It was getting late at Stuggart, even for a Tuesday evening. The streets were quiet, the taverns were empty, and none wondered beneath the stars but the drunk and desperate. The Saffron Inn was no exception to these conditions, as almost all of its patrons had retreated to their respective abodes: all but the two old friends, who’d been ruminating on the matter of the enigmatic visitor.

  “You can’t seriously take that freak up on his offer now, Vik!” Lennigrast said, frustrated. He’d been pedantically pacing up and down the aisle, much to the dismay of Roselle, who peered at him with a chilling gaze.

  Before him, perched on a chair by one of the tables, was a nonchalant Viktor, silently skimming through a piece of parchment. He lets out a drawn-out, audible sigh before casting the paper face up on the table, so that his contemporary may see it themselves. Without letting his focus shift away from the paper, he gestures with an open palm towards it.

  “Ten thousand bezels,” he confidently explains.

  Earlier that night, this mysterious vagrant had entered the bar and demanded to speak with Viktor, placing a peculiar item atop the counter. Creeped out by the approach and appearance of the man, Lennigrast had excused himself, leaving Viktor to handle this matter on his own.

  The man in question was quite the ominous sight to behold, fitting Lennigrast’s “freak” description quite fairly. Unsettlingly both tall and broad, he was covered head-to-toe in dark attire, revealing not one inch of skin. He wore a long black coat, black trousers, black boots and black gloves; yet most interesting was how he’d dressed above the shoulders. Under his matching wide-brimmed hat was a peculiar mask imitating the features of a corvid, with inset beaded goggles and a large protruding beak-like face laid with vents.

  Despite his odd appearance, he was surprisingly civil. In his deep, resonant tone, he made short work of clearly explaining the terms of his contract to Viktor. The target was currently in a caravan travelling through Mokosh; the ride should arrive in Bludansk in a week or two. All Viktor had to do was find them and bring them in alive. In turn, he would be rewarded with a sum of ten thousand bezels, an offer no sane man-hunter could deny in these trying times.

  Lennigrast now sat across from Viktor, thoroughly scanning the contract for himself with one hand on his temple. His expression was that of both awe and disappointment; the contract was simply too good to be real, good enough to render his own offer inferior.

  “How do you know he’ll pay up?” asked Lennigrast, grasping for any straws he could find. “A trip to Mokosh is quite the time investment.”

  “You know me, Lenni,” shrugged Viktor,” I always have some sort of insurance.”

  Viktor explained a term that the contract didn’t really mention, which the client agreed to. An associate of the crow-man would meet Viktor by the Eastern Gate at dawn and provide him with a downpayment of a thousand bezels. That alone would pay for more than a trip to and from the swamps, including the food and shelter expenses.

  “If he doesn’t show up, I don’t go anywhere,” Viktor elaborated, “nothing to lose but an hour of sleep.”

  Lennigrast rubs his eye with the base of his palm, sighing as he begins to admit defeat, “You sure the target will be alive?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  The next morning, Viktor had arrived by the gates even earlier than the two had agreed, leaning coyly against the corner of the city wall. He honestly enjoyed the early morning experience, the rush of cool air, the transitioning hues of the sky, and most of all, he enjoyed the calm solitude of it all. However, as time went on and as the sun began to peek its head above the horizon, the desolation and quiet took on a more concerning turn. There was no one else in sight to share the morning views with Viktor, and he was beginning to believe he’d been played.

  “Well,” he said to his horse, his tone seeped in disappointment and heartbreak,” I guess the dream remains a dream.”

  As he stroked his mare and prepped her to return home, a distant thump startles him, rousing him to turn swiftly and twist his entire trunk. Gazing carefully, he could detect a faint change in scenery. For dead in the centre of the plaza before the gates, lay a hefty brown sack of cloth, an uncanny intruder to the canvas of broad-stoned pavement.

  Viktor glances at his horse before swiftly running to the discarded sack and lifting it from its resting place. Eagerly, untying the string that sealed it shut to peer at its contents. Surely enough, as he expected, heaps of gleaming golden coins, about enough to quantify a thousand bezels. He shakes his head in joyous disbelief before scanning his surroundings to spy the elusive messenger. Alas, he couldn’t seem to find a culprit; the plaza housed no one besides him and his horse.

  CAW! Came a distant cry from above. Shifting his focus to the clouds, Viktor managed to pinpoint his courier. The silhouette of a black bird, impressive in wingspan and humble in flight, soared into the blinding glow of the rising sun.

