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The Black Tongs, usually lively with the clangs of metal against metal, was dead silent as its two occupants mourning the passing of a great man. Garrett was a world weary man of great stature, matching Trog in height and nearly in width, who had come to respect Old Man Fritz deeply on a professional level and took the news of his passing with a heavy heart. The forge merely embered as neither of them could dig up the heart to work, instead sitting in a contemplative silence that made Trog itchy.

A deep sigh left Garrett as he dragged his hands through what little hair he had left before speaking for the first time in what felt like an eternity, "So lad, what are you going to do?"

It was a simple question and it was one he didn't really have an answer to. The Orphanage was Trog's home, no question, but he didn't know how much longer that would be the case. Trog may not be the sharpest knife in the kitchen but he knew that without the threat of Old Man Fritz guardianship that all the other gangs, and anyone else for that matter, would be gearing to take what they wanted. Like rats stalking a sick dog. Talks were apparently had between some of the older kids, but Trog wasn't apart of them and didn't know the outcome. Ultimately, Trog's choices were fairly limited.

"I guess I stay 'ere sir... I don't 'ave anyplace else to go." the words came out evenly, most of the grief having emptied out last night and left with a dull acceptance of his lot.

Garrett gave a slight nod, as if he'd already known what Trog was going to say, but soon his attention was stolen as someone began to yell outside.

[b]“People of the Asylum Island, from this day on this island is the territory of the Vengeance and its boss Stalwart!”[/b]

The words immediately changed the tone from one of silent mourning to high tension energy as the pair were stunned. It hadden't even been a full day since the Old Man had died and already there were vultures at the gate, and boy did it boil Trog's blood. His breathing became heavy as he began searching for a weapon, or anything he could use as one. Garrett opened his mouth to say something before swallowing it, one look at Trog made it clear that this wasn't going to end pretty. When Trog found a suitably heavy hammer and stalked out the door all Garrett could do was switch the sign to "Closed" and retreat to the back room, as far away as he could possibly go from the coming storm.

As much as he wanted to charge into the fray, yelling curses and stomping heads, Trog held back the Itch as he stalked forward only barely acknowledging Senna's presence. He moved silently but purposefully towards the gathering of Vengeance thugs, meaty fist tightening around the handle of the hammer he held and visions of violence dancing across his mind. It wasn't until he came upon them that Trog betrayed his presence, the last couple of steps being loud stomps. His eyes embedded in their sockets, Trog holding as much of himself back as he could in his current circumstance.

"Yer not wanted 'ere," he said, venom dripping from his words like a drooling snake and the threat of violence pulled taut against tense muscles.