[center][img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/68/00/ed/6800ed8372cf39ce3d82f84fdd092279.jpg [/img][/center] [h2]The Guard House on 22nd Cleaver Street.[/h2] When the Guard first built this office, it had been full of marble, with real copper in the door knobs and with art on the walls. Back then the guard had held respect. Men and women had bowed and said nice things such as ”How are you Officer”. Back then, the Lost Slums had not sprawled over such big a part of the city. After numerous barbarian races and unholy invaders however, the city had been sacked many times over. Even if the city somehow always sprung back into prominence and opulence, but there was one big stain on its pride. The lost slums. While each invasion turned into buisness opportunity, the slums grew. When a mad undead tyrant was destroyed, you needed place to relocate confused but generally harmless undead thralls. Trying to kill them all would likely cost the city more then it was worth. So you raised a whole lot of dwellings around the local graveyards and created the Necropolis District. A place of poorly maintained, but none the less rather intact crypts, tombs and fields of unmarked graves. It would strike the observant person that such a area should perhaps be outside the city walls. Nothing was greater then Kings Knells pride. It just wouldn't do to let a potentially cheap laborforce wander in the wild. But the effect was that the areas around the Necropolis district became undesirable, and soon found themselves a part of the ever expanding Lost Slums. Then came the demons. Sulfur and bloody hellfire rained upon the city, and many nice historical neighborhoods burned down or were filled with flesh eating curses. The usual demonic fare as far as sieges goes. It should be noted that these historic neighborhoods likely would have done much better if they had not been made out of Thatch, wood, dry paper and birch bark. The fact that the largest producer of lamp oil had its warehouses there didn't help either. After the fires died down people with money decided to simply buy new houses on the other, properly built in stone, part of town? The Lost Slums crept and claimed the derelict houses for its inhabitants. Balto was the artifact of a different unholy chapter in city lore. He was a thiefling. A demon and human mix, the infernal version of a mutt. He was absolute garbage at darts. The dart missed the board almost entirely, he swore. ”Fucking game is rigged!” He exclaimed angrily. ”My darts are crooked or something!” "The only crooked thing here is you, Balto." Said a bored, middle aged and prematurely balding dwarf. His name was Bjorn Basaltbeard. He was guardhouse armorer. Balto raised a eyebrow. "Ok.Ok. You and the rest of the local guard detail here." The dwarf admitted. He was not exactly mr straight and narrow himself. He had been put here after selling of 'surplus' guard material using a document the commander had signed while drunk. The reason for being assigned to Cleaver Street was that Cleaver Street lacked any sort of actual gear. It was the most understaffed, underfunded, and poorly equipped guard house in the city. "Uhuhh." Balto said unconvinced as he put the darts down. He had been a guard for a scant two years and made the rank of Corporal in that time. Granted, he was made a Corporal at the same time they replaced Boris Flinkfinger who was killed in the Lost Slums. He had eaten meat from one of the street vendors. Cooked by a gnoll. Boris' death had jokingly been referred to as the "Brown Death". It had not been a pretty sight. "Tell me Bjorn, how long have you been here?" Balto asked curiously as he went to pull on his uniform. He was about to go on patrol, a task he didn't relish. At least it was midday and not night. Night Patrols were the worst. "Two years, same as you." Bjorn raised a bushy eyebrow. "And during that time, they have pointedly refused to give us new gear..." Balto nodded. "Are you accusing me Balto?" The dwarfs voice rose a few notches, from 'gravelly disgruntled mumble' to full on 'out of the beard ire.' You could always tell when you were in trouble with a male dwarf. The more animated the beard, the more anger was being released. Critical mass was when the beard was moving more then their mouth. That's when the axes came out Balton thought to himself. "I am admonishing you." Balto corrected him. "You're only suppose to skim the top of storage. That way you can claim it's wear and tear or lost in the line of duty. When you sell the entire armory whole sale. People tend to notice." "Bah. Don't act like you are hot porridge, you got caught to didn't you." "Porridge? Don't you mean shit?" "Noh lad. Porridge is delicious. Why would anyone wanna act like hot shit?" "I... I really don't know." Balto answered, clearly out of his depth all of the sudden. Dwarves were notorius for not getting modern slang. They took things to literal, thought about the meaning of a word to much. They were in short, far too smart. "Disregard that for now." Balto said, trying to get back on track. "Yes. I got caught. But I got a bit sloppy is all. Some posh bugger had enough cash and influence to undo my schemes." He began to slip in to the chainmail as he spoke. "But I never hurt anyone, so at least they didn't burn me on the stake." "Small blessing eh, lad?" The dwarf grunted. "Aye." Balto agreed as he fastened the belt with his sword and headed for the door out to the streets. ------ [b]-Some time later-[/b] The air