Kail left Sir to his meal, fuming as he stormed out of the room. He knew that his mentor only meant the best for him, but he was certain that he was different, that he was special. He knew that there was a purpose to his being here, a reason for his life amongst the constant death in Maris Tor. He was not like the other children, like the other orphans. He was different.

He remembered the tales of the hero's clad in golden armor that he had read as a child, and he felt the attraction down to the very roots of his soul. He could see the smiles of those he helped, gleaming in his mind brighter than a sun. In this world of lies and vice, he would stand as a hero above it all. This, he was certain of.

The streets of Maris Tor were always dangerous, filled with gangs of human and worse creatures. Orphans who survived their fifth year alone were adopted into whichever gang they caught the attention of first. Such groups were unruly and disorganized, frequently subject to internal strife once a former leader lost power. Once night fell, the sounds of blood being shed filled the streets almost without pause. It was a deadly sort of apprenticeship that the orphans would then undergo as they learned to kill, take, and die. Few survived. Those who did rarely lived past twenty in the gangs. These gangs would always exist by virtue of human nature. Such was the Devil’s Curse upon the city.

Much as the curse rendered men into beasts, these gangs were more like packs that hunted at night. Where the streets were dangerous at night for any fool alone, the gangs fought constantly over territory and coin. Merchants paid fees to whoever’s territory they were in, and so naturally influence leaned towards the largest gangs. And there was not a gang that was larger nor older than the Blood Hawks.

The Blood Hawks were had influence over merchants, holding control over the northern ports of the city. Their merchants there trafficked bloodweed and salt from mines above the Cold Sea, selling the needed goods at exorbitant prices. The wealth that they gained from this allowed to even hire the services of channelers, if it could be believed. Rumors had long spread through the streets that the Blood Hawks had dealings in magic, experimenting with some of the orphans from the streets.

Yet while the Hawks had more of a partnership with their merchants that was reinforced with bribery and threats, the Black Wolves favored a more brutal approach of rule through butchery. While simple, their collectors regularly ventured at night from door to door with knives in hand to receive their fees. Their leader, Blur, had to have been forty or fifty, positively ancient by streetlife standards. Age had not dulled his blades; he had killed over a hundred from counting corpses. As for the burnt ash left behind on occasion, it only further added to his legend.

Kail was certain that it was these gangs that were the disease eating away at the city. While the Devil’s Curse could not be touched, he could certainly trade blade with theirs. Their influence, their corruption of the very people in the city were what filled the lives of commoners with such fear and danger. It would only be through their destruction that Maris Tor would be freed from a lifetime and legacy of darkness, could the curse begin to be lifted from their blood.

It would be a dangerous job. A job for a hero. It was with this goal and this certainty that Kail stepped outside of the house.

It was said that one of the Black Wolves had killed a merchant working for the Blood Hawks. While not unheard of before, the Black Wolves had refused to negotiate or offer up the killer. Tensions had mounted, risen every day until word on the street every day spoke of war.

For the Blood Hawks to seek a fight with the Black Wolves would be devastating. The Wolves had immense fangs, while the Hawks had strings tied to nearly every merchant at the ports. An unprecedented war would erupt if they fought in earnest, internal strife causing the city to fall to pieces. Even the smaller gangs would rise up, each seeking a piece of the riches awaiting the victor. The city to kill itself, and that curse would not fade from their blood. A true conflict, where Wolves and Hawks met blow for blow, would wrench the city apart.

He had to stop this, but the first step was information. He needed to know more, more than just the rumors on the streets.

Kail had already grabbed his pack when he left Sir, but he needed his weapons. Outside by the steps to the doorway, he moved left three stone tiles and counted up the wall four bricks. It was a minor nuisance to hide them every time but his blades were worth more than his life. For the sake of keeping them safe, Sir always did love his fancy tricks.

Setting the pack down on the dusty stones, he shoved his hand up against the wall. It felt solid, but he kept pushing until he felt it give. While the image of brick before his eyes did not change, there was a sensation like water and his hand sunk through the wall. A shimmering pentagram glowed around his hand, sparks of purple flying off of wriggling chalk lines that formed the runic symbols he could never quite make out completely. Kail was never fond of magic; it always made him queasy when he used this, but it was necessary to protect one’s weapons. They were teeth and claws. To be caught without them in a time of need would mean nothing but sure and swift death.

Night had already begun to fall despite it only just having been halfday. The night came quickly this time of year, and with it the streets truly came alive. The merchants that had worked stalls for the passerby and manned the docks had long since left, leaving behind their worse halves to take over for them. Purple lights glowed behind murky windows and music of all sorts weaved their way onto the streets. Smoke and mist drifted off the ground, coming out of the lower pubs and brothels. Low moans of pleasure and shrieks of pain could already be heard, coming from buildings with less than respectable reputations. Women wearing little to nothing advertised their services on the streets while others offered all varieties of products to lose one’s sanity with for pure pleasure. The entire scene filled onlookers with a quiet sensuality and desire that eased its way into the back of the mind, eating away at even the strongest of wills. Yet it did not affect Kail, who had grown up amidst the vice and immorality.

