Kelvin Kregg was feeling pretty pleased with himself.

Of course, this was not an unfamiliar emotion for the , so this particular moment of smug satisfaction did not completely register as especially noteworthy. Which was a shame because it would be the last time in quite a while he would feel this pleasant background hum of utterly unearned joy at the way his life had worked out.

Kregg fancied himself the sort of man who left a lasting impression. As he sauntered down the cobbled streets of Soar, away from the museum, he imagined that every passerby’s gaze lingered on him, their eyes drawn irresistibly to his commanding presence. Of course, most people’s eyes slid right off him like grease, but if there was one thing a was good at, it was not letting reality get in the way of perception.

Soar was a city that liked to think of itself as cosmopolitan, but that was just a polite way of saying it had a bit of everything and a lot of nothing. The streets were an architectural patchwork, with grand old buildings such as the Celestial Temple and the Tower of Law dominating the skyline with newer, uglier modern constructions that didn’t so much inspire as they did impose. The air was thick with the mingled scents of market stalls, damp commuters, and the ever-present scent of discharged mana—a smell that had a knack for clinging to the back of your throat long after you’d left it behind. It was a city that, like Kregg, was increasingly past its prime but pretending otherwise with all the vigour of a former who’d learned to compensate for the inevitable ravages of time with liberal makeup application. And murdering her competitors.

Kregg whistled as he walked, utterly unbothered by any examples of the city's poverty he passed, which - on more than one occasion - he literally stepped over. Truthfully, his personality was ideally suited to his Class, though he would have insisted it was the other way around. As a , he spent his days spinning mundane events into something resembling newsworthy. In the grand scheme of things, his Skills would be considered mundane, as minor as his god’s wider influence, but his little tricks could make a dull story seem slightly less so, like adding a dash of salt to a bland soup. In his hands, a minor exhibition at the Soar Museum could become “a groundbreaking exploration of the artistic influences that shaped our cultural identity,” which was to say that it was still as boring as watching paint dry but with an added layer of pretentiousness that made people feel clever for enduring it.

But since he had obtained access to necrotic slime . . .

As he walked, Kregg held his head high, chin thrust out to best display his jawline, which he considered one of his more admirable features. His clothes were expensive but worn with careless arrogance, as he considered himself above the need to impress. This was, after all, Soar—where the only currency that truly mattered was power, and, right now, Kregg had plenty of that to spare. His god, Carvanal, a minor deity of Fascination, was an obscure figure in the pantheon, the sort that most people had never heard of and wouldn’t care to worship even if they had. And that suited Kregg perfectly. He had no desire to compete with the fervent followers of the more popular gods in the Celestial Temple. Not for him jostling for the favour of deities who had long since stopped listening. No, Kregg preferred to be a big fish in a tiny, unremarkable pond. And for that, his god rewarded him with the occasional stroke of good fortune, some eclectic Skills and a talent for the sort of shenanigans that kept Kregg in a comfortable flat with a decent view of the park and ensured his position at the museum - and his use to Director Nuroon - remained unchallenged, even as more talented Bards struggled to find work.

Friends were surprised that Kregg had chosen to work at Soar Museum. Although he fancied himself a man of taste, his idea of culture was more about what could be seen and less about what could be understood. They understood he saw himself as a connoisseur of the arts, but they’d sought to explain to him that, because his appreciation was never able to extend beyond the surface—a painting’s value, in his eyes, was determined more by the artist’s name than by any particular quality of the work itself – it might not be the most sensible of occupations to seek to promote the museum to the wider public. Unfortunately, this superficiality extended to all areas of his life, including his relationships. And he ignored any and all advice.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

This inability to hear ‘no’ was pretty much why Kregg had developed a reputation in certain circles. His advances toward young women were as subtle as a hand up a dress. Yet, no matter how many slaps to the face he received, to his mind, they were flattered by his attention; after all, what woman wouldn’t be? He was a catch—a man of standing, intelligence, and an intense charm which was surely irresistible. That all the young women at the museum found a sudden interest in the far corners of the building, their conversations taking on a hushed, hurried tone as he passed by, was taken by him to be a sign of universal adoration. Although, in truth, Women frustrated him. They were all too timid, too prudish to appreciate his attention, too blinded by some misguided sense of propriety to recognise his inherent worth. He had, for example, been certain Martha Culloden would have come his way eventually, she had just needed time to realise what she was missing.

But, no. That wasn't going to happen any more, was it?

As he walked, Kregg couldn’t help but feel a grin spread across his face. Finding the source of his unexpected good fortune in the Exhibit Hall was working out far better than he could have hoped. Here he was, a man of increased influence in an institution that, while it might not have been the centre of Soar, was still a place of great importance. The fact that most of the people he passed barely acknowledged him didn’t register as an insult; it simply reinforced his belief that they were beneath him, too enmeshed in their dreary little lives to appreciate the quality of the man walking among them.

The streets of Soar were busy this time of day, filled with people going about their business. He liked to imagine that they did notice him, of course, that their eyes lingered just a moment longer as he passed, recognising, even if only subconsciously, that he was someone of consequence. He passed by a , a wiry young man playing a tune that was either very avant-garde or very bad—it was hard to tell the difference. Kregg paused for a moment, considering whether to drop a piece of gold into the hat that lay at the musician’s feet, but then thought better of it. He’d once fancied himself a patron of the arts but, over time, had decided that most of the arts weren’t worth patronising.

No, he had a more worthy focus for his attention now.

Kregg’s flat was in a district of Soar that had once been fashionable but increasingly seen better days. His building, a towering block of greying stone with iron railings that were more rust than metal, was a relic from a time when people still cared about how things looked. Kregg liked to think of it as having character, though others might have called it a bit of an eyesore. He was so looking forward to being able to trade up.

Kregg climbed the steps to his front door, his mind already turning to the evening ahead. There was a bottle of wine waiting for him, a gift from one of the museum’s Trustees, no doubt intended as a subtle bribe to ensure their latest donation received a bit more publicity than it might have otherwise deserved. Kregg had accepted it with a smile and a nod, already planning how to make the bottle last over several evenings. One didn’t need to be extravagant when one was alone.

The lock clicked open with a familiar creak, and Kregg stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed through the empty space. The flat was tidy, almost sterile in its cleanliness; he liked things to be just so, everything in its place, a world where he was the centre and everything revolved around him. He made his way to the small sitting room, where a comfortable armchair awaited him, positioned so he could gaze out of the window at the city below. He liked to sit there in the evenings, a wine glass in hand, watching the world go by, content in the knowledge that he was above it all—both literally and figuratively.

With a sigh, Kregg poured himself a glass of wine, watching the liquid swirl in the glass, catching the light from the fading sun. As he took a sip, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Yes, life was good, he thought. He had a position of influence, a comfortable home, and a god who rewarded his loyalty. And now, he had a whole host of new opportunities opening up for him. The soft click of his window blowing shut caught his attention, and he half-turned towards it. Then, he completed a full turn when he saw the short, dark woman standing in the shadows.

"Who the fuck are you!"

"Ah," Hel said, hurricanes spinning in her eyes. "A perfectly valid question. But I have some of those, too. How about we start with mine, and if there is enough of you left alive when I'm finished asking, we move on to discussing my biography? Yes? Excellent. Now, first things first," she opened her hand, and a vial of something glittering unpleasantly floated in the air, "where the fuck did a nonentity like you get your hands on necrotic slime?"