Stradling the verges of the Tradesman’s Port- known for being the second largest trading bay in the Kingdom of Terythen and situated snugly between Lythen’s borders with both Dent and Haarland- was the region of Hengelford. Directly bordering Delrow, one might assume the region to be just as small, muddy, and squalidly miserable as its decrepit inland neighbour, but such could not be further from the truth. Perhaps its prime location for trade and travellers gave it the profitable life juice to become powerful where potatoes and pigs could not, but for whatever the reason, Hengelford shared none of its partnering province’s downfalls and was exciting and compelling in every way that Delrow simply was not.

Packed with one-hundred-times the population of its dreary neighbour, and renowned not for its potato farming potential but for its astounding ability to wrack in money and empty prestigious pockets better than cows can guzzle grass, Hengelford was the area of the kingdom to go to if you aspired to make money but were gullible enough to lose it. The city of Arborough, a dizzying industrialised mishmash of slums and villas which dominated much of the bay spanning Hengelford’s coastal borders, was therefore considered by many to be Terythen’s criminal capital.

Fortunate for the few and disastrous for the pockets of unfamiliar traders, Arborough was infamous for the veritable volume of thieves which stalked its streets but even more so for those who simply hid behind fancy titles as they drained unsuspecting fools through gambling houses and betting rings, reclining on their plush velvet cushions as the gold flowed in and newly-made beggars blundered out.

Like all densely populated cities where gambling and misappropriation were common and much-loved pastimes, Arborough was also home to an indecent number of taverns. Where most towns of good repute have a church or chapel on each corner (and there tend to be a fair number of corners, one finds), the people of Arborough did most of their worshipping over a pint and a handful of booty- of both kinds, if they were lucky enough for one or the other. It is perhaps no surprise then that our friend Corliss McClintock favoured the town on many a visit, and that he spent more time passed out beneath a stool there than he did on his bed at home. People like himself were not out of the ordinary in Hengelford.

The same could not be said for one such visitor. In an upper-class saloon declaring itself ‘The Loophole’ in bold black font, cradled on the verges of the inner-city villas, there entered a lady, alone yet confident, as she picked her way around a man sweeping drunks from the gutters. This may not seem entirely peculiar, but if one were at all familiar with the region, one would know that, in this city, a true ‘lady’ was considered as foreign as a pineapple in a butcher’s shop.

Her garb did little to conceal such. Other than a mossy green cloak, there was very little that could be deemed modest about her attire. Her richly adorned dress winked alluringly at thieving hands as it peeked, lush lilac and blue, from beneath her cloak’s light folds as she swept proudly past, and luminous eyes, highlighted by the clusters of crystalline lamps that clung to the linen-draped walls like limpets, peered greedily at the woman as she waited by the front desk. The lights cast strange and distorted colours around the dimly lit residence, orange candlelight scattering into fractures of green and blue and red and yellow like alchemists flames which cursed the room with a surreal glow.

She paid the barman extra for a private room with some wine and two glasses, and once directed to her chamber she lounged across a plush velvet recliner with wine unopened in anticipation of a visitor. After half an hour of tapping her feet, the woman reached for the bottle and poured some of its heady contents into the first glass.

As she lifted the ornate rim to her rosy lips, she took the bottle in one hand and idly perused its label. A Merrian Red- and not even the expensive stuff, though she had paid an arm and a leg for it. With a tut of contempt she placed the bottle back on the table but continued to drink, tossing her hood back to reveal a bob of brittle brown hair and a face made for scornful looks and contempt.

For the better part of an hour she waited. For another half of that, she waited again. Finally, with bottle largely empty and patience worn through, she gathered her skirts in a fluster and flounced to the door, which she jerked inwards with a haughty tug and a mutter into the dark.

“Leaving so soon?”

The lady’s firm grey eyes flinched upwards to meet those of a watery brown-green as her heeled feet staggered an unintentional step back. For a time, she continued to stare blatantly at the man who blocked the doorway, her uncouth look unashamedly returned from a long sharp face down a slender nose that somewhat resembled a bird of prey’s abruptly hooked beak.

A soft grimace pinched at her stunted features as she observed him in mild revulsion, nostrils flaring at the whiff of stale sweat which wafted inwards with the door’s backdraft. The man’s skin, though largely concealed beneath a dark cloak and creaking leather doublet, had the natural tanned quality of one of the fairer Summer Nations- Desnia or Rosasia, perhaps- yet it contained the pallid hue of something undercooked or kept in a cupboard for too long. The sallow lighting did little to improve his complexion, highlighting each grimy pore of his oleaginous skin, and the only thing greasier than its slimy surface was his disgustingly oily soot-brown hair, slicked back from his frowning brow in unkempt clumps that straggled about his jawline like kelp. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties or thereabouts, a smidgen under six foot, and though lightly muscled beneath his robes of black on grey his physique was ultimately serpentine in nature.

Overall, he put her in mind of some species of slimy reptile or amphibian or a cave-dwelling eel. A one-armed reptile, she could not help but note; a fact which she had been conveniently unaware of if this was indeed the man whom she had been anticipating, or she might have reconsidered hiring him. Her companion must have been aware of her staring, for he spoke in a dull and drearily monotonous tone that was reminiscent of one of her old lecturers in history.

“I assure you, my lady, my left arm is just as capable as any other.”

“You are Moray of Allin, I presume?” There was no reply nor even a nod of his head, but something in his cold distant eyes told her that she was correct. She dragged her gaze away from his missing arm to regard him sceptically, “You kept me waiting for over an hour.”

“Not quite. And I had good reasons.”

“Indeed?” Her mouth pressed into a moue, her lips rehearsing the shape instinctively, “Pray tell, what were those?”

