Flashback VI. For Hate's Sake

[Konrad Venger]

2nd Day of Winter, 501AV || Baroque Bay

Continued from here

He scoured half the pawn ships in the city before he walked past a window and saw what he was looking for. He stopped and the owner was sure from his stare that he'd made a sale. The man in the hat seemed to study the candlesticks for chimes. Harry was making a move for the door to tell him to either sod off or buy something when the tall, lean figure in the duster walked in.

"Hello, sir!" He said, putting on his best Salesman Smile and wiping his hands clean on the towel hanging from his belt. "See something you... like...?"

A daemon's visage stared back at him with hollow eyes. The pupils burned, like fires laid deep in the soil. The shadow cast by the rim of his hat only made it worse. At least Harry thought that until the man took it off, like one raised with proper manners-

He gulped. No. It was not better seeing all of him. Not at all.

"The candlesticks. In the window."

"Oh... oh? Yes! Yes, they're quite nice, aren't they?" Scars for days wasn't enough to rob Harry of his irrepressible urge to turn a profit with every opening of his front door. He nodded over and over and yes, he had to stop, it looked strange. So he made do with wringing his hands instead. "Quite a looker, isn't it? Solid brass, on my lif-"

"Let me see them."

Some nameless tremor in Harry's bowels made his cast his eyes around quickly for other customers. No such luck. Slow morning. The man's voice was like a sword sliding through gravel, thick and choked and ugly. Like he was chewing on his own soul. Wasn't asking, either.

"Um... y-yes, of course..."

He walked over to the display and carefully hefted the candlesticks off the little display in front of his barred front window and carried them back. The man took them off his hands before he'd even properly reached him, studying them even closer, twisting them this way and that.

Harry let him look. Made himself silent and still... apart from his hand that crept under the counter and grabbed the iron-wrapped cosh he kept there for customers like this. Once he got his hand around it, grip nice and tight, he felt his balls fill his pants again and cleared his throat.

"So, ah... they're ten mizas. Fine price for food quality, wouldn't you agre? Looks like the last owner took real good care of-"

"Yes. She did."

CRACK

Hary flinched from his toes to his eyes as the stranger slammed the candlesticks onto the counter. Hard enough for the wood to creak under it. Harry's fear was quickly overrode by his indignation, that this walking fucking dog turd would come into his store and order him around and then damage his property.

"Look, friend," he said slowly, using the last word in the way of a man who beheld his opposite as anything but. "If yer not going to buy, you can get going-"

"See here?" The man pointed at the worn little crest into the base of the sticks. A snake eating it's own tail. "That's what caught her eyes when she bought it. Said it was like Sunberth. Eating itself. Killing itself and didn't even care. Y'know why?"

Harry didn't. He also didn't care. His arm flexed as he prepared to bring the cosh up. Decided that was going to be a definite when the man... his lips moved. It wasn't a smile. The movement was there, but it was an empty gesture. A corpse trying to imitate a man.

"Cuz it's hungry. Why else?"

"Look, I'm about done with-"

"Ten mizas?"

Clink!

"Sounds reasonable."

A little mound of gold-winking circles was slapped onto the table and gods but if Harry's demeanor didn't lurch back in the other direction just as quick as before. He let go the cosh and reached over to scoop them up with a broad, genuine smile, and just as his finger kissed the first coin-

-the man's hand slapped back over them. He looked up and the "smile" was gone.

"Not for this. For what you can tell me about the one who sold it to you. Wouldn't have been more than ten days ago. Tell me everything."

Harry paused. This wasn't just a punter off his rocker a little, or even a potential robber. This was something bigger than his store, and he licked his lips. Rule #1 of Sunberth: Do Not Get Involved. Not with anything that isn't directly concerning you. Now this man was trying to drag him into something bad, and he started to shake his-

Clink!

The mound doubled. Harry cleared his throat. Well. That was different.

"Tall bloke. Not as big as you, but bigger than me. Broad, too. Deep shoulders, y'know? Couldn't have been more'n... I dunno, twenty-three, twenty-four-"

"Scars? Ink? Anything he was wearing?"

"Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah." Harry was fast becoming a font of information. However deathly this weird fucker looked, he was paying a nice handful of dosh just for words, and what were the odds they'd come back to haunt him? Unless he missed his guess, the tattooed lad would be dead very shortly. And he'd have his money either way. "He had, like, teeth, painted above his lips. Like this..."

The man blinked as Harry ran his fingers across his mustache, then over the scruff under his bottom lip. The buyer and seller of goods stolen and taken with blood tried his hand at an amused laugh, a shrug capping it off... and got nowhere with the gesture.

"Kids, eh? Stupid things they try... but, ah, yeah, that's what I know."

"A name. What was his name?"

"Didn't say. Sorry, but, well... lotta folks don't, y'know? They just want to coin and no questions."

"I wonder why."

