The black-cloaked figure strode across the forest floor with long, measured strides. He swung his arms by his side as he walked and whistled a low tune under his breath, but his feet made no sound as they padded across the roots and leaves, and the forest behind him left no trace of his passing. Unconsciously, he fingered the knife he kept sheathed at his waist, close at hand. [i]If you can’t get a weapon in your hand in two heartbeats, it’s not a weapon. It’s dead weight.[/i] His father taught him that.

He’d been meeting with the Stoats when the message came – a war council of his most trusted lieutenants, called to plan the destruction of another upstart gang that was trying to carve out a piece of the city for themselves. The meeting took place, as they all did, in a smoky room that smelled of sweat in the basement of the Maiden’s Trust, the brothel that had been Harvey’s first ‘acquisition’ back when he first arrived to make his fortune. Harvey was crouching over the table, pointing to some alleyway or another, when the child was ushered in to stammer out the message. [i]The King has killed the ranger Brand. The ranger Brand is dead. [/i]

In that moment, Harvey became unlike himself – he had never in his life been struck dumb before, not even with a blade to his neck, but with the boy’s words echoing in his ears he had no words to speak. Madge came running downstairs and tried to throw her arms around his shoulders, to draw him close to her, but he shoved her away, harder than he should have. Nobody in the room spoke for a long time, and Harvey muttered to Jeremiah ‘Knives’, his second-in-command, that he expected the rival gang to be gone by the time he returned.

He departed the next morning before the sun rose. He told the Stoats that he had to leave to ‘pay his respects’, but those closest to the prince of scum knew the look he wore on his face when he meant to go to war.

Heading back into the woods was like going back in time – in the eleven years since he’d left home, Harvey’s world had been rooftops and grimy alleyways, deals and powerplays and alliances forged in blood and gold. He’d taken the handful of ragged street-toughs he met on his first night in Ovragos and shaped them into something more than a gang; he had created an empire. He’d buried some enemies but far more he had won over to his side, because anyone with a head on their shoulders knew he was better to have as a friend than an enemy. All of that was Brand’s teaching, really; how to navigate a hostile environment, how to seek out advantages in places nobody else would think to look, the advantage of striking hard and fast and most importantly, first. Of course, the most important thing he’d learned on his own; the one thing his father hadn’t taught him, the one thing his father lacked. [i]Vision.[/i]

Harvey brushed his fingers against a softly glowing rune as he crossed into the Barrow, a dozen childhood ghosts flitting before his eyes. A smell that was almost but not exactly like a dog assailed his nostrils, and a grin crept across his face. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one to come, and he had hoped he wouldn’t be the first. 

He strode into the graveyard with an exaggerated swagger, his black cloak swirling about him as he went. “Izzat you, Dak? I’ve been hearing a lot about you, you know. Great mercenary, riding queens and fucking dogs. Or might be I have that the wrong way round. Either way, we are all so proud of you. Though might be you don’t go sayin’ ‘Elf-Scalper’ when the others get here, yeah? I won’t bring it up if you don’t.”