Seak those I write fondly of,

for they carry my words in them well.

-Note within the hidden journal.

A mid-spring breeze rustled the threadbare cloak that wrapped around Vallerian’s shoulders. The cloak billowed away from him now, the edges of it caressing the thin beams of moonlight that formed the border of the shadowed nook. Vallerian had been waiting in that dark alley since sunset. Occasionally he would lean against one of the two crumbling wood buildings that flanked him, careful of the rotting structures threatening to collapse at any moment. He had been in that spot a long time now, too long in his opinion. But he had been here for a reason, and he had spent his time watching. Watching, and planning.

Across the street from the narrow alley was an old warehouse, collapsed on one side. The wood and stones of the building jutted out in every direction, daring anyone foolish enough to try and clamber through it. He was not foolish. Vallerian was patient and had waited hours already. He was going to make his grand entrance at centre stage.

The still standing section of the structure held a makeshift door. The ill-fitting wood entryway haphazardly hammered into place. A man stood out front, a crude wooden carving of an axe fastened to his cloak. It seemed the other street gangs were attempting to imitate Tabitha and the Silver Skulls. Because of course, it was the pins that had made her successful. Vallerian shook his head. That Jöln woman really was a step above the rest of these fool peasants.

Looking down the street in each direction, Vallerian only saw more sorry sights. The few neighbourhoods still under control of Tabitha's remaining rivals all looked the same. Broken crates and bloody rags mixed with mud and excrement tossed from windows above. Leaning against walls when conscious, and half submerged in mud when not, were dozens of drunkards and half-starved children. Many of them wore those crude wooden pins. This was the so called “Wooden Axes.” One of the few remaining street gangs that rivalled Tabitha. Watching a man retch onto the street, then take another swig from his wine-skin, Vallerian figured 'rival' to be a generous term.

It seemed in the wake of Tabitha's overwhelming force and the cult's constant temptations that there were few remaining candidates for the even fewer remaining gang leaders of Southshore. He had heard repeatedly over the last few days about the cult's temptations: food and coin for all who wanted. Every gang he had 'visited' had members talking of it in hushed tones. Vallerian rolled his eyes at that. Yeah, food, coin, and blowing yourself up into blood-drenched fireballs. Who could resist that?

“I don't know Bergen; how much longer do you think this all can last?” A young man spoke from the street. Vallerian's eyes followed him, a dirty Fereni man walking along with a scrawny Khazimi. They both wore the axe pins marking their allegiance.

“What you saying?” The Khazimi responded gruffly.

“All of this.” The first one said, waving his hands around wildly. “Everyone’s joining the Silver Skulls or the Cult. What are we doing here?” He shook his head.

“The Silver Skulls killed Staffan. We can’t let them get away with that.” The Khazimi spat.

At the mention of the name, Vallerian looked down at the small piece of parchment in his hand. Staffan was there among another half dozen names. The ones that he had already crossed out. Vallerian smirked, he had been productive this past week.

Ever since his conversation with Tabitha, he had been stalking the streets of Southshore disposing of the few remaining gang leaders that yet resisted. Looking at the list now, crinkled parchment held by his calf-skin gloved hand, he felt a small sense of pride. Barely more than a week, and Tabitha was nearly uncontested. Well, save the cult of course. It seemed they had been as quick as Tabitha to fill the holes Vallerian left in Southshore's criminal underworld. Even though he had dealt with them a few times now, he always thought of cockroaches when he pictured the cult. Damn impossible to stamp out. That was not his responsibility though. This was.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Only a few more targets, and he’d be done. He worried about the soft cream colored gloves he had chosen for today. This might very well get messy, but it was the job at hand and had to be done. These gangs were trouble after all. The longer they lasted, the more desperate they became. It was better for Vallerian to kill one man per gang, than for petty gang wars to break out with dozens dying. He had to remind himself of that. There were only a few names left on his list now. Perhaps when he was done he could stop by the Ethinian temple. Just for safety's sake. Celeste and Valleresa would likely be ecstatic. Pantheon forbid, he might actually say a prayer for once.

