It had started out just like any other day; perhaps a bit on the cold side, but an ordinary day nonetheless. Vincent kissed his wife and daughter goodbye as they set about their work in the kitchen. Then he and his eldest son Nathan went out the door to open the shop as per their morning routine. The shop was just a little bakery down the street from the house. Vincent knew he had to get there early enough to get the ovens warm and the bread cooking before the morning rush. The sun had not yet peeked over the rooftops, and a thin mist hung about the streets. If he were less familiar with the area it would have seemed eerie. As it was, however, Vincent knew and loved this city. He had grown up in it, he was raising his family in it, and one day he hoped to peacefully die in it. As they arrived at the shop, Vincent glanced at the sign hanging above the door. Devale Bakery, it announced in peeling green letters. This modest building and all within it had belonged to his father, and it would someday belong to his son. He unlocked the door and entered to begin the day's work, his son dutifully behind him.

Vincent set about mixing the ingredients for the dough, and Nathan began to heat up the two large ovens in the back of the building. After a few hours, the sun glimmered over the rooftops and the city slowly came to life. Nathan and Vincent set out the first batch of bread just as Vincent's wife brought her first delivery of sweets, delicious chocolate treats that she prepared at home every day The Devale Bakery was located in a perfect corner. The area around it had grown into a sizable marketplace, and the handmade bread Vincent sold had been popular since his father had first made it. Local restaurants bought bread from him daily, and Vincent could reliably put a name to almost anyone living nearby, for most of them patronized his bakery several times a week. All in all, it was a very successful shop. That success, however, may be what caused the problems for the Devale family. Eventually the sun peeked over the rooftops again, but this tame it was a furtive look back rather than an anxious glance forward. As dusk fell, Vincent and Nathan began to close down the shop. Nathan amiably hurried the last few customers out, and Vincent sold the last of the bread out the back door cheap to the second-class restaurant behind his shop. The two locked up and went home to eat their dinner. Once home, the nightly ritual began with each Devale telling the family of their day. The highlight of the day for young Sophia, Vincent's daughter and youngest child, was getting her hair cut short. After dinner, with another busy day looming on the horizon, the entire family retired to their beds. This was the last ordinary day for the Devale family. The next morning, Vincent and Nathan went to open the shop just like any other day. When they arrived, they gazed in shock at their beautiful shop, or what was left of it. Someone had smashed in the door and destroyed most of the furniture inside the shop. Nathan ran to find a city guard and Vincent stared in numb disbelief at his shop. The once-friendly sign was on the ground, snapped in half beneath his feet. The two men were relieved to find that nothing had been stolen and the city guard promised to find the vandals that had done this. The repairs were a hassle for the family and forced the shop to close for a few days. Fortunately, Vincent could easily afford the time off and the cost of the repairs. A new sign was lovingly painted by Sophia, and two local carpenters, regulars at his shop, promised to work hard and replace his furniture with stronger, fancier items. On the day that the new furniture was moved in and the shop was reopened, an entire crowd gathered to cheer for Vincent and buy more delicious Devale bread. Almost two weeks after reopening the shop, Vincent and Nathan came back to find the front door smashed in again. This time, however, the windows had been destroyed and many of Vincent's supplies were missing. Again Nathan called the guard, and again the bakers were assured that the vandals and thieves would be caught. This forced the store to close for even longer as new furniture was made, new glass was made for the windows, and supplies were purchased from a larger city to the west. More fanfare greeted the reopening of the bakery, and this time several of the local winos promised to stand nightly guard for the Devale bakery. Vincent smiled and thanked them, but knew that they would be no help when