[center][u][b]The Grim North
Caine MacFondóir[/u][/b][/center]

Da always used to say [I]"You wanna know a place Caine, you gotta walk it. Ain't no use looking at it through a windscreen, man wasn't meant to look at things through glass."[/i] That 'man wasn't meant to look at things through glass' was also his argument for not ever wearing his spectacles, especially when he was driving drunk, but the point still stands. You try and drive through a place, or fly over it, or look at it on a map then you'll never get a feel for it. You'll come to understand it, sure, but it'll still keep secrets from you. Thats why I'd hoofed it into Lost Haven, from the outskirts of the city this morning to the bustling center in the afternoon. I coulda boosted a car, but this way is better. This way I get to know the city that, for better or for worse, I'll be hanging my hat for the foreseeable future.

What I'm tying to say is I'm getting a feeling for Lost Haven, and the feeling is fear. Locked doors, boarded up windows, shifty pedestrian's eyeballing the folk walking next to them, constantly expecting the damned to leap from behind each and every street corner. I know fear, made a life outta making men fear me and my name and the names of those I worked for, and without blowing my own trumpet I gotta say I was one of the best at it, but I don't think I could ever inspire this level of terror in so many people, even on my worst day. Guess a demonic invasion will do that to city. Still, just my luck, thinking I could come to Lost Haven and be safe, figuring that even Prince would think twice about entering a city with so many capes in play, just to arrive when every second person on the street looks ready to taze a fella just for looking at them funny. Especially when they look like I do, a mix between a viking warrior and a prize fighter the morning after losing the biggest fight of his career. Not pretty, is what I'm trying to get at. 

Still, that's a problem for later because first I've got more pressing concerns, namely a empty stomach and a quickly approaching empty wallet. With no place to live and no regular income heading my way anytime soon I've got to try and make my money go far, which means no swanky restaurants or eateries for old Caine. Instead I take a walk on the wild side, heading for a place called Little Sicily which I'm reliable informed contains places far more comfortable serving clientele cut from my particular piece of ragged cloth. I get directions from a helpful attendant in central station. You can see she wants to warn me about Little Sicily, probably thinking that's where all the unsavory types in Lost Haven live, until she takes a second look at me. Then she see's someone who would fit right in with the unsavory types. I can try and be a better man, but I'm always gonna look like the worse one. 

Takes me a while to walk to Sicily, being new to the city and all, and by the time I reach it my stomach feels like its started eating itself. The streets aren't as clean here, graffiti marking the walls and litter lying in the gutters. Feels I can't walk fifty paces without stumbling over some old drunk passed out in the street. The whole place feels like its seen better days. The people too. Suits me down to the ground. I cut in to the first reasonably priced diner I pass, a place called 'Lord of the Wings'. I've never really been all that fussed for chicken wings, but anywhere that models themselves after Tolkien is alright in my book. You wouldn't call Lord of the Wings 'high dining' that's for damn sure, closer to a greasy spoon than the Ritz, but it had a homey feel to it. Felt like someones livelihood rather than their business. It had character.

I grab a table near the back, sitting myself against the wall so I have a good view of the entrance and easy access to the back exit through the kitchen. Some habits die hard, whereas some are worth keeping alive. I've barely parked my rear into the seat when the waitress comes to take my order. She's probably a little over sixteen, pretty in a way that you know she's gonna be a real looker when she's older, with pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She offers me a real genuine smile before she asks if I want a coffee. I say yes and she smiles again before heading off to get it. It's nice to see someone in this town who doesn't have that frightened look too them, but I'm still getting that vague sense of unease from her, like she's half expecting another portal to hell to open up, right here in the diner. Still, it says a lot that she tries to hide it. 

She comes back with a mug and a jar of coffee, filling me up at the table. I see the name tag pinned to her shirt reads 'Jilly'. She's written it herself in biro, dotting the [b]i[/b] with a little loveheart.

"So mister, you ready to order or do you need a little longer?" she asks. 

"I'm getting there Jilly." I usually try and call a person by name if they've gone to all the trouble of sticking it on a tag and attatching it to their clothes. Only seems the decent thing to do. "You got any recommendations? How's the wings?" 

"Honestly mister, the wings aren't great, certainly not enough to get a lordship for. The club sandwich is pretty good though."

"I'll have one of those then please Jilly." She writes down my order and smiles again before leaving. I flash her a smile of my own, knowing it wont be as pretty a sight as hers was, not with my scarred visage. Still, its nice to be nice. I add a touch of sugar to my coffee and and take a sip. The meal comes quick, Jilly placing some napkin-wrapped cutlery down before cracking away with me a few minutes, asking where I was from and what I was doing in Haven. I tell her a lotta bullshit, figuring telling her I'm an ex-hitman and enforcer on the run from my previous employer and best friend wouldn't be quite conducive to polite conversation as I would like. Still, its nice to have a chat with a real person again, not usually having the time recently, and I find myself getting a little dissapointed when she has to go to serve her next customer, but my stomach announces itself with a angry rumble so I quickly get down to the buisness of eating and pretty soon I forget all about how lonely I may or may not be.