was stuffy. Summer did that to the lower slums. Garbage rotted much faster and the shit festered like mad. It was not a pleasant smell to be around. Luckily, all the crap was actually worth something to the right people who had found ways to recycle even the worst as compost. So the old days of suffocating smells were only kind of bad these days. Balto didn't hate the slums, he grew up among its alleyways and narrow streets. He was one of its many misled children. Although, he had always striven to never go back, to live a life he felt he'd been robbed off. And here he was, wearing a guards uniform and looking about himself as if he was expecting a bolt or an arrow at any moment. He was back in the slums allright, and somehow it was worse then ever to be Balto. "Hey coppah!" Someone yelled and he just barely avoided the half rotted apple thrown at his head. "That's assaulting a officer." Balto turned and stared at the orc sitting a overturned pail, apples lay all around him. Most of them completely inedible. Balto recognized the orc as Gogram Bonehusk. One of the nasty critters who ran door duty at the local fight pit. He was juggling two apples that looked at least somewhat edible. "Oh. Hello Gogram." Balto sighed. "What's with the apples?" "Stall owner sold bad apples to some of my lads. Had to give him a one two. Know what I mean?" The orch grunted. Somewhere in the darkness of the alley behind him, a man cried out. "...Why in the infernal princesses and their heaving firey bossoms did you just tell me of a crime?" "'Cause yo' ah' coppah. An' you a coward." Gogram smirked. "You ain' gonna do' jack." Balto smiled. It was instinctive. When faced with scary brutes that could break your neck. Smile. It unerved them and stayed their haind. "Is that so?" Balto asked, looking past Gograms shoulder, into the dark alley. "Yeah. That so!" The Orc said with a bit more vigor. As if trying to silence a voice telling him he was being stupid. "You still running the door for old Twostones?" Balto asked. Twostones was a major slumlord who financed his more up and up stuff through shady operations like fighting pits and unlicensed brothels. "Yeah. What off it?" "Two days ago there was a fire at the Wasps nest." Balto began and the Orcs eyes grew wide. Having hit home a bit quicker then anticipated, Balto pressed his advantage. "When we arrived. I found that not all the inventory was there. I thought nothing off it." Balto said, still smiling. He had to disregard the part of his brain that wanted his bladder to its thing when the orc rose angrily to his feet. He didn't even shake as a tusked face was two inches from his own. That was why Balto was still alive. "Until now. Where did Mr Twostones bottles of fine Amilian Wine go Gogram?" "You would not dare." The orc sounded bewildered and very angry. Balto prayed to the eleven goddesses of sulfur and brimstone as he lay in the finishing touches. "They are in a cellar on 41st Butchers Road... Aren't they?" Baltos smug grin grew massive and predetory as the brute stumbled back. "If you run, you can get there before one of the officers I tipped off. If you get there, you can return it your boss won't ever know. But I will." Gogram turned to shout at the others down the alley. "Time to book it boys!" Two others came out of the alley, saw Balto's smile and grew pale. They were human, and one of them, Joseph Myre, had two priors. Making him viable for the noose if caught doing something remotely nasty. The three ran towards Butchers Road. Balto waited for a while, then went into the alley. "You alright Molay?" He asked the man picking himself up from alleyway floor. He had a crooked nose, the undeniable mark of a poor fighter and worse merchant. "You know you can't sell spoiled fruit. It's against the law Molay, under Section 221, mercantile law. No vendor may sell an exess of bad or harmfull goods knowingly." Balto grabbed the poor man by the elbow aand helped him stand. "Aww. They weren't [i]that[/i] bad." Moley protested. "They were rotten enough that a damn orc couldn't eat them." Balto said with eye roll. "I won't arrest you today because I am in a good mood." While his tone was admonishing, he patted Molay on the back as the street merchant smiled sheepishly. Then, there was an explosion. The two heard it clear enough, and the ground shook beneath their feet. Balto knew instinctively where it came from. It was from the Necropolitan District. Without thinking he set off running. It was only when he was several streets deep into the worst part of the slums his brain caught up to his feet. What the hell was he doing, running towards danger? It must be the bloody uniform. It did things to your sense of morality and duty in that it actually instilled a sense of duty. Any change from zero was a big change. What greeted him was the charred, smoldering remain of a crypt. He skidded to a halt, almost tripping over someone. Looking at his feet, he saw the groaning, hurt body of a palid man. A man who was catching on fire where the sun hit him. "Crap!" Balto hauled the vampire towards an alley but it was to late. He had to throw the man away as he turned into dust and burning embers. Vampires were not unheard off, but the wards around the necropolitan made it so that they could't leave without being tracked. No one was allowed to turn anyone into more vampires either. For one to be out in daylight meant fishy business. He looked towards the destroyed crypt, idly wondering when the others would arrive.