  Smiling in awe of the event, Viktor shakes head once more, “Well, won’t you have a look at that?”

  He makes his way back to his mare, weighing his parcel as he walks.

  “I guess a deal is a deal.”

  He places the money in the saddlebags, leaps onto his mount and steers her out of the gate.

  HYAH!

  Viktor had intended to waste no time hunting down his target. The trip East to Bludansk was no short stroll; it required traversing a third of Vanaheim across the coastline, and would typically take a little over a fortnight to complete. Making the distance within a week would be considered a Herculean task, impossible for the common traveller and their mount. However, Viktor was one of the finest horsemen in the land, and Kashmir was an even finer horse.

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  Thoroughbred and mature, Kashmir’s muscular frame bounced elegantly, carried by powerful, slender legs. Her waxy golden coat was further accentuated by a velvet shine, and her silky black hair was styled into swaying braids. Graceful as she galloped, charming as she walked, arrogant as she flared her nostrils and whipped her mane. Even the wealthiest nobles of the Elysian Isles often found themselves captivated by the mare’s alluring displays.

  By the fall of the seventh night since their departure, Kashmir’s hooves would pace across the cedar flooring of The Great Bridge of Reprimand. The old wooden structure stretched about half a mile in length, crossing the width of the river Slid (Kalinova in Mokosh) between Vanaheim and Mokosh. It was built at the beginning of the second quarter of the Great Hunt, meant to allow Asgardian troops into the region to re-establish control over the Western Front.

  Border control gates were erected on either side, with stationed Asgardian troops filtering passage between the Asgardian town of Mulburgh to the North and its Mokish counterpart, Bludansk, to the South. The towns were very similar in structure and were home to a predominantly Asgardian population, compared to the Mokish minority.

  With the identical architecture of half-timbered homes painted in white plaster, one could hardly tell either town apart if it wasn’t for the infamous border camps in Bludansk. Unlike their Asgardian contemporaries, passage between the countries was heavily regulated when it came to the Mokish. Often packed into small spaces, with barely any food to spare, the treatment of Mokish refugees at Bludansk had been a topic of controversy over the past century.

  Viktor, who was headed towards the less sought-after Mokish side of the bridge, was understandably granted immediate access. While there, he’d taken the time purchase a return certificate for ease of travel on the way back. His target was to be delivered in Bludansk, so he only bought a single.

  Fortunately, the caravan was yet toarrive, a fact he’d confirmed by checking the local express station. This meant he had the time to lodge and carefully plan his approach the next morning. As a means of treating himself for the hardy travel, he’d booked a suite at the Transguard-sponsored inn, where he planned to spend his night. It came with all sorts of amenities, ranging from a twin bed, ample storage, three full meals, bathhouse access and even stable services for Kashmir. Long had it been since Viktor had had a chance to reap the benefits of a well-paid headhunter, and he was going to make sure he lavished every one of them.

  Few people could afford to bathe in the Mundi Island Inn’s luxury bathhouse. With almost every surface tiled in teal marble slabs, every edge adorned in silver, and every corner scented with oriental incense, it was designed with the most distinguished upper-classmen in mind.

  Even fewer people were willing to bathe in it at this hour, meaning Viktor could have the lush baths to himself, an opportunity he could not physically miss.

  He was lounging in a vat of steaming saltwater, breathing in their aromatic mists, fully nude, with his arms lying flat against the precipice of the basin. With one ankle over the other, he cast his head backwards, attempting to free his mind of all thought and enjoy the moment.

  His eyes shut, his world faded to black, no longer seeing, only feeling.

  He could smell. Smell the bold woody essence of burning oud, the subtle sweetness of earthy musk, and the calming undertones of floral lavender.

  He could sense. Sense the warmth of the water against his submerged half, the cold of the mists condensing against his exposed skin, the tingle of the rising vapours against his cheeks.

  He could hear. Hear the irregular plip-plops of precipitating drops off the ceiling, the slow rhythmic thuds of his heartbeat, and the pitter-patter of little feet.

  The pitter-patter of little feet?

  Impulsively, he opens his eyes, curious to learn the source of the unseemly disturbance. And just as he’d begun to search his surroundings, he’d already spotted it. The stygian figure of a medium-sized avian, tilting its little head as it stared right back at him. Its beady eyes blinked eerily horizontally, and it had been rendered mostly mute by a thin scroll it clasped with its beak.

  “Oh, it’s you,” whispered Viktor, confident as if he had any reason to believe they’d met before, “what is it this time?”