it happened again. Something in the pit of his stomach told him it would be sooner, this time. A mere four days after the store reopened, Vincent and Nathan arrived to find the door forced open, but this time nothing was damaged or missing. Nathan, once more, went to find a guard, and Vincent ventured into the store alone to investigate. He stepped slowly through the door, looking about the poorly lit shop. Once inside, the door slammed shut behind him. He spun about to find himself face-to-face with a nightmare. The beast snorted from wide nostrils and glared at him with eyes full of dumb cunning. Cracked green lips parted, exposing a tusked smile full of yellow daggers. A fist with more akin to catapult shot than a hand knocked him effortlessly off his feet. The fell humanoid advanced on him as Vincent struggled to regain his feet. Just as he got back up, the beast backhanded hard. Vincent felt a tooth loosen as he struck the ground again. "That will do, Gresnik," A whispered, sinister voice commanded from the dark corner of the room. The malevolent voice stopped the monster's raised fist before it could strike a third time. Gresnik, as apparently the savage was named, stared down at Vincent's curled form in disappointment. "Help him to his feet," the shadow continued, "we have business to discuss." Gresnik hauled Vincent roughly to his feet. "Wh-what do you want?" Vincent coughed out, blood tingeing his lips. His question was answered with a hard shot to his right kidney. He would have fallen again, had the beast had not had him gripped tightly with its other arm. Vincent looked frantically at the door, thinking Nathan will bring the guard soon. "Please do not speak unless I tell you to," the dark voice said. "Now then, I am here to discuss the recent unfortunate damage to your store. I am aware that it has been targeted by a most disreputable sort of people of late. I can protect you from these kinds of things, and prevent any further losses to your lovely family." At the mention of the baker's family, the source of the voice stepped forward to display a vicious grin. Vincent was confronted with a far smaller manner of beast, tiny compared even to the skinny baker. Its pale grey skin was a maze of wrinkles and imperfections than only accentuated its horrid pointy teeth and sharp, flat nose. It was the creatures eyes, or more accurately, lack of them, that entranced Vincent, however. Where the eyes should be, the creature had only blank skin, as if the eyelids had never parted in the womb. "Who are you, and why are you doing this" Leave my sto-." Vincent's brave reply was cut short by an even harder hit to his side. This one forced him to double over. Gresnik let him fall to his knees and gasp in pain, laughing at the splotches of blood that fell from his lips to the wood floor. As Vincent attempted to regain his composure, he spared a sidelong glance at the window, hoping to see some sign of help. "I would hate to see further harm come to you or your store, Vincent. All my protection will cost you is half of all your income from this fine establishment," The grey being said smoothly, with a voice like rotten silk. It crouched down next to the ailing baker, grasped his chin, and forced him to stare at its eyeless countenance. "Tell me, how is your pretty wife?" Vincent's head jerked in the creature's cold grasp. Panicked, he asked, "How do you know about my wife, or my family?" "I know much, very much. Now, I'll give you time to think over my offer. Do not go to the guard and do not tell anyone what happened here," The grey man said. He roughly pushed Vincent's head aside and beckoned to Gresnik. The unlikely duo walked toward the back door, but then the black voice called back, "Oh, and tell your daughter that she was far more beautiful with long hair.? With that, the two creature's slipped out the back door, into the predawn darkness. Vincent slumped to the floor and whimpered. He had never known such fear in his life, but he held back the urge to cry as he heard Nathan arrive with two guards. Ignoring the warnings of the pale nightmare, Vincent told the guards everything that happened. He pleaded for their protection, placing his faith in the laws of the city. He had faith that the guard forces could handle two monsters running amok. That faith, however, did not extend to his dreams. That night, he dreamt of long, grey fingers snatching up his wife and daughter, and a fist the size of a mountain crushing him and his son into nothing.

