shattering expression of rage carved into its misshapen face. The fragile child promptly keeled over again, yet another stain spreading on his already soggy trousers.


    Lost in the mists of remembrance Rose failed to realize she was traumatizing people. After a minute she shook herself out of her funk, put away the fragment of God blessed ice, and settled in to wait for the kids to wake up so she could get directions to Dogger. While she waited Rose took a tour of the urchins base. It was a series of interconnected rooms and corridors. The walls made of ratty blankets, and occasionally actual walls. Dozens of cozy cubbies clustered together, offering both privacy and communal body heat.


    There was little of a personal nature in the cozy blanket fort. Urchins tended to keep their most precious possessions either secreted away on their person, or hidden somewhere safe. In case they had to leave their home fast to escape danger. That way they wouldn¡¯t lose precious time trying to save their valuables, and could just run for it.


    Rose returned to her captives just in time for blonde human kid to stir. He started to groan and reach for his head. Obviously remembering being clobbered rather thoroughly. He froze in surprised shock when his body informed his mind that it was quite fine, thank you very much, and that he should focus on more important things. Like the huge monster lady standing right in front of you. Spike, as he was known, lifted his head very slowly. Scanning his eyes up the impressive height of the stranger standing in the middle of his gangs most secretest of bases. With an oddly impressive amount of outrage at this intrusion Spike stood up, puffed out his chest, and attempted to add a surly growl to his voice.


    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing! This is our base! Get out, and stay out!¡± His quaking knees and sadly squeaky voice really didn¡¯t convey the message as well as he¡¯d hoped to. But Rose wasn¡¯t really interested in teasing a child.


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m Rose. I¡¯m looking for Dogger, he your boss?¡± She drawled lazily, trying her hardest to seem innocent and unthreatening. The sting from her black eye detracted quite a bit from her attempt. And Rose spent a few seconds berating herself for not fixing it when she had the ice out earlier. Her internal argument was reflected as a scowl, and it combined with the pained flinch when the tender flesh around her eye was shifted by her attempt at appearing friendly. Leaving her with a brutal and menacing grimace instead of the intended calming smile.


    Needless to say, this did not help matters. Spike got defensive, and broke out that old favorite tactic of criminals and children the world over. Lie and deny. ¡°Dogger, I ain¡¯t never heard of no Dogger. This here is the base of Barrel Joe.¡± He threw out the name of the leader of a rival gang of urchins, hoping that the scary lady would take his word for it and go away. He had no such luck I¡¯m afraid.


    ¡°Look kid, I know this is Doggers base. And all I want to know is where he is or when he¡¯ll be back! He owes me a favor, and I need to cash it in!¡± Rose was really not in the mood for this. So far today she¡¯d been beaten, dropped in sewage, and chased out of her pub by irate orcs. And now this kid was trying to give her the business? What was going on? Had she accidentally blasphemed against Du somehow? The God of punishments and vengeance was known for being on a hair trigger when it came to such things, but she, and most everyone else, was careful to avoid even mentioning him.


    No she was just having a bad day. And yelling at a kid wasn¡¯t going to make it better. So Rose carefully reeled her temper back in, took a deep breath, and started heading towards the exit. ¡°When he shows up, tell Dogger Rose needs to talk to him. If he can¡¯t even find me, then I guess he won¡¯t be much help anyway. Oh, and maybe you should get some fresh pants and a bucket of water for your friend. He looks soaked.¡± And with that Rose stomped back up the stairs, pushed open the trapdoor, and headed back into the maze of the Cull. Her head on a swivel watching for orcs or gangers in purple.


    Back in the urchins base Spike collapsed. He had been so scared! That lady looked like she was one stray word from strangling someone! He lay there on his back. Staring at the barely lit stones overhead, and then he started laughing the strained giddy laughter of someone who had just escaped disaster. It wasn¡¯t until he¡¯d finally calmed down that he realized his shirt was getting wet, and recalled the last thing the scary lady, Rose, had said. Scrambling to his feet Spike saw he had indeed flopped down in a small puddle of his friends urine.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°FLUFF! EWWWW!!!¡± He started scrambling for a new shirt and hurling curses at the very much unconscious beastkin in the soaked trousers.


    Far away from that dim basement, and far from the glowering and pacing of a certain tall blue teenager. A small child was chasing a wayward lamb. ¡°No! Snowy! You gots to go the other way! You gots ta go with your family! SNOWY!!!¡± The tiny tyke chased the seemingly deaf lamb out of the tall grass and onto the narrow dirt track that led to Pelior Village. When she cleared the tall grass she found her lost lamb cradled in the arms of an cheerful looking older lady in green robes. With a happy squeal the little lass rocketed towards the woman, burrowing into her robes and clinging like a limpet to her leg.


    Violet smiled down at the tiny elfin child, and patted her gently on the head. Much to the child¡¯s delight. ¡°Hello Ivy, miss me?¡± She asked rhetorically, before continuing her walk, the tiny burdens in her arms and on her leg not slowing her one whit. The muffled murmuring of Ivy speaking into her robes mingled into the steady susurrus of the long windblown grass, and Violet felt like she was back home.


    The village of Pelior is one of small houses and big families. Like most towns in the Fold their primary occupation was the herding of sheep. A few families managed to scrape enough crops out of the hard and stony soil to provide the other families with potatoes, carrots, and a variety of turnip and squash. Then there was the town blacksmith, cooper, tanner, and hunter who all provided their services to the sleepy little town. But most people herded the especially fluffy, obstinate, and ornery sheep that had been of the Fold long before human, elves, dwarves, and the rest moved in. Yes, Pelior Village was just like every other small town in the Fold, or rather it would have been. Were it not for the orphanage.


