There are many forms of power, and without their balancing constraints of duty and responsibility, they inevitably corrupt the heart of the holder. Be careful then of how you hold the power given you.

* Except from the address of Philosopher Kyne to the young monarch of Tabolt

First day of the second week of Autumn. Seventh bell of the evening...

A young man strode down the busy street, full of vim and vigour, acting as if he owned it.

Which, from his perspective, he basically did. His name, one he took himself from an old hero's tale, was Seymour.

His smooth black hair, cheeky green eyes and chiseled features drew the looks of the fairer sex wherever he passed.

His gleaming smile a weapon that could melt their spines and send them twittering like a flock of birds, and oh did he know it.

While a hint of youthfulness in his face spoke true to his sixteen years on this planet, he could easily pass for a man of nineteen with his v shaped muscular body and above average height.

His tailored clothing accentuated his assets marvelously, drawing the eye with its colors and tailoring.

Of course, he had not always enjoyed his current status, he had been discarded in the slum gutters of Nolusburg at the age of two, an unwanted child of a financially struggling household.

Far too common a story in these days.

He could have, and should have, perished there like so many others, but a tenacious spark flared to life in him that refused to go out.

Money, Power, Influence,he would gather it all.

It was a visceral hunger that kept him going through all those long lean winters as a child, while fighting over scraps with other gutter brats, stealing food, or scamming people who wandered into the wrong part of the city.

Indeed Seymour was a conniving fellow of great disrepute, both served him well in the dark streets and alleys of the slums, keeping him both alive and thriving.

Yet the inner hunger ever lifted Seymour’s gaze upwards, it was never satiated and ever demanded more and more of him.

He secured a place in the Grakoan mafia at the age of ten when he outshone his competitors during a bloody recruitment drive, many of whom were four to six years older than he.

But at the end none but he was left.

After that he had experienced a meteoric rising through the normally stagnant ranks of the mafia, his position continually improving from his many plans and plots.

Now at the tender age of sixteen he was one of the godmother's lieutenants, running a fifth of the mafia's operation's in this city.

The beggars and thieves all belonged to him, and he used them well, he even boosted revenue by over forty percent after he opened a training school for each group to help them train and perfect their art.

And that was a year ago, his old hunger was rising once more, no longer sated with what it was fed.

‘Should I push to take the liqueur district next?’ Seymour pondered as he strolled down the street, ‘Or maybe the pink district? But how would I wrangle it? The other lieutenants have all been on guard against me since I usurped control of the slick handers and disposed of old Nodhorn’

Seymour sighed, his footsteps led him to where he always went to relax and unwind, The Five Legged Murgoat.

He had found this gem of a tavern two years ago, when he was drawn in by a party his enforcers threw to celebrate his rise to lieutenant of beggars.

He had started partying at the inn as was his norm, until a beautiful young waitress had waltzed up and started scolding him and his mates.

Without even fully realizing what he did he apologized and took his drinking partners to a different establishment, they had mocked him for it, but he made sure they got properly sloshed that night.

By morning they had blinding hangovers and no memory of the celebratory affair other than it had happened.

Seymour though, had drunk far more circumspectly, choosing to remember the bar and waitress both.

He soon started visiting there more regularly, consuming his meals and drink alone.

Before long he was well recognized there as a regular and he had learnt a great deal about her.

Her name was Stalia, Stalia Bright.

She seemed as interested in him as he was with her, and it was not long before they were *walking out together*

Nonetheless he kept things slow and easy between them, unwilling to drag her innocence and spirit into the shadowy mire in which he lived.

He did however place a few of his men to prevent another from approaching her, a task that resulted in no few broken bones of potential suitors as time passed.

The girl was his refuge from the backstabbing and political games that were constant company to one in the mafia, she had an innocent purity that cleansed his spirit just with her proximity.

Stalia was a hardworking lass in a hard part of the city, but she had somehow remained largely untainted by it, she was not an airhead, no that would be unattractive to one such as he, but she still shone amidst the muck of this world.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Talking with her soothed the hunger within Seymour, quieting it down to a whispering rumble, an unexpected yet strangely welcome feeling. It was… nice

And so at times like these when the hunger growled loud and fierce, making Seymour restless and impatient, his feet unerringly traced the path back to her.

Seymour passed the inns sign of a mutated murgoat eating some curtains, he pushed open the well used door and made his way to his usual spot, a quiet booth in the far corner.

Seymour let his eyes roam as he walked through the common room, scoping out the current residents of the bar.

He nodded politely to many of the regulars that he was familiar with, and briefly noted two canners attempting to drown their sorrows in booze.

‘Nothing new there’ he dismissedly thought.

Seymour moved on, there were a few unknown faces seated, he would have to ask his informants about those later.

Especially the lady sitting a few booths over from his spot, while her red hood hid most of her face, her fair skin and luscious red lips spoke to the possibility of great beauty.

He hated beauties.

Beauties always spelt trouble, a lesson he had learnt from watching a multitude of tragedies unfold. Indeed they attracted trouble like mangy suks to a carcass

‘Stalia being the exception of course’ he quickly corrected in his mind.

Seymour resolved himself to not get involved with the red hooded lady unless she intruded on one of his interests, no doubt she would come to a bad end round these parts.