EARLIER THAT DAY

It had started out just like any other day; perhaps a bit on the cold side, but an ordinary day nonetheless. Vincent kissed his wife and daughter goodbye as they set about their work in the kitchen. He and his Nathan went out the door to open the shop, as per their morning routine.

Vincent could not help but glance over his shoulder when he heard someone coming. This early in the morning, it was always just some young person out late or up early. He had not forgotten the attack, though he had grown less fearful over the last two months. No one had seen any sign of the attackers since that night. He was confident that the little nightmare was over and he had nothing left to fear.

As he and his son walked, he thought back to the guards talking to him. He had told them everything he knew, as little as it was. He had been so terrified that night that he was sure he missed some details, but it didn't matter. He could still hear the sergeant's voice assuring him that everything would be okay. He had told Vincent that they would have the fugitives by the end of the night. Of course, they had caught no one, but it seems that they sure had scared them.

The search that night had been massive. Dozens of men combed the entire neighborhood, seizing on anyone out late and questioning them fiercely. They went from house to house and room to room, but still came back empty handed. Vincent could only assume that such a show of force on the part of the law had scared the cowards who attacked him into hiding. He imagined they were still in the bottom of some hole, too afraid to breathe, let alone show their deformed faces again.

Even secure in the knowledge that the law would protect him Vincent had found the time to procure a handgun. He now carried it in a holster on his back, hidden beneath his coat. He knew Nathan did the same now, though not because Vincent had made him. The added security was an idea both men had reached on their own.

They arrived at the shop to find it in the same pristine condition they had left it in the night before. Vincent looked with renewed pride on the store; he had beaten the odds to keep it running smoothly. Nathan unlocked the new door, a very heavy oaken affair with a double padlock that was sure to keep even an orc out (Or so Vincent assumed). They walked in and Vincent stopped to appreciate the layout as he did every day. Much had changed as a result of the break-ins. The door was just one of the new security features he had in place. The windows were reinforced glass, there were three security cameras in place, and a panic button below the counter that would lock the doors and call the guard.

The pair went into the back room and began to heat up the ovens. Vincent set about his daily labor with the same fervor he did every day. He baked the first batch of loaves and began to stock the shelves, with Nathan working close at hand. The pair often got very caught up in their work, so they did not notice when Vincent's wife was late. She was almost an half hour late before Nathan chanced a glance at the clock and noticed the strange occurrence.

"Hey dad, where's mom?" Nathan asked. The slight twinge of fear in his voice was evident. Nathan had never liked making her come to the store so early in the morning without someone walking with her.

Vincent glanced up from his work to see that she was indeed late. "Call home and see if she is still there." He was attempting to hide the terror in his own voice as the worst case ran through his head. All at once the fear of the last two months came crashing down on him. Nathan hurried into the back room and called the house, with no answer.

Nathan's voice almost cracked as he called out to his father. "Call the guards, I'm going back home," Vincent said grimly. While Nathan rushed back to the phone, Vincent sprinted out the door and back towards his house. His heart was racing before he took the first step, panic gripping him.

He had taken every step to be sure his store would be safe, yet he had left his home as defenseless as ever. With every step he took, another thought of what might have happened coursed through his mind. The terror of the attack all but stopped him as he ran towards what he knew was danger. As he ran, he clumsily drew the handgun from its concealed holster.

Arriving at the house, he ran up to the door and cocked the pistol. He reached down to find the door locked. When he discovered this, he felt relief. If something had happened, the door would be open, or a window would be broken. Calming himself, he lowered the gun to his side and pulled out his keys. He slowly opened the door and walked in. He called his wife's name, but there was no answer.

He began to look through the house, hoping to find her asleep or otherwise unable to hear the phone. He saw no sign of a struggle or any foul play. She must be okay. But where is she? He wondered. A few moments later, he entered the kitchen to find his worst nightmare made real. He found his wife.

He turned his head from the scene almost before he saw it. She was tied across the kitchen table, with one limb bound to each of the four table legs. He didn't want to imagine what they had done to her. The red running down the table and onto the floor told him more then he wanted to know. He fell to his knees and his head knocked against the wall as the first sob burst from his chest.

Vincent began to cry uncontrollably. He knew she was dead, he knew she had suffered in that death, and he knew he had failed to protect her. The sorrow washing over him all but overwhelmed him. It was only the knowledge that his daughter was not in the room as well that drove him back to his feet. Wiping the tears from his face he turned and began to search again.

Vincent soon discovered every other room in his house to be empty. He began to look again in every room, save the kitchen. Finally, he went for the door; perhaps she had not gone far. Maybe she was back at the store, looking for help! He ran out the door, and as he left, his thoughts turned to his beloved wife. He wished for nothing more than to be able to stay with her and wait for the guards, but he had to find his daughter.

He sprinted out the door and felt someone grab him from behind. He spun to see who had him, but his head never got that far. Something hit him hard in the back of the head, and he fell into darkness.

Venturin walked at a brisk pace through the sewers below the city. They were such a convenient way to move unseen by those above, for there were no prying eyes down here. The sewers were the only safe place when one belonged to one of the most singularly reviled races in history. He listened, with a certain sense of satisfaction, to the large human behind, him grunting with each step. The drow had brought the human along to carry Vincent, for such was not the work of one so skilled as himself. Humans may be foolish, short-lived things, but they certainly had their uses when things needed to be moved.

"How much further is it now?" The human asked, coming to a stop. Waiting for an answer, he put Vincent down on the ground and leaned against the wall. "This fat fuck is heavy and I ain't movin" him no more till I get a break," he panted.