Jilly wasn't lying, the club sandwhich is good, but truth be told I was that hungry that she could have put a beer coaster sandwhiched in between two slices of old boot leather in front of me and I probably would have enjoyed it, I was that hungry. Sitting in that restaurant, taking the weight of, Jilly speaking to me like I'm a person, eating food that someone hasn't pre-heated in a truckstop microwave, I'm pretty content. Things don't usually go my way so I gotta savour the small things. It isn't untill I unwrap the fork and knife from the napkin to start on the side salad when things start to go downhill. 

It's the Great Song that warns me trouble is brewing. It's always the the Song. For such beautiful music it sure does ruin a awful lot for me. I look up in alarm as the Song drums out a slow, measured, beat, certain that Robert Prince has finally found me, but I don't recognise the three lads who've entered the diner, and it doesn't look like they've recognised me. They sit themselves down a couple tables down from me. One of them, a skinny rat faced fella with darting eyes wearing a stained hoody and joggers, looks me up and down real slow like, but turns away when I give him the eye back. That tells me two thing. First off, he's smart. Secondly, it isn't me they're here to cause trouble for. That only leaves me wondering for who, because these boys stink of trouble. I resolve to finish my meal, settle my bill and head off sharpish. Ain't none of my buisness what these lads are here for. 

I find myself watching out the corner of my eye as Jilly heads to the newcomers tables. Seems like she's dragging her heels, and the smile she offers them seems a lot more forced than the one I got. She asks them what they'd like to drink while rat-face eyes her up like a piece of meat. I find myself wanting to rearrange his face with my fists, and I need to take a few deep breaths to try and calm down, despite knowing that taking breaths never works. Rat-face has two mates with him, one, a big fat boy with a dirty blonde goatee and wearing a pea-coat, the other about six foot, well built and wearing a leather jacket. Fat-boy tells Jilly they're here to see the owner. Now. She scurrys off quick. 

This whole scene is hitting me close to the bone. They're here to hussle the owners for protection money, I'm willing to bet my name on it, probably working for some 'legitimate business' man operating outta a skyrise in Sherman Square. Those three lads, that coulda been me on any given working day back in London, ready to scare the hell outta good, honest working folk just so the rich could get richer. It's like someones raised a mirror up on my actions, and I'm finding nothing good to look at. 

The man I assume is the owner, a tall middleaged bloke with iron-grey streaked blonde hair and a thick mustache, comes out with Jilly in tow, and it doesn't take a detective to tell that they're related. She has his long straight nose and colouring. I'm betting she's his daughter. Personnally if I was him I wouldn't have let her come back out with me, knowing that those three lads would use her saftey as a weapon against me, but he's looking that nervous that he probabaly isn't thinking straight. 

He goes to speak to the lads, his voice hushed and his hands wringing each other. Even without hearing I know what he's telling them, that he doesn't have the money but he'll get it as soon as he can. That line never works, and sure enough Fat-boy starts handing out the threats. Loud too, he must feel confident to be handing them out so sure in the middle of the day. Rat-face is eying up Jilly again, while Leather-Jacket just looks on with a wee half grin. He's the dangerous one, I can tell that by just looking at him, confident and quiet with those flat eyes that tells you that he enjoys seeing people squirm. Rat-face and Fatboy are in this work cause they like the power it gives them over others, but Leather-Jacket likes pain. I know his type. 

Jilly's pa is really starting to sweat now, Fatboy not letting up for a minute. 

"He ain't gonna pay Charlie, look at this place, its a dump." laughs Rat-face to Fatboy, evidently called Charlie. Fatboy suits him better. 

"Oh yeah, so what do you think we should do then Niall, Mr Stone has to have his due. If it ain't money it has to be goods or services, so what can you give us?" Niall is Rat-face, Mr Stone must be there employer. I've never heard of him, but the way Jilly and her pa paled at his name must mean he means buisness. Rat-faces grin nearly breaks his face open its so wide as he leers up at Jilly. 

"I'm thinking services Charlie. What do you think Jilly, what kinda 'services' could you offer?" and with that he reaches up to the lassie and pulls her down onto her lap. She squeels and tries to jump back up like she sat on hot coals, but Rat-face has her tight and isn't letting her up. Her pa finds his voice at that, a little fire colouring his eyes then. 

