[hr][hr]	Dim, green-yellow torches flickered nervously in their black lantern cases, shining an eerie verdant glow against the sandstone and rock alley walls in the buried bowels of the City of Dust. Even in the brightest hours of the day, only the highest paths of the Gray District were scarcely illuminated by a deep shade of crimson, soaking up the faintest hints of the sun’s rays before they had a chance to plunge any further into the depths of Glimhollow. A lone figure shuffled through the cramped corridors of the slum’s streets, pausing from time to time to glance about before rubbing a stick of white chalk against any subtly protruding bricks in the walls, moving then to the next passageway, never stopping to observe its work.

	Each etch of chalk was little more than a short, lopsided curve, wide at one end and tapering at the other to a sharpened point. To most, the marking would hardly stand out as much more than a scratch, a minor blemish against the roughened walls that were regularly riddled with marks and scars from years of wear. To some select few, the scrawl bore a much deeper meaning – the mark of a white talon, the symbol of an impending gathering of a gang of thieves, criminals, and cutthroats. But the drawing of the talon carried with it an even deeper significance, as this was the first time it had appeared on the surface of any sandstone in well over a year.

	The figure worked its way through the winding narrow lanes in a gradual descent, avoiding all prevalent pathways before turning sharply at the fringe of a sewer trench, walking along the edge with a gimping swagger towards the single bright glow beaming out into the darkened boulevard. As the green and yellow lights grew brighter with each step, so too did the cheerful jeers and drunken chortles echo louder into the sewage ditch below, an unnerving contrast to the miserable silence flooding the surrounding neighborhood. The cloaked frame pushed past the blubbering patrons of the Drunkard’s Compass toward the main bar, settling upon an open stool as the barkeep padded over with an open bottle.

	“’Right, Val? Be makin’ the rounds ‘gain, eh?” The stocky half-dwarf pulled a glass from beneath the bar and filled it with a thin layer of a deep brown filth, reminiscent of the bile churning outside, and held it out to the character with a heavy grip.

	Adnos Valrel glanced impartially toward the glass before reaching a chalk-stained hand out to grasp at the brew, stirring its contents about in a subtle swirling motion before shrugging and pounding it back. Grimacing, the disheveled man shook his head as he bared his teeth, placing the glass on the bar with a firm [i]clunk[/i].

	[color=ffc125]“Gods, Bruto, th’eavens you put in your shem?”[/color] The man hacked as the half-dwarf began splitting with laughter, swiftly pouring the glass back up with a healthy portion of the cloudy booze.

	“’Tis me mum’s secret, goon! She’d ‘ave the rot stew ‘bove the ditches; give it a nice stink don’ it?” Still cackling, Bruto popped a cork back on the brown bottle and stowed it on the rear rack. “Think I got me brewin’ from me late pa? Man couldn’ even ‘old ‘is ale – think shem may ‘ave right killed ‘im!” After another quick round of guffawing, the barkeep wiped a tear from his eye and leaned against the counter, fixating on the Dusthawk leader. The humor had all but retreated from his voice, as a serious tone set upon the pair, separating them from the surrounding gaiety. “Don’ think I ain’t ‘eard word, Val. I got ears just as quick as yer’s. What’s up with ‘em scratches?”

	Valrel let out a brash cough, leaning in closer to the half-dwarf before letting out a hiss. [color=ffc125]“Perhaps some secrets are best kept just so, eh?”[/color] The man slouched back in his seat, twirling his glass in one hand and raising his voice just enough to pass through the noise of the nearby patrons. [color=ffc125]“I’ve got it on good authority that an upcomin’ job may be a bit more… Significant than usual,”[/color] Valrel’s eyes stayed fixed on his drink, gazing on the chunks that whirled about in the deep brown liquid. [color=ffc125]“Some of us are gettin’ tired of complacency… Can I blame ‘em? No…”[/color] He leaned forward again, his gaze lifting back into the bronze eyes of the bartender.

	[color=ffc125]“But… I know I’ve been at fault for th'tanglin’ of our role in these happenin’s… I’m hopin’ now to make my position quite clear.”[/color] Valrel cleared his throat, lifting his glass in salute and proceeded to shoot the bile back, cursing in disgust as Bruto leaned back and smiled.
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