"I'm quite sure there is a better reason for you stopping here, human." Venturin said the last word with audible disdain. This human, who had been brought along to expedite Vincent's extraction, was now slowing it. The drow did not like to be delayed, and he liked even less being delayed due to weakness. "In other words, give me a better excuse or keep moving."

"The fucker must weigh two hundred pounds! I can't haul him all damn day," the thug snarled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. The black box bore the symbol of the Mistress" syndicate, and the cigarettes had most likely been bought with a ridiculous price markup. Muunokhoi could easily gouge his employees, for smoking any brand other than the brand he sold resulted in termination of either employment or life.

"Either pick up your friend, or I will show you why lord Muunokhoi chose me as his chief assassin," Venturin hissed, letting his stereotypical drow pride show in full regalia. He moved closer to the human and leveled a glare so dark that the man cowered and dropped his cigarette. He frowned when the expensive stick fell into a puddle of brackish water, then shrugged and scooped it into his pocket. He then hoisted Vincent back onto his shoulder with an overly loud grunt.

"Now, if there are no more complaints, let's keep going, shall we?" The drow asked sarcastically. These creatures were so weak willed; it made the drow hate them more then he did most things, using a hate he usually reserved for his surface-dwelling elven cousins and any variety of fuzzy beast.

More out of spite than any real hurry, Venturin quickened the pace by quite a bit. His long, muscular legs, which could propel him up or along walls just as easily as an infant can crawl, soon increased the gap between leader and pack beast. The assassin grinned with sadistic pleasure as the goon behind him tried to keep up the pace.

He knew that the man feared him, and wisely so. Venturin thought nothing of killing those who served him for the slightest of grievances, and he had earned a nickname among the Mistress" forces: "Human Resources." The joke was that he handled the hiring and firing of any human in the Mistress" employ, although it was more accurate to say that an assignment with Venturin was tantamount to being fired. If your superior thought you were useful, you would never be grouped with the bigoted dark elf.

Venturing relished his reputation, for, to him, humans were only little better then rats. Wait, he mused to himself, They are below rats. When properly diseased, he reasoned, rats could wipe out entire civilizations. This was something humans routinely failed at.

After less than thirty minutes of the drow's brutal forced march, they arrived at the sewer entrance to Muunokhoi's base of operations. An orc opened the gate for the imperious dark elf, and he hurried up the stairs, with his loudly gasping pack beast on his heels. Once inside the building, Venturin ordered the human to leave the unconscious Vincent with him and go. The thug looked relieved, and didn't even pause to catch his breath before running off into the complex.

The drow wrapped a hand in Vincent's shaggy hair and dragged him into the armory next to the basement storeroom. Venturin was stronger than his slight frame suggested, and he, with minimal effort, heaved the unconscious baker down the hallway to rest in front of the two doors at the end. As the assassin drew close, he could feel the infernal power of his overlord radiating from the portal on the right.

The natural propensity for magic in every drow, although untapped by Venturin, nonetheless allowed him to feel demon's vast power. When they were in the same room, the assassin felt crushed by Muunokhoi's sorcerous might, as if the potential power were a pulsing, cardial sphere that threatened to, at any moment, come unleashed and slay all nearby with its mere weight. It filled him with true fear to think of what Muunokhoi was truly capable of. All the parlor tricks he threw around to aid his men, such as invisibility magic, sleep spells, and minor pyrotechnics, were all simple gestures to the demon, no harder than blinking or breathing. He shuddered to think of what the small demon could do when pushed to fight. He dared not even think of how powerful the Mistress must be, to command the complete loyalty of the eyeless arcane powerhouse.

Now, at the threshold of his master's chambers, Venturin could feel the darkness pulsing out in sickening waves. Muunokhoi was doing something in there. What dark magic the demon was weaving, and to what end, he did not know. He knew not to ask. Soon, the pressure from the room grew to the point where even the disciplined assassin could not stand it. Venturin left Vincent and fled back to the armory, but still the force of Muunokhoi's power pressed on him. With every second, it became more excruciating. His magical senses were weak, and still the pressure from the spells being worked by his master were like a cruel iron spike being driven through his head.

