There were few smells above ground that Skrakch could tolerate. One of them was a good tankard of mead or whiskey. The other was a hearty meal. If he was going to lay low for the next while, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do so without the memory of a good supper to see him through the grim fare of the sewers.

Picking his way past the occasional drunk or carousing market seller, he made his way through the filthy streets. Occasionally he nodded at someone he recognized and made sure to give the bumpkins who stared at him a good glare. Despite their lot in life, they apparently thought themselves superior to an Iskrin.

He supposed he had to be fair though. The sight of an Iskrin in The Slums was a rare one. The sight of an Iskrin as good-looking as he was? Unheard of. Most of his kind lived in the bowels of the city, far below in The Depths. The few that made it above ground weren’t exactly the sort to be at the pub and walking around on their own.

As old of a Ratling as Skrakch was, it had been a while since he’d seen any others of his kind beyond the occasional feral Grey. He counted himself lucky on that front. He knew that any of the Albino Iskrin he encountered would definitely take issue with his independence.

Still, it was with growing annoyance that Skrakch made his way through the crowded streets. The Slums was the part of Dray’Mel that never slept. Once the workers and families had gone to bed, the streets came alive with the folk of the night. Drunks, burglars, and, of course, the call girls. No doubt most of those poor painted women had had the terrible luck of spending the evening with Zach. Desperation was a hell of a thing.

Skrakch was relieved when he caught sight of his destination. It felt like a shining beacon amongst the filth. As always, he was grateful that his good friend stayed open late enough to capitalize on the insatiable hunger of the drunken louts.

The small food cart was quaint, sandwiched in the alley between a blacksmith’s and a bookstore. As the Ratling pushed aside the hanging veils that led to the cart he was treated to an explosion of delicious smells that easily made up for the stench of The Slums.

Sighing in contentment, Skrakch approached the cart and tossed a gold coin onto the wooden countertop that had been erected in front of it. Luckily, he’d timed his exit from the pub just right. It was the golden hour, just before the taverns started throwing its patrons out for the night and late enough that any decent creature wanting a good meal had retired to its bed. Golden hour was Skrakch’s favorite time to frequent the cart. Not only would he be able to avoid having to make small talk with some overly friendly stranger or drunken idiot, but he could also have a good meal. The quieter that place was, the more likely it would be that he’d be able to grab a snippet or two of important information.

Hopping onto a stool, he watched as the giant hippo-like creature stirred a massive pan of vegetables and meat, the food emitting a delectable fragrance of spices that made Skrakch’s stomach growl. Despite his hulking form and constantly grump expression, Kuosh had a dainty hand when it came to cookery.

The Giff moved around the small area fluidly, his fingers, as thick as the rest of him, deftly sprinkling seasonings onto delicious dishes. His huge head turned and, the moment he saw Skrakch, a massive grin split his grey leathery face, and revealed a powerful pair of molar teeth.

“My favorite customer!” He greeted Skrakch warmly. “Excellent timing as always my furry friend!” He continued, his soft tone completely at odds with his intimidating form. “I have just started a fine soup, a special recipe from my country. Very spicy but also a delicate flavor,” The Giff’s chest heaved as he chuckled, his potbelly jiggling with mirth from underneath the white apron which was heavily stained with a full day’s work.

“You know how I like my food, Kuosh. Double the spices and you’ve got a sale!” Skrakch replied with a smile of his own. “How’s business been? Any locals giving you trouble? I can get them sorted out for you, free of charge of course”

Skrakch nodded gratefully as Kuosh slid a glass of clear water across the countertop. The stuff was like gold dust in Dray’Mel. Water from the taps in The Slums tended to be a slight brown or greenish color with bits of who-knows-what floating within it. Kuosh, in his infinite wisdom, had Managed to put together his filtration system ensuring that the stuff he served was as clear as the glass it was poured into.

