“HEY! You, you there guard boy, over there! Job for your ass!”
Private Kyril of the Estermerean Guard was sure he was going to vomit. Sure, he’d been in a few ops with the Fayport Legions and seen a maimed hand or two, but never had he seen the aftermath of a giant insane hyena rampaging through the bloody market square. Shopkeepers cowered behind the chunks of wood that used to be their stalls. Bodies of gory and gruesome deaths beyond number peppered the flagstones. And, of course, blood. Blood everywhere. Kyril decided to relieve himself and bent over before running towards the source of the voice that had indicated him. 
“Hey, yeah, you there, young fellah.” It was a scruffy-looking middle-aged man. Looked quite old, but still had the vitality to withstand a bloody gash to his right arm. 

“Oh, okay, sir. Hmm.” Kyril took out a roll of bandages and proceeded to methodically wrap the man’s arm. “Don’t move it for a while.”

“Alright, sirrah.” The old man seemed eager to wave Kyril off, as if he was anxious to prove his strength and endurance in a time of crisis. “Go, go on. Shoo. Someone else might need your help out here in this ‘oddamn shithole.”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEK!”
“See, fella? Nice lady needs help. G’night.”
“Uhm... good night to you too, sir.” Kyril hastily saluted the old man before again rushing over to some other poor soul’s cry for help. It was an elderly, once noble-looking old lady bending over an older man. The old man’s leg was half run through, and nearly-severed bone peeked through the flesh. Even flies flocked to the afflicted area. When Kyril had finished bending over again, he found another guard by the old lady’s side attempting to decipher the sniffs and sobs and bawls that stumbled out of the poor woman’s mouth. 
“Kyril.”

“Mister Remington?”
Ah, Remington. Not Kyril’s best buddy in the force. He was once normal, but had recently been keeping to himself in dark corners, brooding and silently fawning over some new dagger he had got from Pelor knew where. But Remington was still a corporal and Kyril was a private, and Kyril knew better than to question his authority.
“This man will not survive with mere bandages, Kyril.” Remington looked up at his comrade with a grim look. “We need... professional help.”
“Oh, I know a good fella who give professional help. Name’s Elric. Barber-surgeon. Gave me a right good shave a few days back, and I’ve seen him amputate a pretty leg or two if needed.”
Remington’s eyes shone with interest for the first time in a very long time. “Elric? You mean Elric [i]Barber[/i]?”
“Uh... yes, sir.”

“We must see him. Immediately.”

“Sir, I’ll just stay back to take care of-”

“There is no time. Come with me.”

“But, sir-”

“[i]Come with me.[i]”


Aha. Now to silence the little brat.
“Hey, sir, why are you stopping? We ain’t at Elric’s place ye-”
Remington felt a tinge of satisfaction as Kyril’s lifeless body dropped seamlessly into the mound of refuse. He quietly and discreetly wiped his dagger clean with a red handkerchief bearing a golden insignia - the insignia of the Nisceni Empire. 
It wasn’t far now to Elric’s place. Remington felt like a rat, taking all the back alleys and wallowing through the mounds of shit, refuse, and trash. But how could he refuse five grand in gold? It would surely be worth it.
Ah. Grushtov had done his job well.
The same could not be said for the door. 
Enough said.
Remington silently tiptoed behind what used to be a complete wall, at the agreed rendezvous. 
Three, two, one...
“Jel?”

Ah, shit.