    Life was hard, everyone living knows this is true. And there are some times when another child is more burden than blessing, or whose parents suffered a tragic accident or fell to misfortune. Those poor children often followed their parents in due course, but some few managed to be brought or find their own way to an orphanage. The Gardener Orphanage was one such place. It had originally been a mansion for the local lord to feel lordly in, but he¡¯d decided that the charms of the countryside paled in comparison to the fun of the city. And many years ago had sold it to a kindly elf known simply as Mr. Gardener who had turned it into an orphanage. Where for many long years he had cared for the young souls within its walls like they were his own sons and daughters. He was joined, and eventually replaced, in this endeavor by his actual daughter, Forsythia Gardener.


    Violet was a graduate of the Gardener Orphanage, and made a trip from Ramsom at least once a month to teach the children about medicine and healing. As a priestess of Gorm, the god of earth and life, as well as a healer she was extremely well versed in these subjects. But when your audience is a collection a squirrely children and surly teens it was best to tailor your lessons accordingly. So she spoke of her more interesting cases, of the oddest, grossest, most unusual ailments first. To catch their ears and minds, and only then did she teach them the boring details that so often mean the difference between life and death. How to identify a break versus a sprain. How to treat a fever as opposed to a cold. When to wait for help, and when to rush for aid. She also always brought a tin of treats, one apiece for each of the kids. And they loved her for it.


    After her latest batch of lessons she took a moment to stretch, her back stiff and sore from sitting in a hard chair. She remembered when she was young, and could sleep on roots or stones with nary a twinge. Now look at me. Violet thought with a self mocking smile. Can¡¯t even finish a short lesson without feeling like a giants tap danced on my tailbone. She gave herself another moment of therapeutic self pity, before moving on to her next mission.


    She slowly walked deeper into the large creaky mansion that was the orphanage. Heading towards the library, where she knew she¡¯d find her old friend sipping a cup of her favorite tea and reading an old book. Probably a trashy romance novel.


    Sure enough, sitting in a comfy old armchair that matched none of the rest of the furniture and sipping at a pale blue tea was Forsythia. Her eyes riveted onto the yellowed and creased pages of an oft read and poorly made romance novel. Passion On The High Seas proclaimed the ragged cover. No doubt a thrilling read, that was nearly identical to the other several hundred other romance novels Forsythia had hoarded over her long life.


    Forsythia herself was an older looking elf, which meant she was probably over 100, it is considered rude to ask, but looked to be about her late thirties by human standards. What good looks she might once have had were marred by a twisting ragged burn scar running up the left side of her face. Violet glanced at the fluffy wool blanket covering her friends lower body. She knew under there the kind elfs left leg was a bent and twisted ruin. Hence the crutch leaning against the side of her chair. It was mostly used for decorative purposes, but Violet knew that on long days, when Forsythia had been run especially ragged by the dozens of children under her ward, her friend was thankful for its support.


    ¡°Still got your nose buried in the gutter I see.¡± Violet announced her presence with a friendly jab.


    ¡°Art is only ever appreciated by the cultured, my dear Violet.¡± The elf returned, not lifting her eyes from the page for an instant. ¡°I really wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand.¡± Finishing her page, the mistress of the Gardener Orphanage raised her head and smiled gently at Violet. ¡°Now, how is our lost little lamb doing Vi? Is she still claiming to be a big bad wolf?¡±


    At the reminder of why she was here in the first place Violet pulled the purse containing the entirety of Roses fight money for the previous month out of her satchel. ¡°Indeed she does Syth. She seems to have managed to convince plenty of others as well. Rose sends her love, and I know she misses you every day.¡± Not that the stubborn child will actually say such a thing, of course. Violet added silently. The scarred elf gingerly took the purse from Violets hands. Grimacing at the weight of it.


    ¡°She always was good at pretending. I remember the time she convinced Kalen that if he stared at the full moon a whole night through, he would become able to fly. The poor land stayed up all night, and leapt from the landing come morning. Broke both his legs if I recall correctly.¡± Violet nodded, she had been the one to heal Kalens legs. ¡°Poor lass, she was distraught that her little prank had hurt her friend. She cried for days.¡± Forsythia sighed heavily, staring into the memory. ¡°And now she wants me to believe her some cold blooded knee snapper?¡± She shook her head.


    Violet was silent for a moment, thinking of their little troublemaker. ¡°She blames herself, you know? For what happened.¡± She said quietly and sadly. Her voice small with shame and regret.


    Forsythia looked at her, really looked at her. And for a slender moment Violet forgot all the years of friendship between them. She was taken back to so very long ago, when she¡¯d been a scared and silent little girl, and this woman had just been introduced as her guardian and caretaker. She¡¯d given Violet the same look now as then. Like she was reading your thoughts and feelings off of the back of your skull.


    ¡°Yes, I know she does. And I know you blame yourself as well.¡± Violet opened her mouth to argue, and Forsythia rode right over her half voiced protests. ¡°And I¡¯ll tell you what I¡¯d tell her. Were she in front of me right now. There was nothing you could have done. No aid you could have lent, no blow you could have stopped, and no spark you could have extinguished.¡± The kindly elfs normally warm green eyes hardened into frozen jade splinters.


