Ayame had crouched in the pungent stew of the sewer system, waiting in the Kingdom of Rodents for the next prisoners wagon. Something was to be said about the single place within this sprawling city that even the homeless dared not go. The reason for this were simple. The rats that lived beneath had once been contented on the garbage that flowed through. However the underworld, with their penchant for disposing of bodies, along with the victims of poverty and disease, had changed the sewer rats palate. They had formed a fondness for the taste of human flesh. Ayame understood this, and had come prepared. Food was offered as a stipend to their King and his court. Two bodies lay beneath where he laid in wait, their wounds were consistent with blunt force trauma. Perhaps they had been victims or the inquisition, or a hungry man with a club. Either way, their death served to give him life.  

His humble offer had awoken the benevolence of the Rat King, who dined on the flesh of the death with his subjects, and the remainder of his time among them was spent without incident. The wagon he had been waiting for ground to it's scheduled stop above him, groaning as it's old wood settled down to rest as the fighting men above gathered unfortunate souls in the dreary garb for their journey to the Yulian dungeons. For now, the only contrast between he and they was the desire in his heart to see the inside of the Cursed Kingdom, the sanguine robe familiar to him with it's thin fabrics and intricate designs, was stowed in a travel pack, leaving him in naught but his grey bandage to stave off the elements. 


His hands, covered by this hardy fabric, grasped the railing of one such wagon that strayed close enough to the Grand Gutter of the Rat Kingdom and shimmied up the wall. Slowly, his arms extended until his body hovered over the ground in a straight line. Slowler still was his rotation, achieved by alternating the position of his hands, one cupping under while the other grasped over. In moments his body had turned completely, and he pulled himself beneath of the wagon. 

The countryside that lined either side of the dirt road had long given itself over to the degradation. It's trees arced up in an accusatory fashion, seeming to curse the sky and its inhabitants with every branch and twig it could muster, the grass beneath had wilted to nothingness, and with no nutrition in the soil, the ground had become slush that threatened to suck a plated boot into its belly for eternity. "Woe to any wagon that loses it's way on this road." The voice was laden with jovial arrogance, the tone of a man who believed in his own abilities enough to never put himself in the category he spoke on. "Fear they'll ne'er get it out. Folk inside will be left to rot. /I/ ain't gonna be fishing n'e of the ne'er-do-wells out of that slop." 

"Lest the Yulia's see fit to jab me till I do, aye?" Roaring laughter, followed by a polite chuckle from the guard sat beside him. Ayame was as oblivious to their words as he was to the dead countryside. The turning of the wheels made it hard for him to hear aught else, and the remainder of his attention was focused on ensuring his grasp remained firm. The slightest error would see him cast to the ground below, and crushed beneath iron spokes. 

Time passed, and Ayame's aching muscles were rewarded by the final halt of the wagon. He felt it rise and all as it's mute passengers shuffled outward and in to the keep. Even the man who had responded to the desolate land around their travel with his boisterous nature and fallen into an uneasy silence. The Swordsmen could feel the pressure around him, squeezing the stone and it's denizens, prematurely aging both in a haze of pain and depression until cracks had formed on the walls and resentment in the hearts of the living. 

When the second to last passenger disembarked, the wagon left, heading towards the warehouse for fitting and repair, while the horses were taken to be nourished. The last passenger lowered himself to the floor, and rolled from beneath his deliverance before the assorted feet, clad in their heavy workmen's boots, worn from use, stomped to where he had been hiding. 

Tired eyes tended to focus on the task at hand, rather then wander like the relaxed and the bored. No one care to look to the back wall where Ayame knelt, hastily wrapping himself in a brown cloak, and throwing a saddlebag full of tools over he shoulder. 

No guard looked twice at the unassuming man who filtered through the throngs of human gloom, shackled to one another in the chains of slaves. Not even the downtrodden themselves noticed the look of sadness that crossed his features when he stole a glance in their direction. 

Their were many faces, most of them held the woe of the walls, and their circumstance. Others retained their pride, their arrogance. They would notice him, surely. Much like the Rat King and his legion of knights, he'd be a stranger in their midst, and one with no offering. Like the rats, without one, they might try to eat him alive.

Or perhaps not. Even in the word of circumstances benevolence existed.

His musings followed him into the corridors of the fort.