And if she survived? Well the pink district was ever hungry for fresh flesh.

Seymour put her out of his mind, and focused on Stalia as the girl wove her way towards him.

She smiling charmingly, and Seymour felt his cares drift away like a summer's breeze, he loosed a genuine smile in return.

Seymour had been worried when he heard of the accident involving Friedrich and Guppy a few days past, he knew what it meant for the family under Gakroan law.

So he had called in a favor with Ingma, and got him to propose more generous terms for them to Selena.

The ploy had been shut down quickly though, forcing him to retreat back into the shadows and burning some bridges that had been difficult and costly to build.

‘Did Selena grow too wary of me too?’ Seymour wondered,

‘I'm going to have to tread carefully for the next few weeks and play extra nice’

And yet, somehow Guppy had come up with the money, an obscene amount by any non-noble's standard.

‘Perhaps she’d been stealing from Friedrich for the last few years? It's the only explanation that makes any sense, only Friedrich could have been handling gold of such purity’

Seymour pondered over the probabilities.

He had heard from his sources that the dwarf had been fanatical about his metals, demanding none but the purest for his experiments and creations.

But for even his scrap to be pure gold, it blew Seymour’s mind and stimulated his hunger once more…

But he would figure that out later, for now, there were more pressing issues.

“Hi yo Stalia, how long you got left on your shift?” Seymour asked.

He could spot her tiredness underneath her excited expression, she must have worked a double today.

“Not even a bell left Seymour, I'll finish up soon, can I get you something to eat in the meantime?” Stalia replied as she grinned and lightly blushed.

“A bowl of the Murgoat's best stew then, to keep me warm without you” he replied, noting with satisfaction the rather deeper blush that crept up Stalia's face straight to the tips of her ears.

She hit him, a playful thwack to remind him they were in public.

He didn't care, it was all the more fun to tease her, he could feel his hunger settling down already.

He ate his bowl of stew as he waited, resolving a more mundane hunger, it was a decent meal, and easily worth the coin paid for it.

The proprietor was an honest sort, rare in this part of town, the honest ones usually didn't last very long.

But Seymour knew the truth, having taken care to look into his background, the proprietor was a retired knight who had always dreamed of owning an inn while he was enlisted.

When his tour of duty ended he had turned that dream into reality with his savings, though heaven knows where he found that wretched murgoat the inn was named after.

Even now the beast made its rounds, and any individual or group that refused it an offering would quickly find the murgoat eating something else of theirs instead, often something far more valuable than a morsel of food.

Putting aside his strange taste in pets the Innkeepers’ fighting prowess and a no nonsense attitude had stood him in good stead in this rough section of town, intimidating or dealing with the riff raff that sometimes wandered in kept this place clean and opium free.

Of course it helped that Seymour had made sure the Inn was marked as his turf from as far back as two years ago, he had no wish for any of the other lieutenants to set up shop here.

So those who caused trouble were individuals rather than any one group.

Furthermore he had made the inn his unofficial headquarters, even as he ate a few nondescript individuals passed his booth and slipped him notes, written in a code Seymour had devised and taught in the schools he founded.

Finishing his bowl, Seymour leant back and picked a scrap of meat from between his teeth with a sliver of bone.

Unfurling the many small scripts he began reading them, decrypting them in his head as his eyes flitted across the papers.

Joombla usage was on the rise, the new opium proving more popular and addictive than its traditional competitors, his counterpart there was proving too successful as of late.

He'd have to do something about that soon, perhaps a lovely warm bonfire in their central cache.

The pink district was performing well as always, their income largely stable. The whole affair was decently well run by Margery, Selena's number two.

The woman was a dried up bitter old hag, but she kept everything running like the clockwork found in her watch. Efficiently.

The gambling dens are raking in more and more as people continued to sink into desperation, but they hit their peak a couple months back, it'll be downhill for a while he predicted.

‘Good, their influence will lessen and provide me with some room to maneuver.’

The liquor sales were barely staying stable, which was saying something in the current economic downturn.

He glanced over at the two Canners, empty tankards littering their table, bearing testament to both their support of the industry, and determined progression towards drunken oblivion.

‘Perhaps George's alcohol district should be my new target, they've been showing division in their ranks of late, it wouldn't take much to make them fall apart and need some… guidance.’

Seymour grinned as he plotted his rivals’ demise, it always put him in a jolly mood to do so.

‘I would need a pretext of course, and the necessary support from the majority of the group. I should break out one of my coin stashes and be rather liberal in the coming weeks, all in a quite innocent way of course.’

Seymour made notes and plans in an encrypted shorthand that only he knew, gradually spinning a plan for his next grand step.

Soon the eighth bell rung and Seymour had to tuck his notebook away as Stalia swept over and threw herself into his arms.

The booth was not a private room, but it afforded some privacy from the common room, tucked away in a corner and angled as it was.

Seymour took this opportunity to sweep her off her feet and share a long kiss with the girl. She melted into his arms as the kiss extended.

He could feel her tiredness though, seeping through her every movement, It had been a rough week for her no doubt.

‘Well, let's see what I can do to improve it’ Seymour thought, a broad smile spreading upon his face.