Bolton Woltwork

Approximately 24 hours earlier]

Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, nestled between Quadrants One and Two, lay Whistletop Alley—a vibrant hub where distinctions of status, sex, and species dissolved into the chaos of thickening crowds. By day, the alley buzzed with activity as vendors from across the quadrants peddled exotic goods and street performers entertained families and travelers alike. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Whistletop Alley transformed into a realm of vice and wonder, unburdened by the exposing rays of daylight.

As dusk settled, grills ignited, entertainers donned elaborate costumes, and musicians tuned their instruments to perfection. The tantalizing scent of grilled and spiced meats danced through the air, mingling with the rhythmic hum of melodic performances and the clatter of coins changing hands. Under the amber glow of lanterns, the alley became a labyrinth of temptation and spectacle, earning its local moniker: the “Blown Whistle District.”

Whistletop Alley’s charm extended beyond its lively atmosphere. Its quaint architecture—orange brick facades, cobblestone streets, and winding alleys—exuded an irresistible allure. Tall rooftops and gaping sewer grates whispered tales of hidden treasures and secrets, beckoning adventurous souls to uncover the mysteries tucked into every nook and cranny.

Tonight, however, Whistletop Alley held an even greater allure. Amidst the fire-lit festivities of a warm summer night, a commotion shattered the revelry. Heads turned upward toward the rooftops, where a lithe figure moved with uncanny grace. “By the dog neath’ its tail! It’s that damn… bleedin’…” a vendor stammered, his voice trailing off in shock. Another onlooker gasped, and the name passed through the crowd like wildfire: the infamous Whistletop Burglar.

The crowd erupted in a mixture of awe and fear. Some cheered and raised their mugs in amusement, while others muttered prayers or cursed the silhouette dancing above them. Regardless of their reaction, every gaze was fixed on the young man moving effortlessly among the winding pipes and oscillating cogs that formed the canopy above.

Bolton Woltwork, mischief twinkling in his emerald-green eyes, moved as if the chaos below were his stage. Each step echoed like a well-rehearsed note in an erratic symphony. Hot white steam hissed from his boots, trailing behind him like a ghostly plume.

“Vermolly! Would ya' wiggle out of my hat for a moment? Whistletop’s even better than Danny said! Quadrant Seven’s got nothin’ like this!” Bolton adjusted his hat, waiting. “Vermolly?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice. A tug at his hair answered, and he sighed. “Right. Still babysitting the frogs,” he muttered with a grin, scanning the crowd. “This bumpkin’s stealing the spotlight already? I haven’t even done a flip yet!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. “Guess I’ll name this air contraption later,” he added, adjusting his bowler hat theatrically before pausing atop a red tent to plot his next move.

“Impure thief! Freak of a half-breed!” shouted a group of men from below.

Bolton tilted his head in mock confusion, the moonlight reflecting off his goggles. Dressed in a brown bowler hat, dark overcoat, golden suspenders, white shirt, and scuffed brown boots, he resembled the tradesmen of old. Yet his presence stirred unease. Cries of “Demon!” and “Burglar!” rose from the crowd.

Unfazed, Bolton raised his arms in a theatrical gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m back! It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Now, can any of you fine folk direct me to the original Akiyoma Airship?” His voice was light and playful, but the crowd’s jeers drowned him out.

“Prison’s where you’ll find your directions, thief!” a toothless old man bellowed.

“Wrong person!? I’m not from here!” snapped Bolton, losing balance on the red tent he perched upon.

“Wrong person! Tell the Clinkers that! Monster boy!” added another from below.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“What’s this, then? Did that thief swipe your teeth along with your sense of humor?” Bolton quipped. His smile faltered as the crowd’s frustration swelled, and he wiped a chunk of food from his shoulder, hurled from below.

With a sigh, Bolton vanished into a puff of steam, leaving the crowd to redirect their attention to a passing parade float: a giant frog puffing on an oversized pipe. Almost offended by how quickly they dismissed him, Bolton’s gaze lingered on the float. Memories of his family surfaced, unbidden. He daydreamed of a time when laughter and connection were his daily reality.