    ¡°If you had been there, you would have just become another casualty. Another life I¡¯d regret outliving. So seek whatever revenge you desire. Walk whatever path you choose. But do not do so while bearing the burden of blame for that monsters actions. Walk it freely, and without shame.¡± The elf seemed to deflate then. Suddenly seeming to carry all her many years with a new weight. ¡°If you¡¯d be so kind Violet. Could you make me another cup of Sky Blue tea? I¡¯m afraid all those emotions and memories have me feeling rather exhausted at the moment.¡±


    Violet puttered about, waking the heat stone and starting the water to boil. All the while she kept an eye on her oldest friend. She hadn¡¯t seen her exert that much force in many years, and she hoped she wouldn¡¯t see it again for many more. The years hadn¡¯t been kind of late, and who knew how much more time the stricken elf had left.


    I hope she manages to outlive me yet. I know it¡¯s horribly selfish of me. But I¡¯d much rather her bury me, than me bury her. Violet thought, before finally shaking off the morbid thoughts that had seemed to be plaguing her of late. She had been asked to make tea. And she was going to strive to make the perfect cup. It would be a nice distraction, for a little while.

 Ch. 5 Bearers of bad news

    Turk was well passed being merely pissed off. He was barely able to stop himself from entering a bloodrage! Only the fear of what his boss would do to him if he wrecked the base was keeping him in check. He glanced at the dirty mirror in the small room he called his own, and winced at the sight of his once proud face in the murky reflection. That fuckin¡¯ bitch! She¡¯d done this to him! Smashing his noble fangs and crushing his handsomely twisted nose flat! When I get me hands on her¡­ The thought spiraled happily away amidst delicious fantasies of revenge. He was just getting to removing her eyes with her own severed fingers when there was a pounding on his door.


    The aged wood shuddered unhappily under the great impacts, and dust filled the air as one of the boards was popped out of alignment. Only one member of the Dunalds Daggers gang was capable of knocking that hard. It was whether or not it was on purpose that was up for debate. ¡°Alright! I hear ya Bash!¡± Turk hollered at the door, his once intimidating baritone now a nasally screech. His face twisted into an angry snarl at the sound of his own voice. A snarl that only grew worse when he spotted the stubs where his fangs had once been in the mirror. This exaggerated rictus pulled at his still swollen and beaten face, further ruining his mood. And all the while the pounding kept on going.


    Angry, pained, and angry again Turk stomped towards the percussive doorway. ¡°Oi! I says I hear ya you great stupid oa-¡± With a final whimpering creak and a explosive crack of surrender the door came ripping off of its hinges. Slamming into the dumbfounded orcs face, and bearing him to the ground under its weight. Before the furious orc could muster the wind for a single oath his anger turned to panic, as a great weight pressed the door into him. Crushing him into the floor.


    ¡°Tu-tu? Where you at?¡± Spoke the lumbering mass of fat and muscle that had just stomped onto the stricken door. Bash was a giant, though a rather small and stupid one. He was only eight feet tall, and had been abandoned as a toddler by one of the nomadic bands of giants that periodically wandered through the Fold. Unlike most such wretched runts Bash had been rescued. He was picked up and raised by the leader of the Dunalds Daggers, a disavowed priest of Dunald, the god of combat and victory, one ¡®Savage¡¯ Sam. His past was very interesting, and a retelling of it would certainly lead one to many an interesting story. But for now let¡¯s focus on the ever flattening orc underneath him.


    Turk was dying, he was certain of it. Blood filled his mouth and nose, and his ribs creaked in dire protest of the great weight they were straining to keep from crushing him. Every time he fought for breath what little air he had inside him was forced out, and he choked on his own blood. His vision started to fade, and his head felt like a thousand thousand war circles were attempting to overwhelm one another with their thundering drums. He watched with detached disinterest as his life passed before his eyes. His first hunt, his first kill, his first war, his first trial, and his final one all flashed before him, and he knew he had lived poorly. Crushing waves of guilt and fear began to overwhelm his mind, and from the darkness in his eyes he saw a light coming to claim him. Whether it was the punishing fires of Fraut coming to repay his unresolved debts, or the guiding light of Gorm coming to lead him back to the River he couldn¡¯t know until it reached him.


    Then the weight lifted, and Turk managed to weakly fill his starved lungs with choking blood and delicious air. He fought for a few more breaths. Coughing his lungs and mouth clear, and weakly shifting the door off of his body. Bash, that idiot, had decided that Turk wasn¡¯t home, and decided to go look for him elsewhere. His cries of ¡°Tu-tu! Where you!¡± Echoing down the halls of the shabby block of tiny apartments the Dunalds Daggers had claimed as their own.


    Later, once Turk had managed to put himself back together again, and flag down the wandering giant. He had led the way to the meeting room. Where the walls between three tiny apartments had been knocked down to make a decent sized room. There, he found himself the target of a dozen mocking eyes and smiles. Turk was a Name, and he and his fellow Names had all gathered here at the behest of their boss, Savage Sam. ¡°So, Turk.¡± Started Vult, the slender dwarf always the first to a joke or a kill, ¡°I heard you got your shit mixed by a chick?¡± It may have been phrased as a question, but the tone they were delivered made it anything but.


    Turk snarled silently at the impudent shortling, but was soon reminded that a snarl without any fang just wasn¡¯t the same. He was about to make an insult towards dwarf culture in general, and Vults parents in particular. But before he could lay down his, no doubt scathing, retort Savage Sam himself entered the room and interrupted him.