Gazing at the sky, he could see the God’s Star slowly pulsing brighter, its bright red glow leaving behind lights dancing in his eyes after he had looked away. The sun had already set. He hurried his pace, leaving Sir’s house behind him.

It was time.

Sir had always fought with a staff, and that was what he first trained Kail with to survive on the streets. It was a simple and effective foundation to use against larger opponents. But, when Kail became twelve, he let him pick the style that he wanted. Kail knew of the eastern Abaratt and their fighting form; he’d seen a troupe on a ship once when they came through Tenes Drou. A unique style, with unique weapons. Such was the style that he used.

There were two weapons for the Abaratt: the claw-shield and the hook. On the left arm was the claw-shield, a wide shield strapped to the forearm four hands lengthwise and two hands wide. It was reinforced in three layers, a layer of thick hide sandwiched between plates of metal. Three thick bone claws stuck out, bound between steel and hide and extending past the wielder’s hand. They curved inwards and the tips were coated in brass. The shield was to protect against blades; the claws not only blocked slashes from striking the hand but also could be used to slash.

The hook was a simple but deadly affair, with a heavy, serrated metal pick and oak handle. Thick iron chains from the base of the hook connected to straps on the wielder’s forearm before continuing to wind around his body twice, and a wider handle with grips kept it from slipping out of the hand. Such was crucial; to lose the hook was to lose one’s life.

The armor was made of simple interlocked brass plates, designed to keep the wielder light and fast. It was a difficult style with heavy weapons and little protection. One must move fast and strike hard, avoiding enemy blows or redirecting them with the shield; it was too small to block a strike from a broadsword or hammer. The claws were for slashing, the hook for piercing. First swipe with the claws to sever the legs. The hook goes into the shoulder deep in the bone. Grabbing the chains, the hook is then ripped out, tearing apart flesh and splitting them from shoulder to hip. That was the Abaratt style.

The origins of this came from the harsh deserts of the Abaratt, where men hunted Goliath Lizards for survival. A Goliath Lizard’s mouth was wide enough to fit a man whole and strong enough to shear through any steel. Its teeth were curved hooks that tore through flesh, its claws fast and sharp. The Abaratt hunted these beasts as their enemies, but they also learned to fight from them. It was a harsh tutelage, a style of learning befitting the cruel desert. From their teeth came the hook, that dug deep and did not release. From their claws came the shield, that swiped to cut and block. The two weapons were pairs, much as they were on the Goliath Lizard, and it was this style of fighting, a primal style learned from the very beasts they hunted, that the Abaratt used.

Goliath Lizards were larger than two men and stronger still—no amount of armor could withstand the strength of their bite. Thus, the Abaratt armor was light and allowed them to move quickly. Their claw-shield could never take a direct hit from a beast, instead it was used to deflect and harass. By being both light and versatile, it covered the gaps where the slow and hefty hook could never reach. The soft skin underneath the jaw was particularly vulnerable, as was their eyes. By using quick slashes, the Abaratt could blind their prey, allowing them to then circle behind them. The hook pierced the Lizard’s thick hide and would not slide out because of the teeth at its base. Chains kept the weapon to its wielder as the Lizard tossed and bucked.Then with both hands, the Abaratt would pull on the chains, tearing a massive wound before retreating to let the Lizard die of its own accord. If done properly, a Lizard could be felled by a single warrior with only a few light scratches. Done on a man, there would be little shape left to the corpse, which was often torn with such ferocity that the spine shattered and the muscle was ripped from bone.

It was this ferocity, this primal style of fighting that had attracted Kail far more than mere swords and knives had. He had urged Sir to teach him, and the old man obliged, much to his surprise. Arduus practice each day taught Kail to stay swift on his feet, to turn and react with blinding speed. He learned to strike fast and dodge faster. It was now, after five years, that he would see his skills bloody others for the first time.

Kail took in a deep breath, feeling the light air fill his lungs, a slight scent of perfume giving a sense of pervasive sensuality in the back of his mind, reminding him of the true nature of his hometown. Seeing the streets grow dark in the lull before the streetlamps flickered on, he moved quickly. Running with his claw-shield already strapped to his arm, his hook slung over the shoulder, he maneuvered through the alleyways with a familiarity that came from years of practice. Seeing a shadow flicker on the ground, he stopped before crossing a street, seeing an armed thug lumber across his field of vision, whistling an off-tune ditty before hawking up a wad on spit onto the stone.

He waited for the man to pass before continuing, taking care to not make noise as he sprung forward on the balls of his feet. Before long, the air began to change. Wooden stalls that had previously lined the streets were gone, leaving only aging brick houses. The streetlamps were all blackened out, feeble light trickling out of the shroud of paint that covered them, casting the surroundings in a dim glow that strained the eyes. The brown brick walls had innumerable blood stains that had never even bothered to be cleaned off, the fetid smell of corpses wafting from the sewer grates. Doors were barred shut with iron and barbed steel. Not even a cough was heard as the wind whispered through the silent streets. He had reached Black Wolves territory.