((Rated R for violence and Sweeny Todd filk. People sensitive to either should read with caution. Maybe wear goggles or somethin'.))
Dockside at night was an unfriendly place, its warehouses locked and silent,too many of the streetlights dark and shattered, its streets and alleys stalked by monsters human and otherwise. Even during the day it was considered a warzone, the hostile face shown to most of Rhydin's visitors and transients. A rough and tumble district where streetfights were common, business was brutal, and the underworld was always a half step away, hand outstretched to take its share. After dark, though, honest and dishonest tradesmen alike made their escape from the district... and the creatures of the night came out to play.
Despite this, the three River Rats walked the streets with confidence. They were a gang on the rise, their wagons firmly hitched to a shooting star. These three were fresh with petty cash from the latest heist, a fat merchantman with more gold than sense who didn't know enough to keep a weather eye open for pirates and plunderers. Only fools trusted in the 'safety' of Rhydin Harbor, or the diligence of the Harbor Police. Inevitably, they became poor fools - and too often, poor dead fools. The merchantman had been taken easily, and as prosperous as the frontier cargo of timber, furs, and iron ore no doubt would have been for resale, they were too cumbersome for the Rats to bother plundering. The ship's payroll, on the other hand, and the small crates of silver trade ingots cleverly hidden in a smuggler's hold in the bilge - now there was a prize worth taking, and quite a coup at that.
The raiding party had split up the moment the loot was divvied up, the vast majority flowing back to fill the gang's coffers. The money would soon be rolled over into drugs, guns, or slaves, more ambitious and profitable ventures to invest in, a wholly new line of business for the usually easy-come, easy-go River Rats. Still, enough had gone to the individual members of the party to make the rewards more than worth the risk, and these three - Shane, Michael, and Thomas - were on their way to blow their ill-gotten gains the best way they knew how.
Ale and whores, traditional pastimes of criminals, adventurers, sailors and other freebooters who often found themselves with more money than morals.
Still, rough and tough gangers or not, the sound of someone singing on the Docks, after dark, was enough to give them pause.
"I have sailed the worlds, seen their wonders, from Elysium, to the depths of Khazad-d?m... but there's no place like Rhydin!"
The gangers traded uneasy looks as the clear voice, a cheerful tenor, carried through the foggy night. "C'mon, chummers," Thomas said, his false bravado not quite covering his nerves. "It's some drunk sailor, rolling back to his ship." Thomas was middling in height, the long sword hanging at his waist his claim to fame - although he was often heard to boast that the sword in his trousers was twice as handy. He had a reputation among the rats for speed and deftness with a blade, and for poor luck with the ladies.
"Yeah," Marcus chimed in. "Musn't keep the ladies waiting."
"No, there's no place like Rhydin..." The voice had turned menacing, dark. The singer fairly spat the words, as though he had a grudge against them. The Rats looked at each other again, and Shane reached under his old Army jacket to rest a hand on the revolver he kept in his waistband.
"Who's there?" He called, eyes straining against the dark and the mist. "Come on out, friend! We're on our way to some ladies of negotiable virtue and boundless affection. Perhaps you'd like to join us?" The singer had sounded close, but a former sailor himself, Shane knew that fog could do funny things to sound - making them closer or further, dampening them and enhancing them, wrapping them up in cotton balls or pealing them forth like notes from a bell. He'd taken the leadership position of the three through right of superior intelligence and base viciousness; he'd taken the pistol in his belt from the first man he'd killed, the knife in his boot from the latest.
The song continued, the voice fairly chanting, words coming faster and more venemous. "There's a hole in the worlds like a great black pit, and the vermin of the realms inhabit it and it goes by the name of Rhydin!"
"What's he on about? Who gives a frak about Rhydin?" Marcus wondered aloud, reaching for his own pistol - a flintlock, base and ordinary but as reliable as anything else this close to the WestEnd and it's odd, treacherous effects on magic and technology. He claimed it was enchanted; he was accurate enough with it where it might even be true.
"At the top of the hole sit the crim'nal few who prey on the others in their lowly zoo, turning beauty into filth and greed..."
"Wait, does he mean us? Is he talking about us?" Marcus tugged his pistol loose of his belt, cocking the hammer back with a solid click. The shortest and stubbiest of the three, Marcus looked like he'd never quite lost his baby fat - even though he was fast approaching thirty, and the veins in his nose and cheek had long since burst forth like a roadmap on his pallid features, marking out the trail of a life of alternating poverty and excess.