“Maybe we should just join the cult.” The Khazimi man spoke, catching Vallerian’s attention. “It seems like them or the Silver Bitch, and I'd rather die than follow her.”

The Fereni shuffled uncomfortably at that. “I don’t know about that Bergen. We can’t go against the Pantheon like that.” He rubbed one of his arms in worry. “The healers at the temple fixed up my sister y'know? And you know what they say about the Prophetess.” That one wasn’t too stupid at least, Vallerian acknowledged. Though they both kept talking loudly enough for the king to hear.

“Bah, the gods only care about noblemen. Same with that girl I'd bet you. Don’t you think for a second they give a crap about either one of us.” Don’t worry, Vallerian thought snidely, I care. “Besides, would you really rather go and become a slave to that woman? You know she makes the men that follow her dig latrines all day.” The Khazimi began to rant, but Vallerian tuned him out quickly enough. Vallerian half agreed with their thoughts on Tabitha’s prejudice. Something told Vallerian she'd have all the men of the world cooking, sewing, and giving birth if she could. He shivered, what a terrible thought. As for the man’s complaints about the gods though? Well, heresy was something that offended only the pious. On top of that, Vallerian had the distinct misfortune of knowing just how wrong they were about Celeste at least. She cared a little too much.

A few more hours passed. The half cloud-covered moon provided a dim illumination of the street. Vallerian waited, he had watched last night and knew what he was looking for. Eventually, it came. The door to the building cracked open slightly, and a young man shuffled out. The young man, a Jöln with a comically large nose, talked to the standing guard for a moment. In short order the standing guard entered the building, leaving only the lad. What a brilliant idea, leave a four foot tall man as your sole guard. Vallerian shook his head and smiled, it was time.

The sight of the guard proved the best entertainment Vallerian had witnessed all night. The Jöln jumping at every shadow and clank that came by. It was almost adorable and made him perfect for what Vallerian wanted. Adjusting the wooden axe pin on his cloak, Vallerian reached down and picked up his large crate full of glass bottles. Carrying the box across the road towards the young Jöln, the bottles jingled and jangled loudly enough to grab the guard’s attention.

“Hey, you! Don’t come any closer.” He shouted out in his people's characteristically high-pitched voice. The lad even pulled out a small rusty knife, how cute. Vallerian continued walking.

“And who the hell d'ya think you are boy?” Vallerian snarled, trying his best to put on a Southshore accent. Quite successfully he might add. “I come on back with booze for everyone, and all I get is some snot nosed brat gettin in my way?”

The guard sputtered a moment at Vallerian before eventually forming some sort of salute. Well, Vallerian thought he was attempting a salute. It was like the brat thought he was a city guard or something.

“W... What's the password?” The Jöln stammered.

“Silver Skulls need Axe Choppin.” Vallerian responded. It wasn't much of a secret password when he had heard them shouting it at least a dozen times already tonight. Nor was it particularly clever. The kid eyed him.

“I don't know...” he mumbled. “I don't recognize you.”

Vallerian rolled his eyes. “And I don't recognize you either boy. But if you want to be the one to march in there and tell 'em you turned away Ol'Copper Thumb with an arm’s full o'booze then you go right ahead.” Vallerian tried not to chuckle at that. The tale of the copper thumb was a classic Fereni tale of subterfuge in war, something this boy growing up on the streets was unlikely to have ever heard of.

“I... uh...” The kid stumbled. Don’t go too hard there lad, he thought, don’t want you hurting yourself thinking. This did prove a small comfort for Vallerian. He had been starting to worry that all street rats were smarter than him. Maybe just the ones that spent time with a divine messenger of the gods. The young guard was taking too long though, and Vallerian figured he could just make his plan work with force.

“Quit your stammerin and get out of my way!” Vallerian bulled towards the boy who thankfully jumped aside. The Jöln quickly begged apologies, asking Vallerian not to report him to Kelvar. That was the name on Vallerian's list. So tell him or not, Vallerian wasn't sure it would matter soon.