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.

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.