"Shut it!" Shane hissed.
"I, too, have sailed the worlds, seen their splendors, for the cruelty of man is as black as Khazad-d?m - but there's no place like Rhydin!"
"Come on out, dammit!" Shane lost his temper and jerked the knife from his boot, flipped its switch. The monomolecular blade had a neon light in its handle, illuminating the 'blade' of monofilament wire. The weapon was difficult as hell to use properly, as dangerous to its wielder as its victim, but they could cut through damn near anything. With this hot knife in your hand, everything was butter.
"Gladly."
He fell on them like the rage of angels, a pale figure whose dark coat flapping about him for a moment looked like black wings. And then everything dissolved into a nightmare of pain and blood and violence, all striking fists and steel-toed boots, taking their dreadful toll in an almost musical series of thumps and blows. Human bodies turned into percussion instruments, the drummer moving in a dreadful frenzy as he spun and stomped, bruising muscles, tearing skin, breaking bones. The enemy was a hurricane given human form, a hallucination with all too much substance, killer's smile gracing a delicate, almost effeminate face half seen in the shadows of the alley, his eyes golden mirrors that reflected the Rat's startled, terrified faces as he danced. Thomas went flying, limp as a rag doll; Marcus went next, dropping bonelessly with a startled cry and a pained sob. Shane was last.
He screamed as a deft hand plucked the knife from his grasp, breaking fingers with dry twig snaps in the process. The blade dropped to the pavement and was crushed with a soft pop as a steel toed boot trod on it. "Nasty little toy, that," came a quiet voice, filled with dreadful amusement. "It'll only get you hurt, playing with such things..." Shane gasped as he was abruptly slammed up against a warehouse wall, feeling rough brick grating his back through a tear in his jacket and shirt. His vision blurred, cleared. Marcus was sitting next to him, not five feet away. He was sobbing, his flintlock still clutched in his hands. The barrel had been twisted around so that he was pointing the gun at himself. Thomas was a little further on, eyes glazed and sightless, blood trickling from a nostril, murmuring dazedly to himself. A bootprint covered half his face, red and glaring. His sword hilt lay next to him; the blade was still inside the sheath.
"Focus." Shane tried to, blinking owlishly at his attacker. The man had him pinned up against the wall by one arm. The other held a snub-nosed revolver. It took Shane a moment to recognize the gun as his own, plucked from his waistband at some point during the whirlwind melee.
"Stay with me now," the stranger said casually. He released Shane, slapped him forcefully across the face, and caught him again before he'd slide more than an inch. "I've got some questions for you. You need to be awake during them."
"Wh- who are you?" Shane asked. His voice sounded wet and fuzzy, and looking at himself in the golden mirrors over the man's eyes, he realized that his nose was broken. The strange salty copper taste filling his mouth was his own blood, running in such copious quantities that it had painted his entire lower face red, dripped onto his shirt to stain it.
"Can't you guess?" Cool, amused. The voice beat men to death every day about this time. "I'm the goddamn Batman."
"You can't do this," Marcus said, voice blubbery. "I know you, you're in the Guard. The Guard's not supposed to mess with us! We have a deal! We're citizens, we haven't done anything! This ain't ri-" The Guardsman's lips twitched in a bitter smile, and one steel toed boot lashed out to knock the twisted pistol out of Marcus' grip. The man wailed - squealed, really - and clutched at his hand as the weapon skittered down a grating.
"I said stay with me, sunshine," He said again, pulling Shane to him and slamming him back up against the wall. The Rat's head rattled as it struck the bricks, and white hot explosions lit off behind his eyes... but the impact cleared his thoughts, a little. Enough where the situation began to sink in, and he felt terror gnawing around his heart. "You're going to tell me all about some fires down here. Warehouses burned. Nine people killed. Padlocks on the doors and windows. You're going to talk to me, Rat, and you're going to make it good."
"Don't snitch," Thomas said. It was the first clear thing to come out of his mouth since he'd taken a boot to the face. He was looking a little better now, sitting up and clutching his head. "Don't gotta tell the Guard nothin-"
The man in the black coat didn't turn those golden mirrors away from Shane. Without looking, with only the barest movement necessary, he raised the revolver and pulled the trigger. Thomas screamed as his kneecap shattered, clutching at the wound as though enough curses and tears would grant him a chance to walk again.
"Snitches get stitches," the man in black said, digging the barrel of the revolver up under Shane's chin. "But silence buys you a bullet. The fire that killed the Bevers. Talk."
