“One, two, three,” a young man counted footsteps under his breath. He was leaned against the wall of an alley striking out from one of the busier roads in Glada Eyburg. Merchants shouted, customers hemmed and hawed, and another man, whose steps were being carefully listened to, charted a course that would take him just past the mouth of a certain alleyway.

This was his normal route, which every day he would take on his way to the docks where he worked. It was hard work, and the pay wasn’t great, but he enjoyed it and had been making a living doing it for nearly a year now. He was hoping one day he could wind up promoted to dock manager, and such thoughts did his mind entertain as he began to stride past the mouth, noticing a man in tight grey pants, a black sleeveless shirt, and a long, dark green scarf. The oddly dressed man, mumbling something under his breath, was only in the worker’s mind for an instant before he continued on his way. Well, he would if it were a normal day, but today wasn’t a normal day.

The man with the scarf, Rolf, grabbed the worker from behind and in one quick motion spun him around and into the alley, a muffled yelp barely escaped through a tight hand covering his mouth. He then found himself landing on the cobbles, a puff of dust being kicked up by the force. Panicked, he tried to sit up, look around, get his bearings, and teach whoever it was who’d grabbed him not to mess with a tough man from the docks. He managed to push himself off the ground and whip his head around, eyes taking in his surroundings.

He was only a couple feet from the main street, but he was on the ground behind a pile of barrels and other discarded junk that cleverly hid him from passerby’s sights. Then he saw the dagger.

“Money, now. And be quick about it.” A lightly accented voice said. In a corner of his mind, the worker recognized it as how the slum folk spoke, quickly and recognizable by the dropping of “t”s. The rest of his mind was angry. Taking a closer look, he wasn’t even fully grown, only a year past adulthood if he had to take a guess. He might have a dagger, but he was still a young idiot.

The worker kicked at Rolf’s legs, which he deftly avoided by hopping backwards. Having bought himself some time, he stood up. He was a tall man, however he stood only a few inches taller than Rolf, though much more muscled from the dock work. The knife came stabbing towards him, swift and straight, aiming for his shoulder. Having been in a few scuffles, he knocked the strike aside, and the thief stumbled forward. This slightly confused the worker, as his footing seemed solid, but he didn’t think about it for very long as their bodies crashed together.

Knocked back, the man hit the wall, and the would-be thief leaned his weight on the larger man’s torso before rolling off his body to his right, onto the wall, before quickly pushing off and dashing down the alley, leaving the worker shouting after him.

He ran for a few minutes, zig-zagging through side streets and shortcuts, making sure he couldn’t be chased. After he felt safe, he looked at his ill-gotten gains, a small leather pouch he’d cut off the man’s belt as he rolled off him. A wide grin, favouring the right side of his mouth, grew as he felt the weight of the bag. It wasn’t too heavy, the man was only a dock worker, but it was enough for Rolf to get by on for the rest of the day at least.

He lightly tossed and snatched it out of the air, affixing it to a rope tied around his waist. Whistling a carefree tune, he walked on into the slums.

His path took him through alleys for a bit longer, then spit him out onto side streets, which lead to avenues, then larger roads. On the outskirts the people either glared or ignored him, but as he went deeper a few people would nod his way, or give a small wave, or even a smile if they were in a good mood. He responded in exact the same way. To the glares, he glared back, to the waves, he waved, and to the smiles, he’d show a grin.

As he walked, he considered what to do for the rest of the day. His “work” was done till tomorrow, but he still needed to figure out where to get some food, any other miscellaneous tasks, and generally what to spend his time on for the rest of the day.

After walking aimlessly for a few more minutes, his pace keeping his mind active as well as his body, he decided to visit the Rat’s Tail, a small pub run by a friend of his. Although friend was used loosely here, as they were in a relationship more akin to “not hating” rather than “liking” each other, but the jabs they threw back and forth would be free entertainment while he ate.

His decision made, he took the next turn into a sidestreet, starting to head over in that direction. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t noticed the people following him, who were waiting for a moment like exactly this. His scarf, which had danced in the air as he sharply turned for the alley, was choked by a thick hand that yanked it towards its owner, pulling Rolf by the neck along with it and causing him to choke out a startled yelp.