But there was no question to his words. No curiosity. Just a cold certainty as to why Harry never asked names, or histories, or anything resembling concern for anything beyond the walls and windows he stood in now. Three words and Harry wished he had the cosh again. His hand began to withdraw, even as he smile became twitchy and he kept on with the patter.

"Well... ah, I answered your questions, so I think the money's-"

The stranger's left shot out like an eel from a hole, capturing his wrist and slamming it onto the counter. His right wrapped around the heavy brass candlesticks and lifted it up.

High.

"Wh-Wh-Waitwaitwait!" He spluttered, other hand forgetting the cosh and raised up instead, trying to fend off the man and his burning eyes and his new weapon. "I answered yer questions, I helped you-"

"Helped them, too."

"Th-That's just business! People bring me stuff, I buy it and I sell it on! It's business!"

The man seemed to consider this. Harry dared to breath again, dared to think that he'd gotten through to the bastard. It was just a matter of money, he was sure. Scarred Cunt could take it back, take the candlesticks, his purse, whatever, it wouldn't matter. Just as long as he-

"I know. But it starts wit' you, anyway."

"N-"

The sun, the light, his orderly ranks of instruments and furniture and ceramics and toys, all of it vanished along with the snarl of the stranger as the thick base of the candlesticks eclipsed everything. Harry had enough time for a single letter of pitiful, futile pleading before-

CRACK

-the blow slammed his head so hard into the counter that it splintered as his skull bounced of it. Blood splattered over the wood, his hand, the mound of coins that had truly killed him-

CRACK

-another one and the world vanished entirely for him, a screaming maw of black like a pillow shoved over his head, stifling him, robbing even the strength to scream out for mercy-

CRUNCH

Bone shards and grey matter was clinging to the brass when he yanked it out of the hole he made, and Konrad knew the job was done. The candlesticks fell from his hand with a clatter. The coins stayed where they were. After a few ticks the spreading lake of blood washed around them, ignoring the cold metal as it oozed languidly towards the edge of the counter.

"You earned 'em."

He left the store with what he'd wanted, and stalked towards the Reaches as the darkness started to win its daily war against the light.

[Konrad Venger]

"Gods, just get outta my fuckin' sight, will you?"

Ratter hated a whore that couldn't even chug cum properly. Was it really so much to ask, that she look him in the eyes, moan just right, let him see her swallow and tip him the wink? Fair enough, whores were whores and it was all just a fucking charade, but that's what you paid for, wasn't it?

"I'm... kfff! ... I'm sorry-"

"Oh, like I give a... Naeves? Get this cunt away from me."

Naeves was not a man who have much feeling, not even for young whores coughing up seed and bent over on the floor. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright like she was a sack of squealing potatoes, then threw her through the curtain that separated the booth from the rest of the taverns.

The thick, billowing fabric swung back into place quickly, but Ratter grinned as he saw the whore slid across the floorboards, accompanied by the sudden burst of laughter from all that watched her thump into him.

Good. Teach the cunt to do her job right. She should be fucking thanking me.

"All good, boss?"

"Nah, left a bad taste in me mouth, that did." The stubby information broker scratched at his scrubbing-brush-sized sideburns and shook his head. "I'mma go out back for a smoke, come on."

He was halfway across the Moonlit Veil when the joke smacked him around the gob and he whacked Naeves on one thick arm. The hired thug just frowned down at him, wondering if this was some new kind of signal for him to hurt someone.

"Ha 'Bad taste in me mouth'! Ha, y'get it?"

Blank and dull eyes blinked at him.

"Y'know, from the girl?"

Eyebrows like overfed caterpillars bunched closer together and Naeves tried really hard to discern the mystic good humor of his master. But alas, he was no wit and Ratter just smiled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Nevermind. Outside, yeah?"

Naeves held the door open with an arm like a tree trunk. "Yes, boss."

It wasn't the first time Naeves had been struck dumb by Ratter's rapier wit, but the man wasn't on retainer for his satirical acumen. The man was wide as a door and thick as pine but he'd seen the sod discombobulate two likely lads looking to take his purse like they were children. After... last season, Ratter had felt the need for something big and mean watching his back.

He rubbed his hand without even thinking; that spot between his fingers were that bastard Venger's blade had nearly sliced into his palm. He didn't want to feel helpless like that again.

But those dark thoughts were the past, and he blew them away with a long, deep pull on the Temper taper between his lips. The good stuff, two, straight from the Night Eyes, or so he'd been told. Nary a gram of tobacco in that fat little package of paper, just sizzling, soothing narcotic smoking up his throat and curling down into his lungs, spreading out and scorning the chill of the night.

"Oi, I 'elp you, mate?"

Naeve's words thudded into Ratter's mind like bricks tossed onto the ground. Thick, deep, and uncomplicated. He looked around as he leaned against the alley wall and saw the tall, dark figure in a swaying duster walking their way.

