Matthis had no idea which of the gods had chosen to send him this hairy giant, but if he ever found out then he’d be sure to sacrifice a cat in their honour. Though he wish the god had taken the time to wash the giant first, for he stank worse than the city’s sewers.

“Of course, if you’re going to work for me you’re going to need to shower and change out of those disgusting clothes,” Matthis continued his apparently hopeless attempt to engage the giant in something resembling a conversation.

“Work for you? Shower?” The man belched and downed the last of the wine at his belt. With another burp, he tossed the bottle against a far wall where it shattered.

“Was that… was that the Octavian Red?” Matthis said, eyeing the broken bottle.

“What’s an Octavian Red?” The giant mumbled, and stuck a finger in his ear. He wiggled it around, before pulling it out and inspecting the tip of his finger. With a grunt, he wiped whatever he'd dug out on the front of his vest.

Matthis shuddered. “It’s about 4 gold coins a bottle is what it is!” He took a deep breath. “No matter. We will consider that your first payment. Plus extra.”

“What are you talking about?” The man’s ugly face creased up, somehow becoming even uglier. Matthis could see all the dirt and grime in each of those wrinkles. He probably hadn’t had a proper wash in years.

“Gods, why do you torment me so,” Matthis muttered. “Let me introduce myself, I am Matthis Albion—” he paused, waiting for the man to acknowledge the name. When he didn’t, Matthis sighed. “I am the new leader of the underworld.

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Not yet, you’re not.

“Fine. I am soon to be the new leader of the underworld. These men and women you have so gracefully relieved of consciousness were my cronies. That is, until they decided to try and kill me. Thankfully you arrived and put a stop to that.”

Someone on the ground groaned. Matthis pulled back a boot and delivered a swift kick to his face. The groaning stopped. “However, he continued. “Having six of my men turn against me presents openings for fellows of your… talents.”

The man scowled again. “What talents? What's an underworld?"

Matthis raised a single eyebrow. Forget the shower, he was beginning to wish the gods had at least given this giant a brain. "The underworld is this—" he raised his hands and spun to encompass the cavernous room they stood in. It is the gangs and crooks that hide in the shadows of the old city. The real power in Vermasse. And, as for your talents, well I refer to your remarkable ability to make conscious men no longer conscious.”

“What?”

“Hurt people. Kill people. I want you to punch people. For money.”

“Oh. Well why didn’t you just say that?”

Matthis sighed again. Good help really was hard to find. “In return, I will pay you.”

“Orbavian Red?” The man asked in a voice that sounded like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

“It is Octavian Red. And heavens no. But enough that you can get drunk in whichever inn or tavern…” He paused to eye the man up and down. “…or hole in the ground in which you like to partake in your usual drinking.”

“I can get drunk?”

“Most certainly.”

“Alright. I’m Svorbald. Vor.” He thrust out a huge, filthy hand.

Matthis took it reluctantly. Was this the hand he'd used to dig around in his ear? Matthis couldn't remember, but he did have the suddent urge to vomit. “Matthis Albion,” he said, letting the man’s hand fall away and wiping his palm on the leg of his trousers.

“I start tomorrow,” the man mumbled. “Now, I need a drink.” He bent over Tarvin, rummaging through the unconscious man’s pockets until he found something yellow and shiny.

“What is that?” Matthis asked.

“Mine!” Shouted Svorbald.

“Fine, fine,” said Mattis, throwing up his hands.

I like this one.

“He’s a brute. But he will be useful.”

“Wassat?” Svorbald’s eyes narrowed.

“I was saying that I think you and I are going to form a successful partnership!” Matthis replied cheerfully.

Svorbald only grunted.