Vincent kept his hood up: seating himself into the back corner of the tavern. Staying as far from the crowd as he could. It would be too dangerous if anyone recognized him.

                  Patrons let him be, and the staff rarely came by to refresh his drink or check if he wanted food. Tapping his fingers rhythmically, Vincent watched the doorway. Awaiting his contact. It had been his idea to meet at such a lowly place—the Sleeping Arse—a tavern located at the heart of the slums. Those who patroned the establishment were usually too drunk to mind anyone else’s business, and the slums were patrolled less by town guards. It was the perfect place for those up to no good, or for those who wanted to go unrecognized to gather. You better not be sleeping, you arse, Vincent brought his fingers to a halt.

                  Flipping open the watch at his side, Vincent sighed. His contact was over an hour late. Kane you bastard, he stood. Dropping a few coins upon the table to pay for his drinks. There were many things that one could find deplorable about Kane. He was a self-entered, money-gouging, cowardly man. But at the same time, he was reliable and punctual. If he promised to meet someone somewhere at a specific time, you could bet Kane would be there beforehand. The bastard must have gotten himself into trouble somewhere.

                  Sunlight was fleeting as Vincent stepped into the not-so fresh air. A smell of human waste lingered across the decayed streets of the slums. Two men were busy fighting over a fallen nest. Unwilling to share the spoils of one dead pigeon and the two eggs that survived the fall. Vincent would have usually paid no mind to them, but they happened to be struggling in front of the stairs leading down from the tavern. Vincent could have easily jumped the rails. A two-foot drop was nothing. There might be minor discomfort in his legs from the fall, but even a drunk could manage that feat.

                  But if I did, he moved a hand to his face. Touching the scar he so desperately wished to hide. Was it worth the risk of revealing who he was? At that moment he heard the pained cries of the men. In their infinite wisdom, they had managed to tackle one another haphazardly down the stairs. Leaving themselves sprawled out in pain. Taking this moment of peace, Vincent glided down the stairs and took off to find Kane. Sadly, the first place to go looking was one Vincent had never dared step foot in before: a no-name brothel that had overtaken an abandoned temple in the furthest corner of the slums. Though his friend tried to assure him each time, he went for the parlor and not the women.

                  I swear, if I have to pay even a single coin, Vincent was ready to wring Kane’s neck. A pleasurable thought he’d have to put on hold. Along the way, he happened to pass by the old bakery at the moment it was getting a visit by the lowest rung on the criminal ladder. Three men had surrounded the elderly couple who spent their days making the worst goods one could buy. Each of the thugs marked with a snake coiling around slime. They were Cucara’s boys. The leader of the thugs seemed to be a half-orc, as evident by his green-grey skin and the fact he stood center. At either side of him were clearly elves. Their slender forms and pointed ears a dead giveaway.

                  “This isn’t enough,” the half-orc spat. Dropping the purse he’d received from the couple to the dirt. “You wanna make Cucara mad?” The way they threw their boss’ name around, you would think it would mean something. But anyone who was decent with their first would likely laugh off the threat. The elderly bakers on the other hand, they didn’t have the luxury of messing around. Any threat towards them was as serious as they came.

                  “That’s all we have,” Preston, the elderly baker said. He looked back towards his shop. The display still held most of that morning’s batch, “Business has been slow. We can’t afford to pay what you ask.” One of the elves took hold of his wife, Philis. Preston turned back to the half-orc. His pleas shaky, “Please, no need for violence. We can pay extra next week. Just don’t hurt us.”

                  “Now, now,” laughed the thug. “We can’t just let you go. If we just let you get away with cheating us, no one would take us seriously again.”

                  Just ignore it, Vincent turned away. You don’t owe them. Vincent started to walk away. He barely knew the old couple. Sure, they had given him a free loaf of bread when he first came to the slums. And he’d seen how kind they’d been to others around them despite how hard life had been for them. Not only was their bread better used as a weapon than a snack, but the two of them had just buried their only child. Leave them be, he looked back over his shoulder. No longer listening to what was being said. All that matter was the old man now on the ground. A trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. And then there was the dagger directed towards his wife. Dammit, he couldn’t swallow his heart this time.

                  Without thinking, Vincent swiped his arm with a snap. A wall of ice broke from the ground. Dividing the thugs from the elderly couple. The elf who had been holding the wife found his arm trapped. “Who the fuck is responsible?” yelled the half-orc. It was difficult to tell at that distance, but Vincent was sure the man was foaming at the mouth. “Who thinks they can interfere with Cucara’s business?” People had begun to gather around, though Vincent still stood out among the crowd. Leading the thug to direct his anger—correctly—towards him, “You must be an idiot thinking you can get away with this.”

Stolen story; please report.

