Horace limped through the hanging carcasses at the back of his butcher shop, the coppery scent of blood muted by more than the chill. As he suspected, too many hooks hung unused. The game from the rangers had slowed of late, and they weren't saying why. Not that they were a particularly talkative bunch at the best of times, takes a certain type to hunt in the forest alone. The taverns were abuzz with rumours of a dungeon. He snorted, whatever fantastical rumours the young’uns came up with wouldn’t matter if the food ran out, and as the gaffer they got it from he would take the brunt. Spying a few containers of pigs’ blood reminded him that his favourite customer hadn’t stopped by in a while. The tinkle of a bell from the front of his shop interrupted his stocktaking, who knew, maybe that would be her now…

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“Yeah boss, we reckon old Horace might’ve been a bit sweet on her but we gave him a good working over, he hasn’t seen her. Her parents were some sort of fancy servants that moved to Whitecliffs after the coup. She seems to have gone to ground but we’ve got feelers out, if she resurfaces in Timberhollow we’ll know.”

Ewan tried not to sound like he was making excuses, his boss didn’t like excuses, but he was out of ideas for how to find the woman. Some of the guards were whispering about her being connected to the dungeon somehow but that was ridiculous, they were natural disasters. Even if she somehow was connected, Ewan didn’t last this long as a [gangster] without knowing how to pick his fights.

“What of her home?”

“The guards gave it a cursory investigation but don’t seem to have tied the burning back to us. The hubbub with all the holy types seems to have provided a good enough distraction.”

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Silence stretched between them only interrupted by the clinking of poker chips as his boss absently riffled the piles in front of him. Ewan knew from experience that it was when the chips stopped moving that the violence started. Everything from the plush furnishings to the many rings on his fingers showed, the boss liked money. For the few who knew where to look, the bodies buried under the gambling den proved just what he’d been prepared to do to get it.

“Boss,” Ewan wanted to throttle the young upstart beside him even before the whiny voice finished the dumb question. “Why are we goin’ so far? Most o’ the lads hated Foster. What does it matter if some broad offed ‘im?”

“It matters,” the boss said, his tone and posture radiating danger as he slowly rose to tower over them, “Because he was on our turf. Even if he was a two bit [loanshark] whose greed was always goin’ te get him killed, I decide who lives and dies here. No one else. Are we clear?” His tone was deathly quiet at the end while his face was scant inches from the young idiot.

Ewan had to resist the urge to sigh as the kid let out an affirmative that was almost blubbering, too rash with not enough spine, he wouldn’t last long. A backhand from the boss had him tumbling to the floor while the rest of the room pretended the interruption never happened as the boss retook his seat and began stacking and restacking his chips once more.

“We’ll make an example of the mortician when she surfaces. I hear the mutts are in town?”

“Aye.” Ewan wasn’t exactly sure what his boss’ beef with beastkin was but he wasn’t about to risk the ire turning his way. “Got in this morning. Seem real interested in the dungeon, even sent a few to Krieger to get access.”

A predatory grin stretched across his face, “Well if the mutts are so keen to die, we might as well make a profit off of it. We still have our contacts in the guard, lets see if we can’t offer some access tonight, for a hefty fee of course.”

Ewan suppressed a shiver, if the group made its way out with anything of value the gang might do a delve of its own. Time to find some suckers he wouldn’t mind disappearing; he wasn’t going anywhere near that death trap personally. The moron on the floor was one, now to find the rest…