[b]"Hey, you get your hands of her or I'll [u]OOOFF!![/U]. . . "[/b]Fatboy gut punches him before he gets to finish. 

"You don't tell us what we can do b***h!" Fatboy snarls as Jilly screams and Rat-face guffaws. Leather-jacket just sits there with that grin.
This has just gone from bad to worse, the Great Song really starting to thunder now. My fists are itching, my blood starting to get up. I'm gripping my fork and knife so tight that my knuckles are whitening. More wasted breaths on trying to calm down, and I have to remind myself that no one ever became a better man by fighting his way to it, even for a good reason. I push myself to my feet, fish around in my pocket and drop some money on the tabletop for the club sandwhich. I'll get outside and phone the cops, they have a reaction time of like three minutes now, they'll sort this out. Yeah, thats the smart thing to do, if I get involved I wont know where to draw the line and these boys would end up dead. Better for everyone involved this way. 

I'm still telling myself that when I stick my fork into Fatboys back, right in the trapezius. I want to say I'm as shocked by this turn of events as anyone else, but Fatboy's screaming makes me reckon he must be pretty damned surprised. I waste no time, grabbing him by the back of the neck and slamming his face into the table top, once, twice, three times. I only stop because the table snaps in half, his nose nothing but a bloody mess by the time I'm done. He's gurgling something through his broken teeth, might be 'please stop' but I'm past caring. Jilly's leapt outta Rat-faces lap now, and managed to drag her pa off into the corner. Smart girl. 

Leather-Jacket's surging to his feet now, so I push Fatboy at him. Fatboy's about two hundred and fifty pounds of blubber, and right this moment its all dead weight so he bears the two of them to the ground, Leather-Jacket swearing the whole time. Rat-face takes his moment then when I'm distracted, coming at me from behind with a bottle of ketchup that he swings at my head. The Song warns me, so pivot on my heel and I step in close. The bottle bounces from my shoulder, sore but not as sore as it would of been. Not as sore as it is for Rat-face when I smash my head into his nose. He squeels like a pig and it's like music to my ear's. I have him by the front of his hoody now, two fistfulls of grubby, filthy material giving me a good grip. Good thing its so dirty, means folks might not notice the blood once I'm done. With a heave and a grunt I swing him over head, lifting him bodily in the air to smash him through the table and chairs behind me. He lies there, in among the broken remnants of furniture, and I doubt he's getting up again soon, not under his own power. 

"Don't f***ing move man, I got you covered!" A voice from behind, from where I left the other two struggling on the floor. I turn, slow and easy, to see Leather-Jacket standing with a pistol aimed at me. Looks like its a glock. Fatboy's still dazed senseless on the floor. Just as well, any more of what I have to offer is liable to kill him. I raise my hands up to waist height to show that I ain't got anything on me, ain't got any way to hurt him. He looks confident at that.

"You want a piece of me now huh?" He taunts. I show my teeth at that, a cruel mockery of a grin, the skull playing at being jolly. I'm hungry for more, and him holding a gun isn't gonna stop me now. 

"A piece boy? Hell, I'm gonna have the whole damn thing. You're gonna shoot that gun, you're gonna fill me fulla lead, and I'm gonna step over there and prise it from your hands before shoving it straight up your arse. I'm gonna make you experience things that'll send you running back to your momma crying like a girl. And I'm gonna laugh while I'm doing it." Hard words have never won a fight, or at least they've never won a fight I've been in. Some idiots seem to think they set the future in stone though, like if I say these things then I'll find some magical way of doing them. A bullet will stop me as sure as it will anyone else, but the way Leather-Jacket has paled, I can tell he's one of them fools that thinks hard words wins a fight. 

"You couldn't" he manages to stammer out, but I see the gun shake already, so I laugh. I laugh long and loud, and it's a bad sound. Even I know that. It's the sort of sound you here blowing in off the peaks on a cold winter night, that promises pain and horror. It's the sound of bleached bones grinding across each other, raspy and hollow. It isn't a nice sound in short, and I know it. Then I stop all of a sudden, fix Leather-Jacket with that steady glare of mine and that teeth-bearing smile and take a step towards him. One step, that's all it takes, and he's turned tail and running, gun and comrades all forgotten. Some men like pain, but are terrified of receiving it. I watch him go, then I just watch the door as it swings shut after him. I watch that door for what seems like an age, until it's a certainty that he ain't coming back for his balls. I turn then, to see Jilly and her Pa staring at me, a mixture of fear and awe on their faces. More fear than awe though. The look they give me is enough for the burning desire for more to fade. Now I just feel empty.

"Who are you mister?" Jilly whispers, and I've only got one answer. Only one name that fits, the one that finds me no matter how far or how fast I run. The one that I seem to be stuck with.

"Me? I'm the Grim North."