Near panic, the drow retreated to the storeroom and shut the armory door. The pressure vanished altogether, for Muunokhoi had enchanted the armory to hide his mystic workings from the prying minds of other spellcasters. The drow put his slim fingers to his temples; the pain was only slightly deadened, but at least it was no longer building. As his senses unclouded, Venturin felt a warm sensation around each ear " he was bleeding. He could not help but shake. Muunokhoi was a true nightmare, more than anyone else working under him suspected.

This spell, like so many before it, had ended in failure. He was still trapped. Muunokhoi closed the rift he had opened in reality, sealing the bridge between this dimension and his home plane. She's still too powerful" He needed more time to acclimate to this world. He needed to gain more power. He sighed, knowing that he would simply have to wait. As the residual black energy leaked away, Muunokhoi's eldritch vision, which had excluded everything but the portal, returned to normal.

He was in a vast, empty room. It appeared to go on forever in every direction. The only thing in the room, aside from Muunokhoi, was a door, standing independent of walls or a structure. With more than a little agitation, he walked to the door and opened it. On the other side was his armory, and on the floor a human. Vincent, he realized groggily as his mind continued to make the change from the transcendent to the mundane. He remembered that he had sent Venturin to fetch the pathetic creature, but he did not see his most valuable tool anywhere.

Muunokhoi sent his mind out to feel for the drow. The demon was not immune to his own spells, and thus he could not quest beyond the arcane shielding placed on his quarters. He walked to the door of the armory and opened it, then entered the storeroom. There, cowering in a corner and holding his head, he found his drow.

"I told you not to return before noon. It is scarcely eleven, you fool," Muunokhoi scolded. It was not like Venturin to come early if warned not to, so he wondered with passing interest what had made the drow rush to get here so early.

"I'm sorry, Lord Muunokhoi," Venturin gasped, kneeling on both knees. "It won't happen again. I swear it won't."

The pathetic undertone to the drow's pleading spoke of a fear that bled into a sort of perverted awe. It was exactly that fear that made Muunokhoi love his pet dark elf. He had never had to show the assassin his power, for some beings could feel his power without him even showing it. He knew that he did not need to punish the drow, for the blood still flowing from his ears and the rictus of pain on his sharp features were punishment enough.

A need to punish and a want to punish, however, are two very different things in a demon's mind. Gazing into the terrified drow's eyes, Muunokhoi cast a fun little spell on him. All the pain that Venturin had felt in coming too close to the demon's incantation was revisited upon the assassin twofold. Venturin shrieked and slammed to the floor, writing. He clawed at the wood with his immaculate nails and gnashed his teeth. Blood frothed at his lips and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Muunokhoi only regretted that he couldn not inflict more pain upon his underling. Any more would shatter the drow's fragile mind, but his tolerance for pain was fantastic as it was.

He left the drow writhing in the floor and went back into the armory. It was not in his nature to miss an opportunity to inflict pain, and the spell would fade shortly. The drow would learn his lesson.

Muunokhoi, rejuvenated by Venturin's pain, stalked up to Vincent. The man was groggily coming back to consciousness, but the demon merely grabbed him by his bindings and opened the door on the right. The heavy oaken portal opened to reveal a large room filled with all manner of dark machinery and whirring contraptions. The ceilings and far walls were swallowed by shadows, and the screams of dozens of men wafted out of the laboratory. Vincent's first sight upon waking would be a pleasant one.

All about the room, small green and black demons worked the machines and inflicted limitless pain on the men entombed therein. Slapping the baker to full consciousness, Muunokhoi hissed, "You see what your foolish courage has earned you, Vincent' Your family's pain may have been brief, but yours will last an eternity. You cannot die here, and only I can open this door." Muunokhoi paused briefly to crack a smile full of alternating pearl and ebon fangs. "My pets feed on pain, and they are always hungry. Your fresh suffering will bring them contentment, for a time. And as you grow accustomed to one torture, they will invent a new one for you. I want you to remember always that you are alone here. Your wife, your son, and your daughter are already dead." With that last violent hiss, Muunokhoi lifted the screaming Vincent off the ground and flung him into waiting surge of demonettes. Before his body hit the ground, a living tide of green and black engulfed him and carried him off into the shadowy recesses of Muunokhoi's dungeon.