    The Boss took a moment to lock eyes with each and every one of his Named men, and one by one they looked away. Unable or unwilling to hold his gaze, even the normally oblivious Bash hung his head rather than meeting his foster father¡¯s eyes. Then he spoke, his cold clipped voice cutting into the silence his entrance had created. ¡°Yes, I had heard that as well. That is one of the reasons we are here today, actually. But before we start on that, I have some important news to share with you.¡± The leader of the Dugans Daggers was a tiny human. Short, skinny, and sinewy in the extreme. He kept his entire body completely clean shave, and the way his skin stretched tightly over his smoothly shaven head made him seem ghoulish and unnatural. Like a corpse had gotten tired of being dead, and decided to go for a walk.


    His frozen, carefully neutral, facial features only made this impression worse. And were it not for the feverish heat of madness and bloodlust that radiated from his eyes he might have to constantly deal with exorcists and priests. He still had to deal with one or two a year, but by the large word had gotten around about him. Savage Sam they called him, and it was a title he¡¯d more than earned since he had been kicked from the priesthood.


    ¡°There will be a new Champion tournament in three months.¡± The Names started muttering excitedly. A Champion tournament was a rare thing, and always made for good entertainment. ¡°Each Champion will be sponsoring a fighter, and each gang can sponsor up to two.¡± Instantly their ears perked up. They were the toughest, strongest, meanest members of the gang. Surely one of them would be chosen? ¡°I was initially going to choose Bash and Turk.¡± Several envious glares shot towards Turk, alongside several loathsome smirks. The former came from those who hadn¡¯t noticed the initially or simply didn¡¯t know what the word meant. Bash noticed everyone was making faces, so he started making faces of his own. ¡°But as it seems Turk has lost his edge, and most of his teeth. I will now be opening the field.¡± Now there were only smirks.


    ¡°Whoever brings me the girl who made a fool of us will be attending alongside Bash.¡± The smirks evolved into evil grins. Hunting someone was always fun, and when your prey was a female? Well, that opened up all kinds of interesting options. ¡°Turk, you can of course participate in the hunt, but as you have made us look weak I¡¯m going to have to give you a punishment.¡±


    Turk very nearly complained. Isn¡¯t my face being this messed up already punishment enough?! He thought, but since he very much liked his head on his shoulders he kept that thought from reaching the ears of his volatile boss. ¡°You must bring me either three banners, or the heads of three Named from our rivals by the time the tournament starts.¡± Suddenly all the knowing smirks and mocking smiles were gone. Wiped away and replaced with shock and surprise.


    That wasn¡¯t a punishment, it was a death sentence. Names were the mid level leaders of a gang. They were like the nobles to the Bosses king. They got territories to control and rule over, and in return they sent a generous cut of their profits to the boss. They were all tough and cagey opponents themselves, and they never went anywhere alone. Taking a names head was a declaration of war, or a great victory during a war. The chaos of a power vacuum in a place as bloody and starved as the Cull could not be overstated.


    On the other hand, a gangs banner was the pride of the gang. When you started a gang you claimed a territory, and raised a banner. Losing one pretty much meant you¡¯d lost the other. To lose your banner was pretty much announcing to everyone that you didn¡¯t have the power to control your territory, and would begin a feeding frenzy. As every neighboring gang came running for their slice of the pie, and old enemies came looking to settle grudges. It was a death blow, one that was nearly impossible to recover from.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    As such, they were zealously guarded, and placed in the most defensible locations possible. Every single attempt at taking a banner had been a hard fought and bloody affair, and even then there had only been a handful of success over the years. ¡°If you cannot, then I will take your head myself. Am I clear?¡± If anything, the looks of pity Turk was getting were far more painful than the previous looks of mockery had been.


    ¡°I see you all feel I am being to harsh.¡± Cautious nods crossed the room. No one wanted to stick their neck out for Turk, but they were confused by the harshness of the punishment. ¡°I thought as much.¡± Their Boss muttered sadly, seeming disappointed in them. ¡°Think on this, all that keeps the hounds from our necks and the lions from our door is fear.¡± He gestured sharply at the stunned orc in question. ¡°Turk here, has caused us to lose that fear, and all of you will suffer for it before long.¡±


    Again, cautious nods made the rounds of the room. ¡°So he either needs to recover our lost fear, or be disposed of. I would do the same to any of you who had failed me as badly as he has.¡± The calm with which he spoke of disposing of them was chilling. They¡¯d thought their positions secure as Names. It would seem that was not the case. ¡°So, do not fail me. Dismissed.¡± He hadn¡¯t raised his voice at all during his little speech. He could have been discussing the price of wool and used much the same tone.


    The fourteen dangerous, scarred, and deadly figures shuffled quietly from the room. Cowed and unable to meet either their bosses or Turks eyes. He knew, they already considered him dead, and were simply trying to forget him a little early.


    If he could have gotten even two or three of them to help him then maybe, just maybe, he¡¯d be able to take three Named heads. But theirs was a cut throat world, and you didn¡¯t get far unless you were willing to stab the back you were just patting. Turk knew they¡¯d be angling to replace him with their most loyal subordinates, trying to gain more influence and territory from his misfortune. They would not help him. No one would help him.


    Rose went through her morning routine. Carefully contorting her body into a series of strangely taxing shapes, then starting her weapons routine. Yesterday she had used her club, so today she practiced her throwing knives. Tomorrow she¡¯d train with her combat knives, and the day after that she¡¯d try out the axes she¡¯d gotten from her newest enemy.