"Dun' you fuckin' ignore me, mate."

The figure kept walking, and Ratter's muggy, hazy grin started to crumble. Without the Temper clouding his mind he might have made out the face, darkened though it was, but he did see the hat, and-

His mood vanished entirely. He knew that hat.

Naeves did not. So he had no problem reaching out with one thick mitt of a hand and grabbing a handful of coat when the man was close enough.

"You fuckin' deaf or-"

Konrad moved the only way one could in that situation: swift, sure, and without mercy. His right hand shot up diagonally from his waist, fingers bent inward at the second knuckle-

-and slammed the thin line of flesh and bone into Naeve's throat. Something wet popped inside that mass of flesh and Naeves started to choke, free hand flying up out of instinct-

-but Konrad's hand wasn't finished yet. Either of them. His right came back up, his left slid under Naeve's outstretched arm and joined it, both of them planted against the side of the big man's face and-

CRACK!

-slammed it hard into the wall of the alley. Ratter felt the bile bubble in his throat as he saw half of Naeve's head just... flatten. Curved bone was crushed into a straight, crushed line. An eye popped in his socket. And ear was mashed to pulp and stayed smeared against the brick as Konrad let go and the twitching minder slid down to the ground.

"K-Kon-"

Ticks had elapsed. No more than that. Sober and Ratter would have already bolted for the door, but the Temper was still in his system and he was too slow. By the time he'd stirred a foot for the backdoor, Konrad was mere yards away... and shook his head.

"Wh-What the-"

"Not in the mood for yer shite tonight, Ratter. Needed t'make my point quick, like."

Ratter's hand was flat-out twitching by that point. Memories of blood in his blood and he could see Konrad was far past the point of just drawing a little more of it out of him. He couldn't look away from the twitching, gurgling form of Naeves, probably already a dead man but his brain too stupid to know it.

"What... What do you want, man?!"

"Same thing as always, Ratter. Some information."

"Y-You coulda' must asked for that! Like every other bastard!"

"Calling me a bastard isn't a good idea, Ratter," Konrad said in a slow, lilting voice, like he was talking a brisk morning walk as opposed to stepping over the man he'd either crippled or killed. "Need you t'tell me about someone. A name, and where to find 'em."

Ratter's first thoughts were about money, of course. How much he could charge for what Konrad wanted to know. That was his business, after all, but tonight, seeing Naeves bleeding out and shit himself mere yards away, he knew the world had changed for him. Or, at least, it was changing for that single bell.

"Huh... who?"

"Big bloke, little smaller than me, broad shoulders. Early twenties. He's got tattoos of teeth here... and here. Probably runs with a robbery crew, houses, drunks, warehouses. Ain't afraid to get blood on their blades."

Ratter leaned back onto the wall and could almost, almost forget that a man was slowly dying close to him. This was what he did, after all. He closed his eyes and dredged his mind down to the black sludge at the bottom of it. Every conversation he had, every street kid and storekeeper and whore and derelict and dealer and ganger he had on her inconsistent payroll. Everything they'd said, every rumor and report, story and update. He sifted through it like a prospector panning for gold, grinding away the inconsequential until-

"... aye..." he said, opening his eyes and actually managing a smile. "Think I've got... but, ah, I might need to confirm it, y'know-"

Konrad bent oddly, down and to the side, and when he came back up, there was a very familiar blade in his hand. He took a step closer and Ratter's face went as pallid as a death mask. That dagger.

"You'll tell me now, or I'll kill you and ask someone else. I told you before, Ratter.: you ain't the only one."

"K-Kalrew! H-His name's Kalrew! Runs with a buncha' tearaways up in Stumble! B-But they don't do much business there. They go to other districts, long as they ain't fer the Daggers-"

"Tell me more. Give me a fucking address, Ratter."

"I-I-I don't-"

Konrad moved fast. He lunged with his free hand and caught the man around the throat, shoving him against the wall and pinning him there. Ratter had enough time for a strangled yelp before that dagger was so, so close, digging into his skin right where one sideburn started-

"I never liked these, Ratter. Think y'need to lose 'em."

"W-Wait-!"

"Talk to me, Ratter."

He could feel the blade until his skin. It was grinding, cutting, slicing, then Konrad was pulling and Ratter was almost shrieking the words.

"House! There's a house! Please, Kon, please-!"

"Where?!"

"N-N-Next to-to a grocers! S'round-round the back! N-No-one's lived there in years! That's-That's where he lives, all of 'em, wiv' the rest!"

"How many?"

"I dunno, maybe four or five, maybe more, I don't deal with 'em! They're blaggers, cut-purses, burglars! They do what they do, don't need a man who knows whispers! I just hear what they do!"

"Oh, aye?"