Shane did. There was a lot to tell.
Dockside at night was an unfriendly place, its warehouses locked and silent,too many of the streetlights dark and shattered, its streets and alleys stalked by monsters human and otherwise. Even during the day it was considered a warzone, the hostile face shown to most of Rhydin's visitors and transients. A rough and tumble district where streetfights were common, business was brutal, and the underworld was always a half step away, hand outstretched to take its share. After dark, though, honest and dishonest tradesmen alike made their escape from the district... and the creatures of the night came out to play.
Despite this, the three River Rats walked the streets with confidence. They were a gang on the rise, their wagons firmly hitched to a shooting star. These three were fresh with petty cash from the latest heist, a fat merchantman with more gold than sense who didn't know enough to keep a weather eye open for pirates and plunderers. Only fools trusted in the 'safety' of Rhydin Harbor, or the diligence of the Harbor Police. Inevitably, they became poor fools - and too often, poor dead fools. The merchantman had been taken easily, and as prosperous as the frontier cargo of timber, furs, and iron ore no doubt would have been for resale, they were too cumbersome for the Rats to bother plundering. The ship's payroll, on the other hand, and the small crates of silver trade ingots cleverly hidden in a smuggler's hold in the bilge - now there was a prize worth taking, and quite a coup at that.
The raiding party had split up the moment the loot was divvied up, the vast majority flowing back to fill the gang's coffers. The money would soon be rolled over into drugs, guns, or slaves, more ambitious and profitable ventures to invest in, a wholly new line of business for the usually easy-come, easy-go River Rats. Still, enough had gone to the individual members of the party to make the rewards more than worth the risk, and these three - Shane, Michael, and Thomas - were on their way to blow their ill-gotten gains the best way they knew how.
Ale and whores, traditional pastimes of criminals, adventurers, sailors and other freebooters who often found themselves with more money than morals.
Still, rough and tough gangers or not, the sound of someone singing on the Docks, after dark, was enough to give them pause.
"I have sailed the worlds, seen their wonders, from Elysium, to the depths of Khazad-d?m... but there's no place like Rhydin!"
The gangers traded uneasy looks as the clear voice, a cheerful tenor, carried through the foggy night. "C'mon, chummers," Thomas said, his false bravado not quite covering his nerves. "It's some drunk sailor, rolling back to his ship." Thomas was middling in height, the long sword hanging at his waist his claim to fame - although he was often heard to boast that the sword in his trousers was twice as handy. He had a reputation among the rats for speed and deftness with a blade, and for poor luck with the ladies.
"Yeah," Marcus chimed in. "Musn't keep the ladies waiting."
"No, there's no place like Rhydin..." The voice had turned menacing, dark. The singer fairly spat the words, as though he had a grudge against them. The Rats looked at each other again, and Shane reached under his old Army jacket to rest a hand on the revolver he kept in his waistband.
"Who's there?" He called, eyes straining against the dark and the mist. "Come on out, friend! We're on our way to some ladies of negotiable virtue and boundless affection. Perhaps you'd like to join us?" The singer had sounded close, but a former sailor himself, Shane knew that fog could do funny things to sound - making them closer or further, dampening them and enhancing them, wrapping them up in cotton balls or pealing them forth like notes from a bell. He'd taken the leadership position of the three through right of superior intelligence and base viciousness; he'd taken the pistol in his belt from the first man he'd killed, the knife in his boot from the latest.
The song continued, the voice fairly chanting, words coming faster and more venemous. "There's a hole in the worlds like a great black pit, and the vermin of the realms inhabit it and it goes by the name of Rhydin!"
"What's he on about? Who gives a frak about Rhydin?" Marcus wondered aloud, reaching for his own pistol - a flintlock, base and ordinary but as reliable as anything else this close to the WestEnd and it's odd, treacherous effects on magic and technology. He claimed it was enchanted; he was accurate enough with it where it might even be true.
"At the top of the hole sit the crim'nal few who prey on the others in their lowly zoo, turning beauty into filth and greed..."
"Wait, does he mean us? Is he talking about us?" Marcus tugged his pistol loose of his belt, cocking the hammer back with a solid click. The shortest and stubbiest of the three, Marcus looked like he'd never quite lost his baby fat - even though he was fast approaching thirty, and the veins in his nose and cheek had long since burst forth like a roadmap on his pallid features, marking out the trail of a life of alternating poverty and excess.
"Shut it!" Shane hissed.