    The steady thunk of blades biting into the pillar she used as a target sounded out. A steady rhythm. *Thunk.* ¡°I¡¯m sure everything will be alright.¡± Rose was talking to herself, never a good sign. *Thunk.* ¡°They¡¯re probably just a no name gang of small timers¡± She said, ignoring for the moment the fact that when she had first met them, they had been attacking the notorious ¡°Sir¡± Fulters men. *Thunk.* ¡°And when Dogger gets his head out of his hole and contacts me.¡± *Thunk!* ¡°I¡¯ll hunt them down.¡± *Thunk!* ¡°Like the motherless sons of dogs I¡¯m sure they are!¡± *THUNK!!*


    ¡°Hey Roothe, Thpike thai-¡± *THUNK!!!* The strangers garbled words cut off sharply as the keen edge of one of Rose¡¯s knives flashed through the space his head had just been. Dogger stared at the quivering dagger as it thrummed angrily in the wall. He quickly decided Rose was one of those clients you didn¡¯t want to surprise. ¡°Finks Farncy, Roothe! Ith me! Dogger!¡± He waved frantically at her, hoping she was out of knives. ¡°Thpike Thaid you wanted to Thee me!¡±


    Rose relaxed slightly, and took a moment to translate his mangled words as she walked over to the scarred and chipped target pillar. Finks Fancy, Rose! It¡¯s me! Dogger! Spike said you wanted to see me! She started pulling her knives from it, and waved Dogger into her lair. ¡°Hey Dogger, sorry about the knife. I¡¯m a bit tense right now. You understand.¡± She was sure he did. Dogger had made more enemies over the years than Rose, and was significantly less equipped to handle them.


    The scrawny orc child warily entered the room, eyeing the gleaming steel in his unstable allies grasp. ¡°Yah, I gueth I do at that. Now, who ith the poor thon of a bith you wanna know about?¡± Someone who managed to get on Rose¡¯s bad side, and who she didn¡¯t immediately dismember. By Dogger¡¯s reckoning that was someone dangerous.


    Rose started tucking away her knives, making sure they sat correctly in their sheathes. Wouldn¡¯t want a blade to slip out at the wrong moment, or not slip out at the right one. After a moment to decipher his question she responded. ¡°I don¡¯t actually know the guys name. He¡¯s an orc, bigger one too. He wore a purple band, and those were his axes.¡± She gestured vaguely, providing her investigator with a rough height, and directing his eyes to her newest trophies.


    When he spotted the gleaming axes hanging from the wall, Doggers eyes widened until Rose was afraid they¡¯d roll out of their sockets completely. ¡°Thoth are Turkth axeth! You beat Turk?!¡± He seemed more excited than anything else, scampering over to examine the axes more closely. They were nearly the same size and weight as he was, and he¡¯d heard terrible and awesome things about the carnage their previous owner could wreak in a brawl with them.


    Then the import of what he¡¯d just said crashed into him, and he froze. Slowly turning to gape at Rose. ¡°You. Beat Turk?¡± He asked again quietly. ¡°Turk, one of the Nameth of Thavage Thams gang?¡± He started breaking out in a cold sweat. Rose wasn¡¯t really liking the way he¡¯d said ¡®Thavage Tham¡¯, and not just because she couldn¡¯t understand him. The fear, terror really, that had been loaded into those words made her heart sink.


    She nodded. ¡°Yeah. If Turk was the orc who owned those axes then I beat Turk.¡± Dogger just stared at her, and she nearly grabbed him and started shaking. ¡°So!? Who is Turk?! Who is Thavage Tham?!¡± She very nearly screamed at him. He was freaking her out!


    Shaking himself out of his funk Dogger gave Rose a look of pity. Which was the absolute last thing she wanted or needed right now. She barely managed to restrain herself from simply throwing him out the window. ¡°Not Thavage Tham, Thavage Tham!¡± Dogger began, unhelpfully. ¡°The Both of the Duganth Doggerth Gang!¡± He was nearly babbling now, his garbled speech becoming practically incomprehensible. ¡°Heth a monthter! I heard the latht perthon who pithed him off, he thkun alive in the middle of the threet!¡± All this wasn¡¯t really helping Rose have a good day, because if she was as fluent in Doggerish as she thought she was. Then she had just been told that a man who skins people alive in public was probably very displeased with her right now.


    Wonderful. Well, this wasn¡¯t how she¡¯d been hoping this conversation would go. ¡°Ok. Ohhhhkay, okay, okay, okay.¡± She took a moment to have a quiet freak out. Then slapped her cheeks and got her head back in the game. If they thought she was just going to give up because her enemy had a scary reputation, then they didn¡¯t know Rose! ¡°Who are his enemies? What¡¯s his territory? How large is his gang? Where does he eat, sleep, and shit?¡± Dogger just stared at her again.


    ¡°What? No, Roothe. You need to run! Get out of Ramthom! Get out of Dover! Get away!¡± He was back to babbling again. *Smack!* Rose slapped him, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary, but he really needed to calm down. While Dogger was nursing his cheek with a surprised expression Rose took a long deep breath, then another. And another.


    ¡°Dogger.¡± She growled out, her teeth clenched in a fierce rictus. ¡°I am not running away. I don¡¯t care how scary Tham might be. He is in my way, and I will see him destroyed.¡± Her every word rumbled with barely held rage. ¡°But I can¡¯t take a whole gang on my own. I need your help. Now, I need to know every single detail about these, what? Dugans Daggers? Yeah?¡± Dogger nodded absently, his mind still scrambled from his fear and surprise.


    ¡°I need to know their friends, their enemies, their numbers, their holdings, and their strengths as well as their weaknesses.¡± Dogger was starting to get a light back in his eyes. He was already trawling his memory for every scrap of info he¡¯d ever heard about one of the bloodiest, most violent gangs in the Cull.