"Y-Yeah!" Ratter nodded his head as fast as he dared, eyes screwed shut as he kept spilling words, noting with keen ears the sudden interest in Konrad's voice. So he spilled, voided his guts, his ball, his lungs, whatever he needed to. "L-Like this house, few days ago! Ol' lady an' her big retard of a boy! Fuckin'-Fuckin'-"

He laughed. Konrad was the kind that would like the joke, after all. Something dark and evil and cruel that even the gods would think was twisted. That was always Konrad's speed, so he laughed. He laughed and that's what killed him.

"Th-They came in, like, pretendin' to be hurt, aye? S-So the ol'-ol' girl, she opens right up and-and-and they come in, front an' back. Retard went down swinging, she got a knife in the guts. Th-That's the kind of thing they-"

He didn't understand why it happened. It didn't make sense. You didn't kill a middleman like Ratter. He didn't actually do anything to anyone, he just... heard things. Passed those things along, for a price. Didn't take sides, never played favorites, kept himself as neutral as possible.

And it was Konrad. Konrad never killed without a good reason, that was the truth of it. So Ratter didn't scream not because of the steel in him but because he simply didn't get it-

-when Konrad growled low in his throat and pulled the dagger away for a moment-

-only to slam it into his head, under the chin, just above the thyroid. The wide, double-edged blade was designed to kill, but slicing between ribs and cutting throats. This way... it wasn't as quick. Ratter choked as blood started to trickle into his lungs, razor-honed metal cutting his voice box and it wasn't really human when he gurgled-

"Wh... whuh...?"

Konrad seemed to consider the question. Face still as marble, carved forever in a mass of hate, eyes so wide they were like furious, burning globes. As Ratter pawed weakly at him, he got his answer. As he sank down he heard the words and realized there was no whores and Temper where he was going.

"Cuz they're not gonna be enough, Ratter. Not even close."

[Konrad Venger]

It all came back to him so easily. Like a coat left in the cupboard for years, but when you slid it back over your shoulders you found no stiffness to it. It clung back to your skin like the embrace of an old friend, warm and satisfying. Not even a dozen bells since he'd stove in the head of that shopkeeper, breaking his mortal fast for a sake of his promise. Not even that long and by the third, by Ratter... it came back all so easily.

How he did it, and just how little it meant to him. Even for this reason.

Don't go getting too introspective, now, lad. Night's still young.

Konrad shook away the cobwebs and fixed his stare back onto the gutted skeleton of the house. Set behind a grocers that looked like a minor fortification, so covered it was in bars and locks, it was one of those houses that had been damned by geography. Thieves and killers without discrimination roamed Stumble Alley; it was the front line in every gutter war and ganger clash, and the dwellings of those living there were always caught in the fray.

He didn't want to guess at how many enterprising or foolish families had tried to make a home in that spacious abode, only to have been turfed out or simply slaughtered like the rest when the gangers made their wars. Apparently the point had got across; now the windows were shattered and the facade a rotting ruin, like a decayed skull.

No-one stayed there but those who had bloody business to their names.

Some carousing voices cackled from up the street and Konrad instinctively flattened himself against the wall of the alley. Wreathed in yards of shadow, his duster and hat and boots black as his intent that night, he went unobserved and had been for over a bell. He just watched, and remained hidden.

It wasn't just the threats and intimidation, the knife-work and the way he used his bare hands to fracture and crush and ruin flesh with every strike. The mentality came back to him, too. As if he'd been sleeping and awoke from a dream, a life not his own... and Konrad was himself again. What he'd always been. What he'd-

All too easy. Like it was meant to be this way.

The ragged door swung open and two swaying figures came tottering out, supporting each other as they slurred and chuckled. Konrad had been listening to the gathering inside. Laughter and light from the eyeless windows. Bottle clinking and broken now and then. Profiles and shadows playing across the light.

He wanted to do this hard and fast and loud and nasty. It would be fitting, he thought. To scythe through them all like a vengeful god. But then, they would scatter. Maybe escape. He only had one name, one location... and he wanted them all. He wanted every drop of blood he could wring from them.

But this... this is a good start.

The two men lurched over to a wall and after much ado managed to unbutton their flies. Twin streams of reeking piss were soon flowing down into the gutter and one was regaling the other with some tale, some whore, and this trick she had with her cunny.

"Sing? Fuggoff, can' mekuh cunt sing, ya doss sod."

"Ash-Ash I live n' fuckin' breev, mate-"

"Fuckinell, min' me boots!"

The Storyteller laughed and eventually Boots laughed and they were so sozzled and satisfied with themselves they didn't hear the tread behind them. Boots barely saw the flash of movement and still wore a bemused smile when-

-the kukri flashing like a cat's eyes in the darkness, stabbing forwards-

-impaling Storyteller through his back, his stomach, blade poking through the front of his dirty tunic and sending him sprawling forwards-

"Fuckin-"

-rough free hand of his killer grabbing a handful of hair, yanking back his gurgling head and-

CRUNCH!