The demon slowly closed the door, enjoying the sound of the newest instrument in his orchestra of suffering. He loved the sound of his minions at work; they were like composers and conductors in the art of pain. He wondered what beautiful sounds they would get from their newest toy. He so wanted to stay and watch, but he had things to tend to. Such was his life, ever busy. He had no time to relax and just soak in the suffering. All he could do was wait for the day when his Mistress" plans came to fruition. He would enjoy ruling over a layer of the Great Hells.

When the door finally clicked shut, Muunokhoi opened it again. This time, a hall lay beyond. Lining the hall were thirty cells, each holding a beautiful female of varied races in perfect stasis. The women were kept here, fresh and eternal, until they were needed to replace a worn-out woman from the brothel above. Muunokhoi stopped halfway down the hall and looked into the cell that held Sophia, the only member of Vincent's family who could be truly considered alive. She was floating in silent sleep, but her mental turmoil expressed itself in her contorted facial features. The demon sent out a mental call, and within a minute Gresnick entered the hall.

"Take her, she is for the Mistress.? Muunokhoi said as he pressed his hand to the stasis crystal on the cell door. With a hiss and a release of mana, Sophia was reanimated. The lumbering orc squeezed into the cell and grabbed the barely-conscious. The demon motioned for Gresnick to proceed, then shut the door behind them. Muunohkoi stepped to the door on the left, steeled his resolve, and turned the handle.

Burning buildings weren't an area of expertise for Alain — the last one he'd spent any amount of time in that he could recall was Cain's, and his right hand would forever bear testament to their dangers. But no one was acting quickly enough....He would get out fast, he told himself, as he squinted through the smoke and against the painful heat of the roaring flames. He lowered the handkerchief from his mouth to call out, "Where are you?!" and clapped it back into place. Coughing, ducking lower. The fire bellowed upstairs, and the blast of hot air forced him away from the open window.

The boy's cries came only seconds later, loud and desperate, from the kitchen. The detective hurried that way and clasped a hand around the doorknob. Not hot....relatively speaking. But it was locked..."

One solid kick broke the lock, and the door flew open. Fire was slowly creeping into the kitchen, but smoke had built up....all the way down to the table the boy was lying upon, writhing and coughing. Alain didn't find out until he'd picked him up that his hands were bound. He was slender, rail thin, and hoisted easily over Alain's shoulder.

A baker's son bound and locked into the kitchen of a burning bakery....Gears were already turning in his head, even before they made it out the window.

* * *

"We received the report less than a week ago....but you know how the city is..."

D'Mourir stifled a cough and nursed his water. Bright blue eyes raised to watch the old sergeant beside him.

"...won't be the last time another new hotshot gang tries to pack a business under its thumb." The old man frowned and rubbed at his grey whiskers. "But this one's different. It's old-fashioned — like what we used to see. Beatings, kidnappings, arson....no flair. They're discrete."

Alain nodded faintly, taking it all in. He'd make his own assessment later....only wanted the details for now.

"...It started with vandalism. Someone smashed in the front door and the windows, and the bakery closed for a few days. They reopened....and almost immediately, there was renewed vandalism. This time, supplies went missing, but other than that, we had no clues."

Alain coughed some and offered quietly, "They were placing stress....they wanted to make sure they hit the bakery hard enough to bend them. That's my guess."

The guard nodded. "The neighbors and friends of the family kept up a nightly watch....but it wasn't enough to stop this happening." He squinted at the remains of the bakery....and heaved a sigh. "We can't find anyone - his mother, his father, his sister..."

"What of the report?"

The old man looked a little further away and hugged himself, massaging his elbows. "...It was two....humanoids. One of them very large, with tusks and fangs, slit nostrils....but stronger than an orc, and with more of death about it. And the other..." There was a pause.

"...Go on."

"It was tiny. It had ugly, wrinkled grey skin, pointed teeth, a flattened nose, and....no eyes. And I don't mean gouged out. Just....unmarred skin, Vincent said, where eyes ought to be."

Silence returned between the two men. Alain looked down, and his tongue ring click-clacked against his molars. "...An old-fashioned gang....run by monsters." He stared again at what was left of the bakery. "I take it you want me on the case?"

"We're not cut out for this — cloak-and-dagger gangs with monsters....you know that." The sergeant's teeth grit some when he admitted it, and he fidgeted with the pommel of his sword. The trusty blade he knew so well couldn't help him against this city's many enemies he couldn't see. "...You'll have a contract on your desk by sunset."

"Then I'd better get started."