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.

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.