“None of your concern…” The male pushed past her into the room beyond, his spattered black boots trampling mud into the exotic carpet, watery optics glancing about the dimly lit chamber as he strolled casually towards the table and chairs. As the brunette followed his progress with an air of increasing distaste, the man stooped to lift the wine bottle, staring at it beneath heavy lids with no real interest as he turned it idly between the fingers of his left and only hand, “Did you come alone?”

“I did.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He put the wine down with deliberate leisure, then claimed a seat before the lady had the opportunity.

“You understand that anyone with a shred of self-respect would end this consultation this instant, with such galling attitude as you have shown me within these first mere minutes of our introduction.”

“I understand,” Moray leaned back languidly in his chair, perusing the room some more as though appreciating its architecture and interior design, “I am fortunate, then, that you have no self-respect, or we wouldn’t be having this meeting in the first place, would we now?”

His gaze fell upon her pointedly and their eyes met once more. For the first few seconds she stared at him in furious offence, and it seemed that she might smack him though he remained gallingly unperturbed. Then, with some effort and a small breath, a mildly impressed but maddened smirk curled her cherry lips like a wilting petal.

“For an up-jumped sewage stain you have quite a glib tongue, sir. Perhaps when this is over I shall have it as compensation- a little keepsake to remember you by.”

“I am afraid body parts are not a part of the package. Not mine, at least. This man you hired me to find, however-“

“Corliss McClintock, yes.”

A pause.

“I knew who we were talking about, I just thought it prudent not to mention his name here, but it appears that stupidity always finds a way…” A look of exasperation had washed over Moray, and after lifting a hand to his temples to take a small breather he continued in a mutter, “As I was saying, this man whom you hired me to locate- well, if it’s body parts that you’re looking for then that can certainly be arranged.”

“No,” Her response was quick and decisive, earning her a swift glance from across the table that hinted at the first true curiosity the man had displayed since his arrival, “I may loathe the bastard for what he did to my late husband, but he is not to be harmed.”

“Not to appear crude, my lady,” Moray replied in a tone which spoke otherwise, shifting slowly in his seat with the soft scrunching of leather on leather, “But why do you care about your grossly overaged husband’s death? Surely you never truly loved him?” As though to elaborate his point, he let his eyes drift to the brightly coloured garments beneath her cloak, hardly fitting of a widow in mourning. She began to cover herself up, small hands fluttering at fabric to tug her cloak over her exposed lap, but after a deliberate pause she allowed her dainty hands to fall away. She straightened up with an air of impertinence.

“Of course not. But in murdering his grandfather, that little brat took everything from me. My security. My wealth. I hadn’t even managed to get an heir off my decrepit husband yet, if indeed he was even capable of it at his age, and so my place is meaningless. I want to see the bastard that did it punished. He ruined my life.”

For the longest time there was silence as Moray deliberated her cause, the stillness winding about them like twine and making the air seem tight and restrictive, yet she did not flinch. Finally, a sigh escaped the room as Moray sat back in his chair with a relaxed shrug.

“Alright, I’m satisfied. So, tell me, what information do you have for me to work with? I’m going to need more than a name and the accusation of ‘he did it’. Does he have any living relatives other than yourself whom I could speak to? Brothers? Sisters? What about his mother?”

“No brothers-“

“Did he kill them too?”

“No, he was the only son.”

“Ah.”

“He has two sisters, though. Lulana and Adelia. Since last I heard, they both still remain at the Crawford residence.”

“And the mother? Is she nearby?”

“The mother died during childbirth. Yet another atrocity the McClintock boy is responsible for.”

“I see. Is that all you can give me?”

The widow hesitated, then began rummaging about in the folds of her cloak. There was the sharp rustling of crisp parchment and she produced a letter, the wax seal already split. She passed it to him across the table and continued to speak as he pinched it from her delicate hands and began perusing the paper.

“The letter tells of an escape witnessed by a couple of the castle guards sent to pursue him,” She explained, “They say he took to the sea in a small boat, most probably heading southward, accompanied by a man no villagers seem to have heard of and a girl of the Southern Nations- we suppose a fugitive of the wars.”

“You say you have information for me, but all I hear are speculations and maybes.”

A red flush crept up her cheeks.

“I have given you all I know- my time and my money. Is that not enough for you?”

“Oh, indeed. I am the finest your money can buy, I assure you. I could find the boy with little more than a child’s description and common hearsay,” The oily amphibian tossed the parchment across the table with a crude flick of his wrist, regarding the woman with the same blank look that never seemed to leave his lifeless face, “Knowledge, however, is a weapon. The more I know, the sharper the blade and the more accurate my aim. Not to mention it would consume much less of both of our time and money… However, if that is all…” The lady had placed a plump bundle upon the oak table top, and after weighing and pocketing the package he pushed himself to his feet with the elongated stump of his right arm. Then, slicking back his limp brown hair from his face in greasy streaks, he gave a curt nod to the woman before sauntering slowly out of the room. Upon reaching the threshold, however, a final few words pulled him back.

“One more thing. In case I did not make myself quite clear earlier, I want him brought to me alive, understand? He will suffer for the woes he has brought upon my family and I, of that I am set, but it will be at my hand and under my supervision. Your only task is to bring him to me.”

“Assassination is only the sport, my lady. Bounty hunting is the business. Rest assured that your package will arrive discreetly and… relatively unharmed, to the best of my abilities.” He drew out the ‘s’ like a snake, and his lips twitched into the first semblance of a smile that she had seen from him since they met, albeit capricious and untrustworthy. The slight peeling back of his faintly clefted upper lift revealed a chipped and pointed grin reminiscent of an eel.

“I will be expecting the rest of my payment upon my return. Best have it ready- I will be seeing you soon.”