Surprised and unbalanced, he couldn’t slip away from the meaty arms that wrapped around him and tossed him to the ground further into the alley where he landed on his back, wind knocked out of him. He tried desperately to breathe, but for a few seconds no air could reach his lungs, and so he merely writhed there for one, two, three seconds. By the time he took in a gulp of air, he noticed that three men had surrounded him, two behind and one in front. The two behind were big, but only about as muscled as the dockman he’d mugged earlier. The last, however, was a step larger. A stout man, with thick arms and legs, and no neck to speak of, which made him look closer to a walking square of meat than a person. His face was dominated by two large eyebrows, small eyes almost lost in the hair, which were turned down. He was not very happy at the moment.

“Rolf,” he said in a deep voice, then stopped as the man he’d just named waved a hand at him from the ground, asking to give him a moment as he rolled onto his stomach then up onto hands and knees, facing away from the stocky man. The slab scowled, looking at the other two men and spinning his finger in the air. They promptly picked Rolf up by the arms, spun him, then pushed him back towards their boss. “I think you know why I’m here.” he rumbled.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Rolf replied, coughing a bit and brushing dirt off his chest.

“For some reason, I don’t think that’s true,” and with another gesture to his men, one grabbed him from behind and the other circled around to punch him in the gut, robbing him of his only recently reacquired breath. “You owe Bug, and he’s tired of waiting.” the boss said.

“I’d love to pay ya’, Ronnie,” he choked, “But I don’t have any money.”

Ronnie, or Ronald as he preferred, was skeptical. Beady eyes looked Rolf up and down, and spotted the pouch tied to his belt. He was quite familiar with his work and so recognized the weight of coins inside. Rolf noticed where his eyes had stopped and said “Well, technically speaking, that’s not mine.”

Ronald pulled a small blade out of his coat pocket, making Rolf blanch, but used it only to cut the bag off. He counted the coins inside as Rolf stared at the ground. He should have hidden it at least a little better than that, he admonished himself.

“This ain’t enough,” Ronald interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll be back in a week. Have the rest by then or it’s your legs.” he turned and started stomping off, back the way he came.

“A week? C’mon Ronnie, you’ve gotta give me more time than that!” he begged.

“No, I don’t.” he grunted, shoving a thumb at the side of the alley and not even bothering to look back.

The men tossed Rolf bodily into the wall, then sauntered off after their boss.

Rolf, who managed to stay on his feet after hitting the wall, slid down it and sat there, a dark look in his eyes. Looks like he’d have to go dumpster diving for food today, but the thought of it brought a sick taste to his mouth. He spat to the side, trying to be rid of the flavour. He’d rather go without.

Lifting himself to his feet with help from the wall, he stumbled back to his home. He’d started squatting in a building recently, having found a good spot to act as a base. The house had partially collapsed, but the way it had fallen had left the attic leaning on the side of the building next to it. Everything was on an angle inside, but he’d worked around that with piles of boxes or other junk to create flat surfaces where he needed them, and just dealt with the slant everywhere else. It was sparse, but it was home.

He had a bit of trouble climbing in, as he had to scale the building it was leaning on and climb through the window, which he really wasn’t feeling up to. But once in he’d be safe, and he’d have time to think about where to go from here. He let himself fall into the building instead of carefully climbing through the opened window, and once he was down he found it hard to want to get back up. But he was hurt, and bleeding from his side where he’d accidentally cut himself on a piece of sharp metal on the way up, so he stood and shuffled over to his bed.

It was made of straw, covered in an old and tattered sheet, and with a dirty feather pillow he’d managed to find behind a pawn shop. It was mostly empty of feathers at this point, but that’s not the point. It was perhaps the only item of somewhat luxury he had. In one of the small wooden crates he’d piled under the bed to make it flat, there was a simple grey box. He pulled it out and opened it, revealing scavenged strips of cloth, a waterskin, and a needle and thread.

Grabbing the waterskin and a few of the cloth strips, he looked at the cut on his side. He wouldn’t need the needle and thread this time. Feeling thirsty, he took a drink, then splashed some more on the cut, making sure it was clean. Wrapping a couple of his homemade bandages around his body he pulled them tight and tied them off, then put the waterskin back in the box and pushed it under the bed again.

Stomach rumbling as he crawled onto the rough, uncomfortable mattress, he began to plan. “Guess I’ll have to stake out the gates and go for a merchant tomorrow,” he mumbled, resignation settling in his chest. He hoped he could pull it off.