Walking through the darker, more narrow streets of the city of Ghlow known simply as the East End, Hoab let his lanky legs stretch out ahead of his narrow, slightly hunched, body with little care for those who might be walking along these same avenues. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but it was a noisy day, and he wasn’t certain as to why.

Figuring it was one of any number of problems that Hoab thought of as “Other People Being Crapspackle.” He heard another roar from somewhere off to the vaguely west of where he now walked, and decided he couldn't be bothered to care. Caring, as such, took valuable energy and thought away from his other usual daily activities.

Had anyone ever bothered to ask, Hoab might have told them that such things as “Caring” about the concerns or lives of others was a fool's game. Too many people wanted too many things, and each one of those people, if asked, would lie about it.

Constantly saying things about wanting the best for those around them, and that “Isn’t it nice when we can all get along?” Meanwhile, those same people would push any old granny they didn’t know (and some they DID know) out in front of a charging cart-horse to grab at a found copper on the road. They would eat the last scrap of bread, saying “Oh, what a pity that there weren't any more left?”

Then they usually would devolve into screaming fits about “WHY ARE YOU IN MY BEDROOM?” Or, “GIVE ME BACK MY SOCKS!” And such inconsiderate tripe as “STOP STABBING ME!!”

Every day has its own challenges, Hoab thought. And today is just as much of a kick in the maddies as every other day.

Today.

Today he needed a whistlepig.

It REALLY was loud in the city of Ghlow today. Louder than it had been most other days.

There had been sporadic yelling and cheering in the distance. Sometimes singing.

And every once in a while, there had been overwhelming staccato shouts from thousands of mouths.

Iztha needed a whistlepig. And if Iztha needed a whistlepig, by all of the Seven Gods that Mattered, and all the other Gods that didn’t because they were knee-biting-asshats, then Hoab would procure a whistlepig.

He had a sack. And he had his knife. It’s a good knife, too… And that combination was what he had to work with to give Iztha what she needed.

He didn’t know where he had gotten the sack, but it was next to his lanky frame when he had awoken that morning in the abandoned shack he and the shambling, mindless form that was sometimes Iztha had taken over last month from the family that had been inconsiderately living there before.

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“Let the world be on its own lookout, Hoab is sacked up!” He mumbled to himself with some enthusiasm as he glided along the dim lanes from one watering hole to the next. He knew that if he were persistent, he would be rewarded with a meal, probably an ale, some coin, and today, a whistlepig.

The little vermin were thick on the ground in the western mountains. Out past the livable areas of the Toodvelt Duchy, were mostly only the larger predators, like dragons, lived. And where one has dragons, the local wisdom ran, there too one had whistlepigs. Or so Hoab had thought he had heard people say. Or maybe not. It was difficult for him to care about what anyone would have to say about dragons.

Or wizards.

Or pants.

Pants were definitely bullshit.

Or the cost of grapes in the market on any given Fifth day.

And, were he to be honest about himself and his mental state, anything anyone had to say was usually completely lacking in value to Hoab. Unless it had been Iztha saying it.

People didn’t rate Hoab’s concern, because he had never, to his knowledge, been cared for by any other being, aside from his darling, mindlessly drooling, Iztha, since his own mother had passed years ago. Now, anyone who was “concerned” about Hoab, in his experience, were either local authorities who all had very constricting ideas about what was and what was not Hoab’s property or crimes, and Iztha in those rares hours right after he gave her what she needed to come back to him.

As he came around a corner from the Audil Alley where it met the main thoroughfare of the city, he was almost deafened by another roar, causing him to flail abouts, and jerked himself awkwardly back around the corner into the relative safety of the awaiting shadows.

This ruckus, he decided, was beginning to wreck his concentration. Hoab thought of himself as unflappable. But had he been asked, in that moment, he might now admit to being slightly flapped.

He let his heart stop its incessant hammering in his chest, and regained his composure, before risking a look around the wall at the intersection. HIs hands ran along the rough stones of the building beside which he now sheltered. The gray stone, flecked with black and white motes was a comfort to him, the cold surface soothing to his hands and cheek where he leaned against it.

From his shadowed vantage point, Hoab could see the next tavern he intended to visit. It was one of a very rare breed of “nicer” taverns on the edge of the East End. It was still in that “bad” part of town, but it was also near enough to a watch house that it had become the local soak for the Silvercaps.

Hoab hated the Silvercaps. He even hated their nickname as being just a fancier name for Watchmen. The ones that prowled these same streets that he thought of as distinctly “His” were worse than the others in the city. They were bent.

If one had enough money, Hoab knew, the SIlvercaps would look the other way if they caught one on the outs. And that was just infuriating to someone like Hoab, who perpetually lacked the funding to make everything “legal.”

But, he knew he had to visit every tavern, pub, or inn in the city until he found what he needed. Even this one. He couldn’t read the name on the sign, or anything else for that matter, but judging by the images carved and painted on the sign, this establishment was “The Big Nosed King,” or possibly “My Gods, We Crowned an Ugly Goose!” Locals called it “The Crown.” And in it, Hoab hoped to find that elusive whistlepig that he needed.

That Iztha needed.

He had just decided to madly dash across the road and throw himself into the pub when the world painted itself in concussive brilliance across all of his senses, and then it all went quickly away.