                  “But I’m not the one working for Cucara,” Vincent retorted. Now the foam in the half-orc’s mouth was confirmed. He decided to continue to anger the thug. Hoping his words would be a good enough distraction. A blue light illuminated Vincent’s hand; mist spiraled away from his palm, ice crystals sparkling in the dying twilight. “Or maybe you’re just that pathetic.” That seemed to be the breaking point. The free elf charged Vincent’s way. Dawning the broadsword from his hip.

                  A rush of wind filled Vincent’s ears. Time felt as though it slowed the moment he jumped back. The edge of the sword glinted in the dying light as it slashed where his neck had just been. Instinct took over, Vincent pushed off the moment his foot touched earth, launching him towards his attacker.

                  Ice encased the elf’s head upon contact. Vincent used his forward momentum to carry himself, slamming his assaulter to the ground. Chunks of ice skittered across the ground, the impact shattered the shell outright. “Oh, he kept his head,” you could hear the smile in Vincent’s voice. “I’m getting better at this.” One elf unconscious, and another still trapped by the wall of ice. If Cucara’s pride were to be defended, it was all up to the half-orc.

                  “Enough,” the thug bellowed. Steam rose from the corners of his mouth and from his ears. The air around his crackled until fully igniting, an aura of flames danced in the gentle breeze. Vincent hadn’t expected him to be a mage. “Killing you will more than make up for the missing coin.” If he knew who he was talking to, the thug would have pissed himself with joy over how right that statement was. In a split second, the half-orc unleashed two curved fireballs. Each one coming at Vincent from a different angle. Then, to make things more challenging, the thug unleashed a torrent of flames from his mouth. Just the heat of that attack alone caused Vincent to strain his eyes, let alone the sudden shift in light.

                  All that heat suddenly introduced to the air caused a wild gust to pick up. Sand bombarded Vincent’s eyes: his hood blown back to reveal his face. Before anyone could take notice, he summoned a dome of ice to take the onslaught of flames. He struggled to maintain his defensive measures, but pushed through in the end. A cloud of steam now obscured the streets. So thick, one could barely see even a foot before themselves. But luckily for Vincent, he didn’t need to see. He’d memorized the distance between him and his target. And there had been no time for the brute to have moved. But best of all, they were in his element. It took little effort to turn the mist around the thugs—both the half-orc and the elf he’d left trapped—into needles of ice. Needles he used to skewer them like a hog over the spit. It felt wrong killing the defenseless elf. However, it only took one survivor to get word back to their boss. And that was what the unconscious elf was for. That is, if he hadn’t been charred by his partner’s reckless use of fire.

                  Vincent dawned his hood once more. Escaping under the cover of the mist. He still had to find Kane. Maybe it was fate that kept him away, Vincent laughed. Had he shown up, Vincent would never have found himself in a showdown with Cucara’s men. Fuck fate. Word of what Vincent had done this evening would quickly spread. Someone with half a mind would be able to piece together who he was. Meaning he was no longer safe in this no-name town. He likely had a single day to gather his belongings and move on. Less than that depending on if that one elf had survived.

                  I should have just left them be, he scorned himself. As much as he tried to fight it, Vincent was unable to bury his true self even if it meant his survival. He wouldn’t just stand by and let others be treated unfairly. He was just like his father. He had to be the hero.

The sun had finished setting by the time he reached the brothel. And as he expected, he found Kane lingering just outside the building. At his sides were barely dressed women: a tankard in one hand and a pipe in the other. Based on the blush across his pale face, the unkempt nature of his peppered hair, and the hiccups that broke his laughter, Kane had gotten completely hammered. He looked directly at Vincent and seemed not to recognize him, “You have any spare coin?”

                  “We need to leave,” scolded Vincent. “Now.”

                  “First, the ladies,” Kane said. A wide grin across his face. “You don’t just pass on…on…wait, what are we talking about?” It was no use talking to him like this. Sadly, Vincent had no other option but to.

                  “Our cover’s blown,” Vincent dropped his hood. Revealing to Kane his disfigured face. The entirety of the right side of his face twisted and burned. Kane gave a confused look, the women at his sides retched before screaming. “We have to leave, now.” There was a time when Vincent would have been pained by the reaction given by those whores. Sadly, it was too common a thing to bother him anymore. “Let’s go.”

                  Kane took a long puff from his pipe. Blowing a steady stream of smoke with a sigh, “I quite liked it here. Cheap beer, cheaper women. What did you do?”

                  “I got into a fight, that’s all,” Vincent put his hood back up.

                  “With who?”

                  “Does it matter?”

                  Kane took another long puff, “If you want me to rush, yes.”

                  “Just some thugs who work for that Cucara fellow.” Kane emptied his pipe of ash, and began to pack it with fresh tobacco. Vincent shook his head, “Can that wait? We likely only have tonight to get away.” Kane lit his pipe. Taking a few quick puffs as he considered what Vincent had said. This only infuriated Vincent. It was as if the old drunk could care less about the issued that would come from this. No, it wasn’t Cucara he was worried about. It was what could come from anyone else learning who he was.

                  “I will miss this town,” Kane finally spoke up. “But your father would be proud of you.”