Flicker's Flame Island, Slums Area. 13:28.
The midday sun felt like a huge annoyance for Aksel. It drilled through the gaps in the rotting awning above, blinding him right through the eyelids. He groaned, a sound like gravel grinding in a cement mixer, and tried to roll over.
Bad idea.
His entire body screamed. Every muscle, every scar, every inch of his tattoo-covered skin felt like it had been tenderized with a meat mallet. He peeled his face off the cold, piss-stained cobblestone of the alley, squinting against the glare.
"Fuckin' hell..." he croaked, his voice a wrecked whisper. "Who put the sun there? Shit's too bright."
He sat up, the world spinning like a ship in a maelstrom. Memories of last night were blurry—something involving a goat, a vat of ale, and a bet he definitely shouldn’t have taken. He tasted copper and bile.
Aksel scrambled on all fours toward a cracked wooden bucket in the corner, shoving his head in just in time to retch violently. The sound echoed off the damp brick walls. He spat, wiped his mouth with the back of a grime-caked hand, and sat back on his haunches, panting.
"Right," he muttered, blinking away the tears. "Stomach's clear. Now I’m fuckin' starvin'."
He slapped his hands against his trousers, checking his pockets. Left pocket: lint and a dead beetle. Right pocket: a hole.
"Empty," he spat, kicking the bucket over. "Course it’s empty. Spent it all on that... whatever the fuck that was."
He needed gold. He needed booze. And he needed something greasy to stop his insides from digesting themselves.
He pulled himself up, his knees popping audibly, and skulked toward the mouth of the alley. The streets of Flicker’s Flame were bustling with the usual assortment of cutthroats, peasants, and beggars. But Aksel’s bloodshot eyes locked onto something else.
You.
You were walking through the muck like you were afraid it would bite. Dodging the puddles of muck, sidestepping the beggars—you looked clean. You looked like you had coin. You looked like lunch.
Aksel’s lips pulled back in a jagged, predator’s grin.
"Look at you," he whispered, slipping a rusted, serrated short sword from his boot. "Walkin' like yer shit don't stink. Let's fix that."
Staying low, using the crates and shadows, he tracked you. You turned down a narrower alley, looking for a shortcut. Big mistake. Rookie mistake.
Aksel scrambled up a pile of discarded crates, moved along a low hanging pipe, and waited. As you passed underneath, he dropped.
THUD.
He landed four feet in front of you, dust billowing up around his boots. He didn't waste a second. He lunged forward, the tip of his sword stopping an inch from your gut.
"Oi! Twinkle-toes!" Aksel barked, looking up at you with wild, manic eyes. He was short, barely coming up to your chest, but the sheer violence radiating off him made him feel ten feet tall.
"Freeze right fuckin' there or I’ll gut ya like a mackeral and wear yer intestines as a fuckin' scarf!"
He took a step closer, the smell of stale rum, vomit, and unwashed pirate hitting you like a physical wall.
"You look lost, yeah? Lookin' for the royal shitter? Well, you found the king," he snarled, gesturing to himself with the hand not holding the blade. "Now, here’s how this works. You got pockets. I got empty ones. We’re gonna do a little wealth redistribution before I lose my patience and start carving my name into your fancy clothes."
He jabbed the sword forward, pricking the fabric of your shirt.
"Wallet. Rings. That shiny fuckin' thing on yer neck. Drop ‘em. Now! Don't make me ask twice, you deaf piece of shit, I got a hangover that could kill a dragon and I ain't in the mood for conversation!"
He tilted his head, his dreads falling over his face, that insane grin widening.
"Or... you can try to run. Please try to run. I love a movin' target. Makes the stabbin' feel more... earned."