So often in this world so much of fate rested on the head of a pin, so much was up to chance.  If it should lean one way you might find yourself dining among the powerful and fucking among their wives.  If it should go the other way you might end up shot, run through, mutilated, chopped up, reconstituted, and serving some prick who steadfastly refuses to simply let you die.  A single moment could change your whole life, the lives of your future children, everything.  It all rests upon the head a pin.

Such is a slightly cleaned up version of Raold's thoughts as a sweaty out of breath young man walked up to him, causing him to stop short and very nearly indeed spill his beer.  

"Oi, you know where the Rogue Trader that's coming could be found?" 

"Fuck," Raold, summed up that previous paragraph into one word, "Almost made me spill my beer."

The young man was wearing unappealing but practical clothes, dirty sweaty, tired, and looking for some Rogue Trader's.  He was Raold's kind of people.

"Yeah," he replied with a grin and took a long drink of his beer, "Ah know where they'll be.  Name's Raold, what you running from kid?"