-slamming it against the wall, perfect spatter of blood painted there as Boots went for his blade even with his pants falling down-

Konrad yanked his kukri free, swung around to face him and brought his boot up with the movement. He buried the steel cap between his legs and lifting him off the ground. Boots doubled over and puked in the same impossible tick, spewing it over Konrad's pant leg as he went down, wheezing, cursing, gasping-

-until strong hands yanked him up by the hair, jerking his gaze up and there was a blade at his throat, a curved and bloody thing and-

He didn't die. The man didn't move. Boots blinked thought the smokes must have been something else, because this bloke he saw... no, he couldn't have a face that fucked up.

Konrad looked down and saw a man with fearful eyes... and a huge, toothy smile tattooed around his lips. He ached. Gods, he ached. But it came back to him, even in that tick. That control. That icy understanding of the proper, professional way to do things.

Ask the questions first.

"Kalrew, aye?"

"F-Fuck do-" The blade pushed a little further into his throat, close enough for him to know a heavy gulp could open him up. "Y-Yeah, that's me, fuck're you-"

"How many inside?"

"Y-You don't-"

The scarred man twisted the blade just a little, and Kelrew felt the sting of steel slicing into his neck. Not near anything too worrying, but enough to make his point.

"Don't want to be fucked around, yeah, yer right. Now how many're inside?"

"Suh-Seven!"

"All smoked out an' drunk like you?"

"Y-Yeah, we've been havin' a-"

"Old lady and her boy. Thirteen nights ago. Down by the Slums, south side. Yer cunt pretended to be hurt, that got you in the door."

Kelrew didn't know much in those last moments, other than he wanted to stay alive. Anything he had to say, he'd do it, but even then, he could feel the sheer, flaming hatred in those cold words. He thought back and nodded as best he could with a knife a hair away from slitting his throat.

"Y-Yeah-"

"Who held the knife that killed the old lady?" Konrad gripped his hair tighter, enough to draw a wince. "One chance, boy. Lie to me and I'll cut yer throat down to the fuckin' bone."

"M-Moira! Moira did it! She-She got us in, wiv' dat shite about bein' hurt! She got us in an'-"

Konrad had heard enough. He ripped the kukri to the side and opened up a gash big enough to push all four of his fingers through. Kept his grip on Kelrew's hair and held him there. Held him while blood poured down his throat and soaked his chest. Held him and watched as it frothed up and spattered across his teeth, his lips, then the fake grin now made a deathly rictus by the blood covering it.

Only when the light left the ganger's eyes and there was naught but glassy orbs staring back did he let go. There was nothing but a pitiful little thud to mark Kelrew's passing, and he turned to the house.

"Moira." He said the word to the night and wiped his kukri clean. It went back to its sheath... and his kopis replaced it. "Moira..."

[Konrad Venger]

Dander thought that those two idiots must have been taking the piss of the fucking century. Him and Whitey were still sitting at the table wait on them. After his second bottle and third shuffle of the cards, he filling slapped them down and cursed viciously.

"Aw, for fuck's sake!" He snarled, lurching to his feet under Whitey's surprised, addled stare. "Godda' fuckin' game left t'play, fer-" The door opened and he raised his voice, arms flapping like he was beseeching the heavens. "Oh, and about fuckin' t-"

But it wasn't them. Dander fell silent and confused and Whitey followed his stare, to see the tall figure in the doorway, holding a sword. Malvaney, bubbling a water pipe in his lap, looked up from his seat on the floor by the door, looked up to nod a hello and-

"Fuck!"

-without a word the man swung the kopis down buried it in his face.

"Bastard!"

All was bedlam following those first, few, befuddled ticks. Dander grabbed up his short sword and Whitey knocked his chair over as he rose, pulling a blade with a black handle from his belt. They started towards the man who was yanking his sword free and-

-he was already on them. Swinging with a face made of brutalized flesh and silent hatred, all of it blazing under a black hat-

-swords crashing together, Konrad knocking Dander's cutlass away from him, leaving his chest open-

-to a backhand slash that gouged a thick, oozing hole and-

"Fuck you!"

Slammer pumping through his veins, Dander was dead already and barely even felt it. He thrust with his cutlass and Konrad wasn't expecting it, not from a man with his guts fit to squeeze through a cut in his chest. He howled as the cutlass pierced his shoulder thrust with his kopis-

Dander wasn't laughing that one off. Not with three feet of steel impaling his stomach and poking out his back, but he couldn't yank it free and-

-had to step back hurriedly as Whitey came in with a curse in a language he didn't understand, slash with his knife barely missing his face. He backed up, hands empty, until he hit the cabinet by the wall and his groping hand found-

-a bottle, not empty-

-Whitey lunged, ignoring the panting Dander, trying to pull the sword from his guts, addled body without the sense to just lay down and die.