    ¡°And once I know them, entirely and completely, I will start tearing them apart. Piece. By. Piece.¡± She was nearly snarling by the end there, and, by all the gods, Dogger actually believed her. She seriously intended to bring down an entire gang? Single handedly? A toothy smile cut across his face. Well now, that sounded interesting.


    They spent the day talking, plotting, planning, and scheming. Long shots were raised and wild plans were hatched, but one after another they were shot down or torn apart by cruel logic. But, somehow, by the end of the day they had managed to fashion together a makeshift, ugly, patchwork of a plan. It wasn¡¯t beautiful, but it would work. Or so she hoped, because Rose knew she wasn¡¯t going to be able to do this alone. But she didn¡¯t need allies. She had something much more predictable and dangerous available. The enemies of her enemy.

 Ch. 6 Gossips and murderers

    Berns was hungover. His head heavy, and eyes grainy from half remembered drinks the night before. Who¡¯s the genius what wants every man on the streets at break o¡¯ dawn anyway? He thought. He¡¯d stabbed a journeyman carpenter on his way home two nights ago. The sodding idiot thought that just because he had big arms and a hammer he could wander through the Cull, no worries. Berns had made sure he¡¯d never learn better with a quick bit of knifework, and the purse he¡¯d gotten from the cooling body had been buying him and his mates beer ever since. But now Vult, his boss in the Dunalds Daggers gang, was suddenly riding them harder than ever! He¡¯d kicked them from the Slit Purse, Berns tavern of choice, and had them wandering the city in their colors, looking for some tall blue bitch.


    Well, fuck that. Burn the River if he was gonna be wandering around the muggy humid streets all day with a hangover. Berns and his mates had tucked themselves in a narrow, shaded, semi-dry alley far from where the rest of their gang was searching. They¡¯d have a bit of a snooze, wake up, and say they didn¡¯t see nothing. It was a good plan, they¡¯d all agreed.


    ¡°Oi, Berns. What you fink a cloud is?¡± Asked Todger, possibly the dumbest and most talkative person Berns had ever met. Berns didn¡¯t respond. Todger would just keep talking regardless, but if you engaged him it¡¯d never end. ¡°I fink, they¡¯re wha happens when ghosts smack inna one annuver.¡± Sure enough, he didn¡¯t let the threatening silence of half a dozen hungover throat slitters dissuade him from chattering. ¡°Cause, see, what wif all the poor sods we gone and killed. I reckon there mus be a couple hanging about every corner, righ?¡± Now, that was a nasty thought. Imagine that carpenter, staring down at him right now. He¡¯d be begging Fraut and Du to strike Berns down. He shifted uncomfortably, imagining the angry but invisible eyes glaring at him.


    ¡°And dey¡¯ve gorra smack inna one annuver from time to time, righ? Because, dey indivisible and all tha.¡± Right, ghosts was indivisible, or something like that, everyone knew that. ¡°So dey walk inna one annuver, see, and they clump togevver. And they stick togevva, and then more ghosts walk inna that, until it makes a big pile of stuck together ghosts, righ?¡± Great, now he was imagining a pile of glaring ghosts, all wishing Finks to take his luck, and Du take his head. ¡°An they all tryin ta get to the River, righ? An priest Gellick says the River in da sky, righ? So after a bit, right, they go looking for da River, and dats what clouds is.¡±


    Berns eye¡¯d the cloudy sky suspiciously. Now he was starting to get worried. He might still be a bit drunk, but damn if Todger wasn¡¯t making some real sense for once. ¡°Todger, you stupid addlewit sheep stain, that¡¯s the dumbest thing I ever heard!¡± Barked Yunnok. It would seem he disagreed. Then again, the orc was a heavy drinker, and an angry drunk. So he was pretty much always angry. ¡°If clouds be ghosts, then what be rain? Ghost piss?¡± Another worrying thought, Berns was really starting to gain a dislike for clouds.


    ¡°Migh be, migh be. Or tears maybe, priest Gellick says-¡± Todger started his next round of rambling, but cut off abruptly. That¡¯s not right. Berns thought, he¡¯d seen Todger try to keep talking with his head under sewage. He never shut up without a fuss. Raising his heavy head, and shambling to unsteady legs Berns looked towards his boys. Just in time to see the light leave Yunnoks eyes, a long bloody dagger punching through his throat and another through his chest. Behind his dead friend stood a monster. Blood stained leathers and red soaked furs draped over the shoulders of a towering figure. With the sun at it¡¯s back all Berns could see of it was its light blue skin, and the collection of swirling designs made of blood on its arms. With a contemptuous twitch of its wrists Yunnok slid from it¡¯s blades, and thudded to the grimy stones of the alley floor. I wonder if he¡¯s part of the clouds now was Berns¡¯ thought, and it¡¯d be his last.


    Rose was exhausted. She¡¯d expected the Dugans Daggers Gang to send some people after her, but it seemed like the entire fucking gang was hounding her! She¡¯d barely made it fifteen minutes from her home before running into the first band. A dozen twitchy dwarves with sharp knives had jumped her in an alley. Rose had left two knives, three corpses, and five blinded dwarves behind before she managed to break out of their ambush and run further into the city. Where she ran into another band, and another, and another!


    I guess I¡¯m lucky they seem to want to take me alive. She thought. And that they completely suck at making traps. A small smirk curved her lips as she remembered the poor attempts at traps they¡¯d thrown at her in between attacks. They had tried netting her, but the net had been too small. Then there was that shabby wooden cage that they had dropped on her, only to have her kick through the weak rotted wooden bars. Then the half dug pit trap she¡¯d jumped out of, the expired poison darts she¡¯d shrugged off, and the drugged beer. Why that idiot thought Rose would drink something handed to her by a stranger on the street was beyond her. But she¡¯d kicked his teeth in and poured the swill down his throat.