A rustling sound drew Bolton’s attention back to the crowd. Among the revelers, he noticed a woman with short black hair, elegantly dressed in a black skirt and top. Her subtle red nose and large, expressive eyes framed by dark makeup drew his focus. She laughed with her friends, their bond evident in every shared glance and gesture. Bolton’s chest tightened as he watched her disappear into the throng.

Reaching into his front jacket pocket, Bolton retrieved a small, tarnished pocket watch that held more than just time. Flipping it open, he traced the engraving inside: “Strength for today, hope for tomorrow.” Opposite the engraving was a small picture of his family, the same one nestled in Amelia's locket. The faces stared back at him with a bittersweet familiarity. His eyes lingered on Amelia, her freckled face alight with mischief even in the still image. He chuckled softly, remembering her words: “Stay away from those kinds of girls, Bolton.” The memory tugged at his lips, forming a faint smile. Snapping the watch shut, he tucked it away, the weight of it grounding him as his resolve hardened.

Far below, the crowd’s attention shifted as towering Clinkers emerged from the shadows. These mechanical beings, their angular faces and rotating cogs casting eerie shadows, stalked the alley like scarecrows. Colorful smoke billowed from their gaping mouths, and their yellow, crosshatched eyes scanned the crowd with an unsettling intensity. Most Clinkers moved with an almost lazy efficiency, but one stood out. Littered with confetti and splashes of random paint, it tilted its head in an oddly human gesture before lifting itself high on metallic stilts. Its eyes flashed red as it focused on Bolton, its movements deliberate and unnerving.

“New programming I imagine? My brother’s been busy,” Bolton muttered, his voice low.

With a sharp burst of steam, Bolton launched himself to another rooftop, his air shoes hissing beneath him. The crowd’s murmurs became a distant hum as he soared above the maze of lantern-lit streets. The whirring contraption strapped beneath his jacket groaned faintly, its cogs and pistons straining with every calculated jump.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by a loud pop. Bolton’s heart sank. “Vermolly! It might be happening again…” he groaned, feeling the pressure falter in his left boot. The contraption’s uneven thrust sent him careening off-course, his arms flailing as he slammed into a food stall below.

Crates toppled. Skewers of sizzling meat flew in every direction, and a cascade of sticky sauces coated Bolton from head to toe. He hit the ground with a groan, clutching his hat tightly to protect Vermolly and her precious frog cargo.

The crowd roared with laughter. “Look at this flying buffoon! Flying high yet can't afford to fall,” jeered a vendor, slapping his knee. Others weren’t as amused.

“Laugh somewhere else! Look at this mess!” the vendor barked, waving a dripping ladle at Bolton. “Call the Clinkers! He’s ruined my stall!” a woman added, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

Bolton scrambled to his feet, wiping sauce from his goggles. “Relax, everyone! Free samples for all, courtesy of this fine establishment!” he announced with mock cheer, gesturing toward the ruined stall. The crowd’s laughter swelled, and Bolton seized the distraction to adjust his contraption, his fingers fumbling over the array of brass valves and leather straps.

His “air contraption” was a marvel of crude ingenuity, a patchwork of brass tubing, polished copper gears, and stitched leather belts. The main apparatus rested snugly against his back, powered by a small steam engine that hissed and sputtered with every movement. Twin exhaust vents jutted from his shoulders, releasing bursts of pressurized steam that propelled him skyward. Meanwhile, his boots, reinforced with steel plates and outfitted with miniature thrusters, provided additional lift and balance.

“Nose up. Feet together. Easy now,” Bolton whispered, tightening a valve as the engine sputtered back to life. He adjusted his bowler hat with a smirk, his gaze darting toward the painted Clinker in the distance. It stood eerily still, its yellow eyes gleaming ominously through the chaos. Yet, despite its motionless legs, Bolton couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that it was somehow drawing closer.

Bolton exhaled sharply, steeling himself. “Right then. Onward and upward,” he muttered before disappearing once more into the night, leaving a trail of steam and bewildered onlookers in his wake.