He came in close and stabbed for Konrad's stomach, and the man twisted but not fast enough. Konrad cursed in a single, enraged blast of breath, blade grinding in his side, but-

Fuck the pain. Use the moment.

-grabbed the wrist holding the knife, keeping it in him and immobile as he slammed his head forward-

Fucking hat!

Without it, his crown could have broken Whitey's nose with ease. But the damned thing got in the way like it always did and Whitey just staggered back a step, prematurely-wizened face frozen in a snarl-

-but it gave Konrad an opening, just a tick, long enough to-

-swing the bottle in his right hand across the man's head, shattering it and embedding a constellation of angry shards in his face. His hands abandoned the knife and went up to it, screaming witha tongue already being lacerated from the broken glass in it-

-Konrad finished him with a thrust of the broken bottle neck into his throat, jamming it in as far as he could, until blood made his grip impossible and Whitey died trying to pull it back out.

"Mother... fucker!"

He pulled out the knife and it dropped to the floor. Nothing too bad oozing out of him, he could see from a look at his fingers. Just blood. Nothing from his organs, and that was his one bit of good luck. There were boots on the boards and querying voices now, getting angrier by the moment. Konrad remembered his purpose, remembered the open door and-

No. No-one gets out.

He ran for it, grinding his teeth hard against the pain, pulling his kukri as-

-another man, clad in but his breeches came pounding around the corner from the other room, blade in hand and-

-Konrad screamed his hate and swung up his boot, planting it square in the man's chest at a run and knocking him back. He stank of cheap booze and strong drugs and lingered too long on his back, clawing around for some help getting back up-

-one hand finding Konrad's leg-

-as the man stomped on the wrist holding his knife and the nerves in his hands died-

-followed shortly by the man himself as Konrad hacked down once, twice, thrice, one more time, making a butchered apocalypse of the man's face.

What did you do? Cut up Hansel? Rifle her room? Watch the street?

Doesn't matter what. You were there. That's enough.

Konrad spat down and started stomping up the stairs, every step jabbing invisible blades into his side. Other places, too. He should be in bed, still, after that bout with Urgol. But that pain was as distant as that stolen season where he'd been... other than himself.

The candles thinned upstairs. Gutted or unlit or just forgotten. He marched into darkness with his kukri in hand, and found that fitting.

It was never me. But that doesn't change this.

He stopped just before the top of the stairs. Listened. Dander, downstairs, Slammer finally wearing off and he was sobbing, begging, praying in a broken whisper. His own breath, loud and panting, but... something off... too quiet and still up there, with the butchery they'd all heard downstairs.

Trap.

He held his blade ready, body primed and poised, stepping into the top hallway-

-a shadow, a flash-

-Konrad dropped to his knees like his shins had just ceased to exist, grunting with pain as his caps smacked into the floor-

-and the ax swung over his head and slammed into the wall-

Should have aimed for my chest. No dodging that.

He slashed to his side and his kukri buried into the leg of the scrawny thief who'd tried to take his head off. The boy went down with a scream, clutching at his useless limb and Konrad stabbed the blade into his stomach as he fell-

-leering over him as the boy lay on his back, choking and sputtering until-

-Konrad yanked the kukri up, ripping through guts and ropes and flesh and crunching ribs until breastbone finally stopped his progress. He ripped the kukri free with some effort, a hole big enough for a fist or two, gaping in the boy's torso and left him there. Trying to push together the edges of the hole.

A frightened voice from another room. Candlelight smearing the doorway. Konrad walked over and peered inside...

A man, tall and well-muscled, but the way he held his blade? Used to old ladies and drunks who couldn't fight back. Not creatures like Konrad. A woman just behind him, holding close a child that came up to her teats. Without sex beneath her crushing arms and a demented nest of hair caked in dirt.

"Wad-Wadaya want?" The man gulped, sweat making him shine in the low light. "We'We ain't got money, not anymore. Jus-Just take the pills an' the smoke, f'ya wonnit-"

Konrad saw all of this. He heard the words. But he ignored it all, for they were all made mute by the thing glinting around the woman's neck.

A locket. Old but well-preserved. Without much in the way of filigree or ornamentation, just a locket like countless others. But he'd know it anywhere.

"Moira." He didn't smile. There was no light in his eyes. He seemed as alien to life as Kelrew had been, just before he let him go. Only his movements were purposeful. His stride slow and measured. "You're Moira."

"I-I-I ain't, yuh bastard! Jus' fuck off an' leave us-"

She stopped speaking when Konrad's eyes slid from her... and onto her daughter.

"A family. Mother. Father. Child." Those words... that voice... they made the very blood in her freeze and bubble. She was a hard woman, had done hard things. But this creature in front of her? He gave her fear like a gift. "That's good."

"What?!" The man had a little more sobriety than his underlings, apparently. "What are you talking about?!"

"You took my family from me," Konrad said, voice almost a hiss. "Now I'm going to take yours."

