“Damn it!” Caesar screamed, slamming his meaty paw into the side of the tavern. Droplets of sweat and rain streamed down his enraged brow as his eyes scoured the city before him. He couldn’t have gotten far.

“We lost ‘im,” his portly minion declared through labored breaths as he joined his two brothers in jogging to Caesar’s side. “Think he bolted ‘round back. Want us to keep looking?”

Each defined nub of Caesar’s knuckles whitened as his fist tightened against the wall. “No,” he growled, spinning around to face his troops. “Get back to port. Signal the captain. I’ll find the bastard.”

“What do we tell the captain?”

“Tell him I’ll take care of it.”

“Aye!” the group saluted before making off down the city streets.

Caesar knelt to the ground; his sights set on the muddy tracks before him. He placed his hands atop the raised ridges of the tracks, his fingers studying the various marks. A small pile of red goo, thinning from the pouring rain caught his attention.

“So, it hit," Caesar chuckled to himself, resting his wrists on the brass plated pair of flints tucked neatly in his belt. “He can’t be far.”