"I, too, have sailed the worlds, seen their splendors, for the cruelty of man is as black as Khazad-d?m - but there's no place like Rhydin!"
"Come on out, dammit!" Shane lost his temper and jerked the knife from his boot, flipped its switch. The monomolecular blade had a neon light in its handle, illuminating the 'blade' of monofilament wire. The weapon was difficult as hell to use properly, as dangerous to its wielder as its victim, but they could cut through damn near anything. With this hot knife in your hand, everything was butter.
"Gladly."
He fell on them like the rage of angels, a pale figure whose dark coat flapping about him for a moment looked like black wings. And then everything dissolved into a nightmare of pain and blood and violence, all striking fists and steel-toed boots, taking their dreadful toll in an almost musical series of thumps and blows. Human bodies turned into percussion instruments, the drummer moving in a dreadful frenzy as he spun and stomped, bruising muscles, tearing skin, breaking bones. The enemy was a hurricane given human form, a hallucination with all too much substance, killer's smile gracing a delicate, almost effeminate face half seen in the shadows of the alley, his eyes golden mirrors that reflected the Rat's startled, terrified faces as he danced. Thomas went flying, limp as a rag doll; Marcus went next, dropping bonelessly with a startled cry and a pained sob. Shane was last.
He screamed as a deft hand plucked the knife from his grasp, breaking fingers with dry twig snaps in the process. The blade dropped to the pavement and was crushed with a soft pop as a steel toed boot trod on it. "Nasty little toy, that," came a quiet voice, filled with dreadful amusement. "It'll only get you hurt, playing with such things..." Shane gasped as he was abruptly slammed up against a warehouse wall, feeling rough brick grating his back through a tear in his jacket and shirt. His vision blurred, cleared. Marcus was sitting next to him, not five feet away. He was sobbing, his flintlock still clutched in his hands. The barrel had been twisted around so that he was pointing the gun at himself. Thomas was a little further on, eyes glazed and sightless, blood trickling from a nostril, murmuring dazedly to himself. A bootprint covered half his face, red and glaring. His sword hilt lay next to him; the blade was still inside the sheath.
"Focus." Shane tried to, blinking owlishly at his attacker. The man had him pinned up against the wall by one arm. The other held a snub-nosed revolver. It took Shane a moment to recognize the gun as his own, plucked from his waistband at some point during the whirlwind melee.
"Stay with me now," the stranger said casually. He released Shane, slapped him forcefully across the face, and caught him again before he'd slide more than an inch. "I've got some questions for you. You need to be awake during them."
"Wh- who are you?" Shane asked. His voice sounded wet and fuzzy, and looking at himself in the golden mirrors over the man's eyes, he realized that his nose was broken. The strange salty copper taste filling his mouth was his own blood, running in such copious quantities that it had painted his entire lower face red, dripped onto his shirt to stain it.
"Can't you guess?" Cool, amused. The voice beat men to death every day about this time. "I'm the goddamn Batman."
"You can't do this," Marcus said, voice blubbery. "I know you, you're in the Guard. The Guard's not supposed to mess with us! We have a deal! We're citizens, we haven't done anything! This ain't ri-" The Guardsman's lips twitched in a bitter smile, and one steel toed boot lashed out to knock the twisted pistol out of Marcus' grip. The man wailed - squealed, really - and clutched at his hand as the weapon skittered down a grating.
"I said stay with me, sunshine," He said again, pulling Shane to him and slamming him back up against the wall. The Rat's head rattled as it struck the bricks, and white hot explosions lit off behind his eyes... but the impact cleared his thoughts, a little. Enough where the situation began to sink in, and he felt terror gnawing around his heart. "You're going to tell me all about some fires down here. Warehouses burned. Nine people killed. Padlocks on the doors and windows. You're going to talk to me, Rat, and you're going to make it good."
"Don't snitch," Thomas said. It was the first clear thing to come out of his mouth since he'd taken a boot to the face. He was looking a little better now, sitting up and clutching his head. "Don't gotta tell the Guard nothin-"
The man in the black coat didn't turn those golden mirrors away from Shane. Without looking, with only the barest movement necessary, he raised the revolver and pulled the trigger. Thomas screamed as his kneecap shattered, clutching at the wound as though enough curses and tears would grant him a chance to walk again.
"Snitches get stitches," the man in black said, digging the barrel of the revolver up under Shane's chin. "But silence buys you a bullet. The fire that killed the Bevers. Talk."
Shane did. There was a lot to tell.