"Like fuck you will-"

Moira knew Franzig was dead, even as her heart hoped that his dagger would find it's mark. She'd seen that hardhearted, wonderful, useless sack of shit that gave her Marie take on hard men and slice them up with a smile. But even as his lean limbs flew towards this invader, she screamed for him not to. Not out of great love, but because she knew that if he died, she would be alone.

She screamed as Franzig's feint at Konrad's neck became a stab at his stomach, and the tall man twisted to the side, knife and arm sliding past him as his kukri slashed straight down-

Screamed louder and covered her daughter's eyes as Franzig's hand and the blade it clutched was lopped off and went flopping to the floor. He didn't suffer long. Konrad's backhand opened up his throat and a spray of deepest red spurted high, over the wall, the candles, their beds, the ceiling-

She was not screaming when he fell back and she knew he was dead. By that time the two of them had shrunk down and she was telling Marie not to look, that it would be okay

"No, Moira," the monster's voice said, from so very, very close. "It won't."

[Konrad Venger]

She didn't die quickly. She had not earned that... professional courtesy. She'd pleaded for it when the monster had yanked her from her daughter, that plea mingling with one to spare her daughter, only her, for the sake of salvation-

But Konrad did not bring his blade down on her throat. He brought it down on her legs.

"Please... please..."

She begged through drool and tears and blood as she lay a scant yard from her dead, dear Franzig. Marie was cuddled up to her side and sobbing, all the horror of the previous dicks robbing her of any voice apart from "Mama... Mama... Mama". She doubted the man could even hear her over-

Bottle after bottle, crashing onto the floor. Some empty but most full or at least half, until every inch of wood was coated with booze. Strong stuff, too. Moira's tears came harder and she pushed herself up on shaky arms.

"P-Please... not my daughter... b... burn me, if you want, but-"

The stranger crouched down and she tried to grab his hand, not let go until she had his word. But he ignored her hand, her eyes, staring only at that locket which he yanked off her. He dangled it in front of her eyes.

"This isn't yours."

"I, no, please, Marie-!"

One hand stuffed the locket into his pocket, and the other yanked Marie up by her hair like she was a stray cat. Instantly she started to bite and scratch and swing her fists around, but before he'd even straightened up properly, Konrad had his dagger in his hand-

Moira's heart stopped beating entirely. The gashed deep into her leg were forgotten. This lunatic had his blade to her daughter's throat. The world shrunk solely to that one certainty.

She tried to rise but the man knew his business. Both her tendons had been laid open, deep and irrevocable and rendering her useless from the waist down. She had a better chance of flying than every walking again. But still she tried, and begged, and cried.

"Please... Please, I'll... I beg you... she's just a little girl... look at her, just-just look at her!"

Konrad did, and saw a girl, of course. Like hundreds he'd seen before, across his years, scampering around the city like rats on the way to womanhood. He looked down into those full cheeks and across a body still years away from maturity. But he'd not been much older than this one, when first he took a life.

Were you there that night, too? Did they get you blooded that night, hmm? Your first time?

"Why did you kill the old woman? The one you stole the locket from?"

Konrad didn't need to press the blade or pull the hair harder. The very fact he had her daughter was all the breaking he'd ever need to do to this woman. After what he'd done to her lover, she knew exactly what he was capable of.

"It... It was just a blag!" She said, in tones of genuine, honest confusion. "She-She was in the way! Wh-Why do you care?! You-You ain't never killed any old ladies, huh? Any kids?! S-S-S'just what this city is, f'fuck's sake! But... But not my daughter. She wasn't there. She didn't do anything!"

"No... No, she didn't..."

Relief spread across Moira's face. Fueled by hope, as he led the girl over to the door, his knife vanishing from her throat. Just as Konrad intended. Then, as he got to the door, he turned back to her.

"But you were. You took them from me. You-" She could have sworn she heard his voice crack around the words. "-you took... all I had left."

The knife moved out of sight, and Moira's face crumpled with dawning horror.

"So now I'll take it from you-"

Moira's screech could have shattered glass as Konrad shoved the dagger through Marie's heart, blade designed for just that carving between tiny ribs and into that pulsing organ. Marie's face froze for a tick in the sheer, agonized incomprehension of a child in pain. She didn't understand, couldn't find the words or breath to voice them anyway-

She fell forwards into the shallow lake of alcohol and her father's blood, Moira screaming without words or sanity and dragging herself over.

"Nononopleasenomariemarietalktometalktomebaby-"

He could have watched for a bell. A day. A season. He could have soaked himself in the perfection of that scream over and over again. But the night was waning and the final blow had yet to be struck. Still, he waited. Until Moira was holding her dying daughter, and remembered he was there. Until she looked up... and saw him holding the candle.

"You... You are damned, you evil sonofa-"

"I know." Konrad said, just before he dropped the burning wax into the booze marinading mother and daughter and father. "I should never have forgotten that."