  Swiftly, he picks the document from the bird’s mouth, discarding the seal and unfurling it. He scans the contents of the vapour-softened parchment before shifting his bug-eyed expression to his courier.

  “SHIT!” he exclaims, leaping up onto his feet.

  CAW!

  Eager not to waste a moment, Viktor was back on the path as quickly as he could. Anxiously pacing through the sunless marshes in the dark of night, frantically demanding his mare go faster as she zoomed across the muddy path.

  We have reason to believe the carriage was ambushed on the road earlier this evening. We ask you to please investigate the scene to ensure our conditions are met. Our accomplice will assist you in locating the scene.

  ~The Crows

  What an edgy bunch, he thought to himself. Though he had to admit he admired their peculiar resourcefulness. For above him, soaring beneath the moonlight clouds of the wuthering heavens, was the uncanny courier, guiding his way through the foggy scapes of the marshland.

  Taking little time to rest as he could, Viktor managed to arrive at the scene by noon the next day. Another feat of spectacular horsemanship he’d been secretly proud of. Ironically, it was somehow more difficult to see now than it was at night, as the pale grey clouds had assimilated into an almost perfectly complete veil across the sky. Obscuring all possible sunlight from the unfortunate below.

  The display before Viktor’s eyes could only be described as an act of unbridled chaos. Assortments of all sorts of debris, equipment and corpses lay on either side of the road, hap haphazardly scattered across. Situated right on the path was the centrepiece of the catastrophic painting, the capsized body of the vessel, damaged, yet well intact.

  Beside the caravan was the non-sentient progenitor of the incident, the trunk of an oak set horizontally across the road. Its bark was damaged, and its roots were far from their original rest, confirming without a shadow of a doubt that this was an ambush rather than a mere accident.

  North of the fallen tree were the mangled corpses of the once glorious horses and the unfortunate men who manned their reins. Both beasts and one of the men seemed to have lost their lives to the crash, with one of the horses trampling a guard beneath it, as it broke its neck against the road. Shattering his spine and rendering him paralysed as his body writhed in its final moments of agony.

  The other guard was a short distance further from the initial collision, seemingly dying from a gunshot wound. He was lying face down in the mud, with the gash in his lower back, indicating he’d been attempting to flee the scene when the assailants ended his life.

  West of the caravan was a third corpse, concealed by a crowd of scavenging crows, ravenously ripping into its flesh. Viktor shooed away the dark scroungers, prompting them to scatter, before gazing at the unsightly carrion beneath them.

  Another uniformed man, evidently younger despite his state. His left hand loosely held a standard-issue pistol, presumably one he intended to brandish for himself or others. A brave and honourable gesture from the young man. Unfortunately, Viktor has come to find that, par for the course, the world was only ever harsher to those more virtuous.

  The boy had his throat slit sharply across; his right hand desperately attempting to halt the violent deluge as he drowned in a pool of his own blood. Poor kid, thought Viktor, shaking his head in dismay.

  Throughout the investigative process, Viktor was handling the tracking item provided by the man at the tavern. A disembodied and mumified hand, rugged and plump, it didn’t visually fit the profile of any of those present. Not to mention, the victims seemed to all have their hands well intact.

  Resorting to a less traditional set of skills, he constricted his pupils as his irises flashed a bright amber. Deploying “Prowler’s Sense”, a runic ability that greatly heightens his hunting capacity through an array of additional senses. Extremely rare and formidable, Viktor had access to such a tool thanks to having his eyes transmuted into biological talismans, inked with the blood of the Northern Manticore.

  Once more, there seemed to be no coherent connection between the peculiar item and any of the corpses present. However, he could sense a wafting tether emanating from the palm toward the overturned caravan. Sceptical, he approaches the wooden body, climbing upon its surface to peer through the gaping hole that once represented its door.

  Using his powers to scan the dark chamber, he saw there was no one inside the vessel. Shards of glass, wares, and an assortment of playing cards were all he could find within. Still, he tracked the tether to an item at the bottom of the wreckage. Leaping down and swiftly snatching it, he raises what looks to be a light, brownish satchel to his eye level.

  A second tether seemed to emanate from the bag to the outside, indicating the position of its potential owner. Once outside, Viktor was relieved to find that none of the corpses was the owner, as the wafting mist travelled west of the road. He follows his lead a short distance off the path before he comes across a peculiar set of tracks, small hooves within the mud.

  “Chorts?” he questions, glancing back towards the scene, “Odd.”