It was a crying shame that Kuosh was limited to being a food cart chef. He had a brilliant mind and, back in his country, he’d been a revered engineer. Skrakch had never really got into how he’d ended up in Dray’Mel. Whenever he got close to the subject, he got the distinct impression that the Giff didn’t want to talk about it. It wasn’t surprising however, only the truly desperate moved to Dray’Mel, because once you entered, the Tomb Makers weren’t keen on letting you leave.

“You’re too kind as always Skrakch. But the business has been fine. Had a family of four here a couple of hours ago, all of them ate their weight in my Hooroun so this has been a good day!” The chef chortled, indicating the many empty stew bowls that were stacked up behind the counter. He grabbed a clean wooden bowl and filled it to the brim from the large pot on the little stove.

Skrakch licked his lips when Kuosh slid the bowl across to him. As always the portion was a generous one. He dug into the dish with relish, allowing the wonderful flavors to overtake any thoughts or residual anger he had towards Zach.

“You’ve outdone yourself as always!” He declared as he finished the last few drops of the hearty stew. “I’m surprised you’re able to make a good Hooroun dish though, aren’t the ingredients quite rare in Dray’Mel?” Skrakch asked, admittedly intrigued.

“That’s just the thing!” Kuosh grinned widely. “The Tomb-Makers have seen fit to raise my clearance level. I have been allowed to leave the city limits.” He pulled down his chef’s jacket just enough for Skrakch to see the rune that was now emblazoned on his barrel-sized chest. Squiggly in a way that hurt Skrakch to even look at, there was no doubting the authenticity of the rune, clearly made by the most talented of enchanters.

Indeed, it was the rune granted to those with the freedom to leave Dray’Mel’s city walls. “Of course,” The Giff continued, rearranging the jacket. “If I stroll too far their mark will set off…it was worth all the negotiating and nonsense just to walk out of this city into the open world once more.” He added dreamily.

“Gods Above!” Skrakch shook his head disbelievingly. “You let them mark you with one of their tracking spells?” He grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped his whiskers. “You know that means they can kill you whenever they want with that, right? It’s not just a matter of if you stray too far away from the limits they’ve imposed on you.” As much as he was pleased that his friend had some modicum of freedom, Skrakch didn’t think it was worth being branded.

“Please,” Kuosh held up a huge palm. “Settle down my friend. It is a small price to pay for a trip beyond Dray’Mel’s walls,” The Giff continued soothingly. “Plus, they could take me anytime they wanted, just like all of us in this city. I may be of considerable size but there’s no way I could fight off a Wraith, much less one of their Death Knights…” He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of his finest sherry and two glasses. He poured both himself and Skrakch a measure. “Sometimes the road we must take is a dark one indeed.” The chef mused morosely, before shaking off his dark thoughts.

Leaning back from the counter and raising his glass to his friend, Skrakch could only nod slowly. What was done was done. He only had to hope that Kuosh would keep his head down. The Giff was the only creature for miles around that could make a proper meal. Bloody Human-prepared food was barely seasoned and the Elven food was even blander. Skrakch shuddered at the thought, remembering the taste of bark on his tongue.

A few hours of eating and laughing later, Kuosh closed for the night and Skrakch stepped into the city streets once more. Immediately attacked by the scents of unwashed flesh, rotten food, and worse, Skrakch let out a small groan. It had been good to get away from it all for those few hours but, as it always did, reality had to smack him in the face. Or, at least, the nose.

Pushing onwards, he started heading to the sewer entrance, his intended destination to lay low for the next short while. He couldn’t help but look up towards the city wall surrounding the Living District on all sides; the Tomb-Makers patrolled them, ostentatiously to keep the Undead District’s residents out. But as Skrakch watched the barely recognizable skeletal figures manning the ramparts, he reminded himself of the truth.

As much as the Undead governing Dray’Mel liked to pretend otherwise, the living were beholden to their demands. And once your time was up, it was a short trip to the Butchery. He only had to hope that his good friend wouldn’t be their next target.

Shaking free of his morbid thoughts, Skrakch hurried along his way. Because as bad as the living had it, he knew the only way to be truly free in a city like Dray’Mel. Power, true power, was his ticket to freedom.