    So far she¡¯d been lucky, but she still was in rough shape. Cuts and bruises covered her tired arms. Her left leg had been savaged by a giant rat she¡¯d accidently jumped onto when trying to flee one fight. And her right shoulder had been dislocated when she¡¯d fallen from a roof. She had been lucky, again, and used a passing enemy gang member as a landing pad. Otherwise she might have broken her neck. Note to self: the roofs of the Cull are a mess, and should not be used as a road. The cracked, loose, or slippery slate tiles that made up most of the roofs in the Cull were as treacherous and untrustworthy as the majority of their residents. She¡¯d popped her arm back into its socket using half remembered lessons from Violet, and an obliging wall. But it still ached, and made using her right arm a pain.


    Honestly, Rose hated how luck was the only thing keeping her alive and free, but it¡¯s not wise to ignore the blessings of Finks. She was the most capricious of the gods, and if you spurned her gifts she¡¯d be more than happy to take them back. So Rose murmured a quick prayer of thanks to her, and set off once again. She had things to do, and she wasn¡¯t going to let one little manhunt get in her way!


    While Rose fought, fled, and bled her way through the city, Dogger sprinted unhindered. His path through the urchin roads unknown or inaccessible to most the adults in the city, besides the gnomes and dwarves of course. But then, they¡¯d been the ones who dug those tiny underground paths when their peoples had first moved into the city and were still getting their feet under them. Now they had a whole section of the sewers and underground as their territory, and their old escape and transport tunnels had been left to rot. Until one lucky urchin had stumbled across them while fleeing something or someone. That legendary child of all those years past had shared the secret among their community, and when an urchin grew too large to fit in the tunnels they swore a solemn oath of secrecy. Keeping this secret above all others, so as to prevent the grown ups from destroying or tainting this holy land of the poorest in the city.


    Dogger moved swiftly through the tunnels. Sharing nods or passing greetings to friendly urchin bosses, and glaring daggers and hurling insults at his enemies. But there was no fighting in the urchin roads. That ancient law had been tested over the years, but never broken. No one was willing to potentially lose access to the lifesaving paths. So all conflicts were reduced to cursing and glaring.


    He had much to do, his part of the plan was without a doubt the single most important piece, and also far less dangerous. He simply had to spread some rumors. As he moved, Dogger was sure to stop briefly and chat with an eclectic handful of urchins. Occasionally popping out of the urchin roads and gabbing with street vendors, or tavern maids. He spoke to store clerks, out for lunch. And to old Gammy Sybil, the ancient lady who lived in the abandoned well outside the market. These people were all very different from one another, and for the most part had never met one another. But they all had something in common. They were the most reckless, the most voracious, the loudest and most listened to gossips in all the Cull. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Every conversation started with Dogger leaning in conspiratorially, and whispering ¡°Can you keep a thecret?¡± To which they all swore their absolute and utter silence immediately. In other words they all lied, and within minutes of their promise being made, it was broken. The rumors spread, and changed. Growing larger and more wild with every retelling. Men and women making the details more vivid, more interesting, and more bizarre as rapt audiences and free drinks boosted their egos and lowered their standards.


    Within the hour, the whole Cull was buzzing like a kicked nest of hornets. And as in any such a case, someone was going to get stung. The only question that remained, was who.


    ¡°My Lord, I¡¯m afraid your request to meet with Duke Ramsom has been denied. Would you like me to send another request? The silver haired butler asked, not a shred of disdain or amusement in his voice. But Florian heard it all the same, and it soured his gut that he couldn¡¯t beat the man to a bloody whimpering pulp for it.


    Florian Teller was a Count, a noble of the kingdom of Dover. To the residents of the Cull his manor would seem palatial, his food heavenly, and his clothes luxurious. But to him, they were far below what he deserved. Florian detested the city of Ramsom. The seedy capital of the smallest, weakest duchy in all of Dover wasn¡¯t any place for a man of his breeding.


    He dreamt of the Capital, Dover. Of the balls, and parties. Of the races and bloody fights in the Grand Coliseum. Of the feasts and finery one could find near every night. But mostly, he dreamed of the women. Soft hands and snowy skin, perfumed silken hair and rich delicate dresses. Florian had always had a weakness for women, and it was why he found himself in this disgusting, dirty, sheep stinking city.


    Everything had been going wonderfully. He¡¯d been engaged to a quiet young thing, too timid to bother him when he didn¡¯t share her bed. His father was a powerful councilor in the King''s Cabinet, and his mother was the head of a wealthy merchant company. He could have anything, or anyone, he wanted. With little fuss.


    Remembering the events that led him to this detestable hole soured his expression further. Causing him to glare openly at the impassive butler. Such an open expression of emotion was a disgusting breach of etiquette for a Noble such as himself, but he couldn¡¯t help himself when it came to this man. A former adventurer, Sebastian had been sent by his father to babysit Florian. Make certain he didn¡¯t further taint their families reputation. He was his jailor, and how Florian hated him for it. It wasn¡¯t enough, exiling me to this backwater? He really had to send a watchdog to keep me from my, Entertainment?! Oh how he resented it! He was a Teller! He deserved whatever he wanted! And anyone who got in his way was simply to be toyed with until they broke, and then thrown in the trash where they belonged! He would not be treated like he was inconsequential! Who did they think they were!!!