He stepped back just before the whoosh clamored his ears and the hot, wet slap of sudden heat bathed his face. He turned away and lowered his hat a touch as the scorching flames seared into his vision and those three pathetic bodies were lost in a sea of flames. Moira was nothing but screaming meat, flailing around on her crippled legs, daughter forgotten as she was eaten alive by a thing ravenous and uncaring. Pools and puddles of moonshine went up like whale oil, and soon every inch of the room was aflame.

Another perfect moment, but Konrad had no desire to see the hells tonight.

But you will. One day.

[Konrad Venger]

He went back, one more time, though he knew it was a mistake. Respect or not, bloodstains or not (ha, since when did that matter in this town?), a well-made house was a precious commodity in Sunberth. Especially with Winter closing fast and all the merciless frigidity that came with it. So Konrad wasn't surprised when he saw fresh candles in the windows and smelled cooking from the kitchen-

stew and pork and sometimes pies. boiling cabbage and diced carrots. fresh bread and sweet cakes.

He went around the back, instead. That was where his business was, anyway. He peeked over the door and found that the back garden was empty. Two windows looked out to it, but the dawn was still an hour away and dressed as he was... who would see him? He took his dagger and slid it up in the narrow gap between the gate and the wall... until he'd lifted the latch... and the door swung open.

You would have hated me for what I've done. If you knew, you'd have cast me out and never spoken my name again. I wouldn't have blamed you. I still wouldn't.

The dead do not speak, he'd always heard, but still he communed with them in his thoughts. Moreso than at the graveyard, which was... strange, and yet fitting to him. It was this place, this house that forever belong to the three of them. Not that cold mound of earth, crammed together with the bones of all the other dead Sunberth had created.

He walked over the dead grass and noted that the green beans had been cared for. Bessy would like that. He noted more that his odd little grave, where he'd tried to bury his past, had been filled in, too. Be bent down to correct that and-

-a burst of light and sound-

"Who're you? What're you doing here?"

A classic Sunberth greeting, Konrad would agree. His people weren't much for niceties, especially when everyone carried a weapon and likely knew how to use it. He looked over his shoulder and found a woman stout and ruddy in the face, wearing an apron splotched with juices. His nose crinkled.

"Hmm. Fishwife, are yeh? Aye. Know that smell." His hand delved into his pocket as he rose. Found something smooth and cold. "Mother was one."

"Didn't answer my question, lad. What're you doin' here?"

"I used to live here."

"Aye, well... no longer, hmm?"

She hesitated before she spoke. Wasn't stupid. She could see he was tall and lean and heard metal clank as he rose. She knew he was a street daemon, as only Sunberth can produce, but this was her house, and she had laid claim to it.

Laughter from inside. High and happy. Scampering feet.

"Your kids?"

"Don't you talk about my-"

Konrad tilted his head up, let her get a good, clear view of his face, and the words died on her tongue. Fear, for herself and her brood, replaced her brass spine and yet... she moved in front of the door.

"Please, just... don't hurt my boys. We haven't got much, sir. Just food and a few coins, you're welcome to-"

"You shouldn't be in this city."

The fishwife had been robbed before. Came with living in Sunberth, really. You had to be one of the nobs in the Gated Community to avoid that particular "cost of living". But every time it had been a perfuntory, bruque thing. Just hand over the money and no-on gets hurt, sort of affair. But looking into that hellish face, she thought it wouldn't be like that. Something worse would come with him.

So when he said those words, and leaned down just for a moment, placing his hand to the soil in front of those lovely green beans she'd found back here, she was almost as stunned as fear had made her.

"Try Zeltiva."

He touched the brim of his hat and he walked away. She never saw him again. Heard tales of a man with a scarred face who would bring death and ruin to anyone that paid, regardless of age or sex, but never saw him or spoke to him. She had her children and that useless loaf of a husband to worry about, so she didn't ask about him again.

She never found out what happened to him. Or why he left a plain locket in his wake, with the sad face of a woman inside.

[Rufio]

　　

g　r　a　d　e

xp

Story-telling +1
Interrogation +4
Intimidation +2
Brawling +2
Unarmed Combat +3
Weapon: Dagger +2
Tracking +1
Stealth +1
Weapon: Kukri +3
Weapon: Kopis +1
Rhetoric +2

lores

Interrogation: Bribing with coin
Interrogation: Relentlessly until the information is got
Interrogation: Using intimidation to get to the truth
Konrad: Never kills without a reason
Tracking: Bessy & Hansel’s killers through Sunberth
Brawling: With whatever comes to hand
No mercy for Bessy & Hansel's killers
Burying Bessy’s locket at the old house


penalties

-20GM bribe
Wound to his shoulder leaving behind a minor scar
Wound in his side leaving behind a minor scar

If you feel I missed anything shoot me a PM.
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