It had been an atrocious three months. Coming so close to greatness only to have it cruelly snatched away? Skrakch could practically taste his chance at becoming a Chosen slipping away from him. He’d even picked up the very unhealthy habit of checking his remaining time on a daily basis. Eight months. Thirteen days.

Not that he’d simply sat around, twiddling his paws and waiting for Winifred to return of course. No, he’d dived back into his quest for longevity with a brand new fervor. Risking life and limb was now second nature to him. No idea was too foolish.

He’d helped Meek drive off a few attacks from the feral Iskrin that still lurked in the Sewers. He’d suffered hours and hours of torture in the hopes of gaining a Defensive Pact. He robbed and killed at Zacharias’ behest, in the hope of some slimy underbelly Pact. And through it all, he gained nothing. Nothing of any real value, Skrakch sighed, unless he counted his newly filled coinpurse.

The Ratling was currently staring at his reflection, a pensive look upon his furry face. His umber fur was, as always, kept in pristine condition. Aside from the occasional burned patch that was. His whiskers were long and perfectly placed, no kinks in sight. Checking that his trusty bandolier of potions was securely strapped to his leather vest, Skrakch spun in place to ensure that his best feature, his long and beautiful tail was as wondrous as always. And easily viewable to the ladies.

Not that he’d had much luck on that front. Chasing your destiny left little time for that sort of thing. Not only that, the problem with being a rare non-enslaved brown Iskrin was that decent-looking -and- morally available Ratling females were hard to find. He’d often considered going the route of Zacharias and buying himself a partner but one look at their deadened eyes had been enough to stamp out that idea.

Still, procreation had definitely been on his mind lately. If the unthinkable happened and he was truly destined for the Butchery, what legacy would he be leaving behind? A Ratling as handsome, intelligent, and proud as he was clearly deserved some form of honor after death. It wouldn’t do for him to simply fade away without his name being spoken on the lips of those to come.

Chuckling to himself, he kicked over the small shard of glass that he’d been using as a mirror. It was just one of the many treasures that he’d accrued for his nest, a mess of blankets that he’d shoved into an enormous and very comfy pile.

There was no way the Ratling was going to pay for a living space. Especially considering just how much free real estate there was to squat in. The Slums were sadly known for having more rooms than people, or at least, people willing to pay for the privilege of living in decent conditions.

Hence his current living arrangement, a decrepit old building that had partially returned to nature’s grasp. One of many abandoned houses in the Old Slums, the location was deemed much too close to the Inner City walls that cast a perpetual shadow throughout the building. A bloody waste as far as the Ratling was concerned, gingerly stepping around an open hole in the floor. Why pay for a cozy room, when you could sleep rent-free!

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

Skrakch exited his nest and wandered into the city streets. He noticed a squatter as he passed by and ignored the man’s surprised facial expressions as the layabout started checking himself for ticks. Iskrin had a reputation for filthiness that, quite frankly, was unearned. He was always sure to keep his fur in good condition, which wasn’t a sentiment that was shared by very many humans in The Slums.

Dray’Mel was a city of unkempt savages but, compared to the Depths, it was paradise. The shudder that ran through him had little to do with the cold weather, and Skrakch hurried to put the thoughts of his birthplace out of his mind.

What he needed now, he decided, was a good tankard of mead. The Ratling quickly made his way to The Plagued Rat. Twisting and turning through the streets, he was quick to show steel to the many humans who attempted to size him up, and equally fast to skirt around any particularly dangerous-looking thug.

They hadn’t gotten away with the Sykes episode entirely scot-free. While the Elven prick’s gang had pretty much fallen apart without its harsh leader, there were the odd remnants who would want to cut him and Zacharias up sooner than look at them. It was mostly his low-level thugs, annoyed at losing a paying gig.

Those few aside, most people were beginning to hear stories of a handsome rogue Iskrin, so most people would step out of his way without trouble. Humming a jaunty tune, Skrakch was pleased to see his investment had paid off.

A month or two ago, he’d taken to paying the local Bards to mention him. Chosen had a tendency to have stories whispered and sung about them. Skrakch wasn’t above paying an entertainer or two to make those stories happen. He didn't know if it would help... but it couldn't hurt.

He was almost at The Plagued Rat when he was suddenly flagged down. A young woman wearing a rather tight dress sporting a revealing hem and neckline waved at him frantically. She was obviously desperate for his attention. Puffing his chest out, he sauntered over to her with a grin. She was far too flashy for his tastes, with far too much horrible human skin on display but he could at least give her an autograph or two.

As he got closer, the raven-haired woman waved him into a nearby alcove. Upon closer inspection, he could see that the bodice of her dress was torn and that she was sporting a fresh-looking black eye. With a glower at him, the woman of the night jabbed a finger, with its chipped black nail polish, directly into his chest.

“Oi, yer Skrakch ain’t ya?” She demanded. “Well, I gots a message for ya. Your mate Zacharias is looking for ya. Said something about a little birdie returning?” She explained. She shook her head in irritation. “Ya can tell ‘im from me that just because ‘e pays for a full night, that don’t me I ‘ave to be ‘is messenger! And ya can also tell the little bastard that I’m done with ‘im. And so are all of The Denmother’s ladies. Not until ‘e cleans up ‘is act.”

Warily nodding at the irate woman, Skrakch took a step back. She looked capable of plucking his eyeballs out with those nails of hers. And she certainly seemed angry enough to boot. He focused on her black eye.

“Did he do that to you?” He asked, trying not to show concern. “I didn’t think that sort of thing was his taste.”

The woman snorted, touching her eye gingerly. She let out a hiss of pain as she came into contact with the heavily bruised flesh.

“Didn’t used to be,” She replied. “E’s been a bit rough on us of late. The Denmother ain’t ‘appy I can tell ya that. It won’t be long before she’s after ‘is ‘ide and you knows as well as I knows, she ain’t one to cross.”

Letting that little tidbit sink in, Skrakch nodded at her, thanked her for her time, and stepped back into the street with a grim set to his jaw. Any thoughts of a jaunty tune or two were well out of his mind now.

It was time to square up with Zach, and it wasn't hard to guess where the lush was likely to be.