It took me over almost an hour to find the Grey warehouse. The entire walk I kept thinking about what I would do if I could never get home. I would never get to play the new games coming out next year. Though, after this gaming experience I might need to take a break and just read for a bit instead.

I forced myself to stop thinking about the real world as I finally found what I thought was the right place. A faded sign said ‘The Saltworks’ and a burly thug was standing by one door smoking. If I was right, he wasn’t just a worker, but a guard working for the Greys.

I walked up to him. There was no reason to not go in diplomatically. I was here to get info about one of their members that got killed. They would want the killer found just as much as I did. That said, I reminded myself not to let my guard down. Even if they did not have a specific reason to attack me, they were clearly dangerous people.

I walked up to the smoking guard. I hesitated, not sure what to say, and the guard turned to me.

“You lost, mate?” He asked, his voice gruff, but not antagonistic.

“I don’t think so,” I said, deciding to just go with the direct route. I wasn't great at coming up with subterfuge on the spot. “I am here to see a representative of the Greys. If I could see someone that could answer a few questions, that would be great.”

“Oh, aye?” he asked curiously. “And who might you be?”

“Inquisitor George Silver at your service,” I replied. “I am here investigating the decoction murders.”

“Huh,” he said and took a long drag from his hand rolled cigarette before throwing it into the gutter. “Better follow me then,” he said, then turned to the alleyway a few feet away. “Kid,” he shouted. “Watch the door for a bit.”

A young boy appeared from the end of the alley. I would have sworn he was not there earlier. The boy nodded to the guard and pulled a box out of the alley to sit on.

“Follow me,” the guard repeated and led me into the building.

I followed the burly man warily. I didn’t really trust the Greys, they were a gang after all, but it is not like I was here to harm them. I just wanted to bring a murder that killed one of their men to justice. That put us on the same side, didn’t it? As well as things were going, I couldn't help but feel apprehensive.

My guide led me through the old salt warehouse. It appeared that the warehouse no longer shipped salt in, given the general state of disuses, but there were still old hoppers bolted to the wall. I guessed that they used to ship salt up river and store it here for sale in the city.

As I looked around I saw a number of other gang members performing various tasks. Some were putting away suspicious packages while another group played cards. The Greys certainly had numbers, even if they did not seem particularly disciplined.

We finally came to an office set into the back wall of the warehouse. My guide motioned me to wait, and poked his head into the open door.

“What’cha want Rich?” A hoarse voice asked.

“Church man here to see you boss,” my guide, Rich, replied. There came a grunt from inside, which apparently meant something, because Rich gestured me into the office. I complied, stepping into the cramped room.

The small space was filled by a desk, a cabinet, and two men. The one that leaned against the wall was clearly a bodyguard. He was strongly built and had a one handed warhammer on his belt. I could imagine that spiked head inflicting a lot of damage. I shuddered lightly at the thought. The man that sat on the desk was thin, almost to the point where I was worried he had some sort of wasting disease. The impression was only strengthened when the man talked.

“And what brings a man of the cloth to my humble place of business,” the man asked in a calm but very hoarse voice. His accent was more refined than that of the other Grey member I had talked to. Not that I could actually tell the accents and dialects apart or what they meant about the speaker. If I was really trapped here, I would have to figure that out at some point. Knowing the origins of someone from just their words would be a great skill to have.

I spoke up, knowing I had let the silence lapse for too long. “Inquisitor George Silver at your service, I am investigating the decoction murders. I am sorry to tell you that your associate Mr. Slinger was killed today.”

The man’s face darkened. “I am sorry you’ve wasted your time. Slinger left my organization over a week ago. His business is none of my concern.” The man turned his attention back to Rich. “Please escort the Inquisitor out.”

“Now hold on,” I said, frustrated by the casual dismissal. “You could at least answer a few questions. I won’t take up much of your time.”

“My organization has no interest in these affairs. Please leave.”

“What affairs?” I asked, sensing there was more here. “What was Slinger into?”

“We are done here,” the man said and glanced over my shoulder. That was all the warning I got. A searing pain racked my body as something punched right through my chainmail and into my kidney. I threw myself to the side and felt another flare of pain as the object was ripped back out.

Rich stood there with a stiletto covered in blood. My blood. “You should ‘ave just left peaceful like. Bad luck to kill a priest.”

Despite his words, Rich inched forward with his dagger raised. The other two men watched the exchange dispassionately. The only sign of concern either of them showed was the bodyguard's hand resting on his hammer.

I unhooked my buckler from my scabbard just in time to block Rich’s next thrust. In pain and filled with panic, I bashed Rich repeatedly in the head and chest with punches from the buckler. He managed to open a sizable cut in my arm for my trouble, but I successfully pushed him back across the small room. As he stumbled from my assault I managed to draw my shortsword.

Rich, realizing I was more of a threat than he first thought, became more defensive. He lowered into a proper stance and proceeded cautiously. I used that caution to my advantage. I slashed at him, but didn’t fully commit to the attack. Instead, as he dodged back, I shoulder checked the door to the room. The office was just a room slapped into a warehouse for a space with a desk. It was never designed for structural integrity. The flimsy door burst open with a shower of splinters.

I rushed out of the room, knowing that escape was my only hope of survival. Expecting a knife in the back any second, I rushed for where I thought the exit was. Unfortunately, my path was immediately blocked by another gang member. Apparently the card players had heard our scuffle and decided to help.

I slashed at the first one wildly. My attacks were hardly skillful or beautiful, but I was fast and strong. In moments the man sported three long deep cuts despite his attempts to block. I was winning, but I could not afford to waste time. The man was bleeding heavily from the cut on his leg and he looked pale. Taking my chances, I bull rushed past the man, knocking him to the ground. I needed to get away before his friends could arrive to help.

In my rush for the door, I failed to notice the cudgel swinging from behind a salt hopper before it was too late. The sturdly length of wood smashed into my lower face, pulping my nose and shattering teeth.

I lay on the floor, in agony and unable to see clearly through the tears. One more source of pain blossomed in my chest before everything, blessedly, stopped.