    He very nearly struck out at the old man, but sanity gripped his fevered mind. Reminding him of what had happened last time. Of the weeks spent healing from the broken bones. Of the pain, and he managed to simply bite out his response instead. ¡°Yes, Sebastian. Send another request.¡± He examined himself in the full length mirror in his inferior bedroom. Eyeing his perfectly arranged wavy black hair. His warm and kind green eyes. His exquisitely cut suit, and his perfectly tied cravat. He was dressed to impress, now all he needed was to be allowed into the audience of those he needed to impress.


    A few day pressing palms and sharing stories and drinks, and he was certain he¡¯d manage to acquire better lodgings. If he was going to stay here, then he demanded he be given the very best! This paltry manor only had one kitchen for crying out loud! And the closest thing to a dungeon was the wine cellar, which was filled with subpar wines, he might add. No, this simply wasn¡¯t acceptable. Besides, this errand would give him some much needed time alone.


    ¡°And, Sebastian, deliver it yourself this time. It¡¯s no wonder that dullard of a footman you hired keeps being turned away. I sincerely doubt he even puts his own boots on in the morning.¡± There, that ought to give him some time from his ¡®guardian¡¯ enough time to meet with an old ally.


    Sebastian bowed, not a hair too low nor a hair too high. ¡°Certainly, my Lord. Though I might point out, you don¡¯t put on your own boots either.¡± And he was gone, vanishing like a ghost. Something Florian desperately wanted him to become. He hadn¡¯t even given the young lordling time to rebut his statement. Of course I don¡¯t put my own boots on! I¡¯m not a menial! Ah, but time was ticking, and he didn¡¯t want to waste it screaming about an old man who had already left.


    He headed down to the parlour. Sending Kirk, his personal, and very loyal, bodyguard to receive his guest from the back entrance. The stout man returned shortly, escorting a small cloaked figure. Sitting in the best chair, Florian gestured curtly to his guest. ¡°Take a seat, we haven¡¯t much time before the old man returns. Best we make this a quick meeting¡± The cloaked figure moved to his seat. Moving with a cold grace and precision as they took their seat. Kirk settling in directly behind the visitor with his hand on his sword hilt, just in case. Then the figure removed their hood, showing their pale bald scalp, and almost emaciated face. Savage Sam himself had come to visit.


    ¡°Hello, Florian. Agreed, let¡¯s make this quick. I don¡¯t wish to tangle with Warbellow, and I must get back to my gang soon. They¡¯ve been disappointing me all day, and I am keen to find out why.¡± A cold smile slid across his face as he contemplated how exactly he¡¯d ¡®improve morale¡¯.


    Florian lazily waved off his fear of the old butler. ¡°The old man¡¯s a has-been. I doubt he could even lift a warhammer nowadays. But he reports directly to my father, and I don¡¯t want to do anything to piss my old man off further.¡± He spoke with confidence, happily ignoring the savage beating that ¡®has-been¡¯ had given him on his father¡¯s orders.


    Savage Sam seemed unfazed by the younger man¡¯s confidence. ¡°Is that so. Well, regardless. You wanted to meet me for some reason.¡± He spread his spidery hands. ¡°What can I do for the young lord Teller?¡±


    Florian leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with passion. ¡°I¡¯m sure you remember some of our dealings, back when you were in the capital.¡± The former priest of Dugan had proved quite morally flexible at the time. Which was why he was a former priest. ¡°I need some, entertainment, while I¡¯m in town.¡± He leaned back in his chair again, eyes gazing at memories. ¡°Female, obviously. Exotic, if you can get that around here. And disposable. I¡¯m in enough trouble as it is. No point in making it any worse.¡± He leered happily as a particularly juicy memory spun through his dark mind.


    Sam had sat still and silent, his head slightly cocked as the young lordling ran through his desires. ¡°I¡¯m sure I can find something for you. But, what about payment? You¡¯re a long way from your daddy¡¯s coffers.¡± Now it was his turn to lean forward, his face impassive, but his eye blazing with hunger. ¡°Can you pay my fee?¡±


    Florian scoffed. ¡°I may be in exile, but I¡¯m not without my means. Name your price.¡± He smirked confidently.


    That same cold smile dragged Savage Sams skin tight across his face. ¡°3,000. Gold, or comparable.¡± And the confidence and bravado slid off Florians face like raw egg off a wall. Being replaced by anger and outrage. Kirks grip on his sword tightened as he unsheathed the first inch of his blade in preparation.


    ¡°3,000 gold! Have you gone truly insane!¡± Florian sputtered, his face flushing with rage. He missed seeing the twitch in Savage Sam¡¯s right eye when he said ¡®insane¡¯. Perhaps he¡¯d have rethought this whole deal if he had. ¡°I won¡¯t pay more than 1,000! In silver at that!¡± But he hadn¡¯t, and so the two very different men set about their dickering. Kirk slowly relaxing as they continued.


    They were running on borrowed time, so they negotiated quickly, and the price was eventually set at 1,000 gold for decent goods, 2,000 for high class goods, and 3,000 for absolutely unique goods. They shook, Sam¡¯s sinewy chicken claws of fingers clutching the soft smooth palm of the lordling as they made their deal. Then he was swiftly escorted out of the manor, so as not to have a run in with the legendary Sebastian Warbellow.


    Savage Sam headed back to the Cull, already picking the targets he would be sending his men after. Then a thought slid through his twisted mind. That one who beat Turk. They said she was pretty unique. Might be good enough for the 3,000 at that. His smile widened into a rictus as he thought of what he could do with all that money, and his plans regarding his prey shifted slightly. Now all he had to do, was catch her.