I finished my book keeping, had a quiet breakfast with Leo. Spoke a few kind words to the other Flock men as they went about their own days and tasks, then headed for Uptown.

  Constructed on a short cliff that overlooked Augusts' Hope Bay, Uptown was a glitzy sort of place. There was a gate separating it from the world of us below. I moseyed on up and two grim-faced jackboots fixed eyes on my approach.

  "Hold," the bigger of the two raised a hand, "What business have you in Uptown, citizen?"

  His eyes moved from the shotgun slung across my back to the twin bulges of my holstered pistols under my tattered coat. His face was so clean cut and perfect that it was downright eerie.

  I pulled the token from Temperance out of a pocket and held it up to the morning light.

  "Come to see a healer here in Uptown."

  I had looked at it just before this walk. Fancy thing. Marked me as important, according to Leo.

  The man winced and his partner gave a curious look.

  "Ducal Token. He's clear," he said and his fellow opened the gate.

  I tipped my hat as I passed by, "Much obliged, gents."

  "Yes sir. If you have any issues please let us know. We’re happy to take care of… incidents for a small fee.”

  What the fuck did that mean? And did a lawman just sir me?

  And the fact that I looked like a stray dog dressed in a shot-up overcoat.

  Actually…

  Did they take me for a trained dog then? Did the Lord Duke, or whoever actually handed these things out employ folk just like me. Folks from outside to do dirty work in his little garden, I’d bet.

  Interesting.

  Rather than the false fronts of the colonial town below, folk in the Up built in that classic Imperial style. Everything was brick and clean cut stone. Houses so large they could fit ten families or more, only fit for one in the eyes of the new rich.

  Guard were posted every few hundred yards, each in the same uniform as the two at the gate. They kept watch on the few passers by as the sun rose in the sky.

  The folk themselves were a strange mix. From the typical dandies and blue bloods you expected, to the new money types in the fine suits they wore like military uniforms. Some was even Northman stock, with a few halflings and even the odd Pardaz amongst them. Must be awful hot for one of them cats to wear a fancy suit.

  Then there were the servants, and they were easy to spot. Mostly women, but a few men, and all dressed in similar, yet modest clothes.

  Outcasts, by large. A few humans with prison brands amongst them too though. Some wore collars or chains, but most walked free. It was clear that this half the city ran on their work, as everyone seemed to be carryin’, sweepin’, or laborin’ at the best of one master or more.

  Seein' it all, made my trigger finger itch.

  Made me want to strike a match and soak one of them fancy ladies in oil. Just to see half the fear she put in her owned man.

  I didn't.

  I wasn’t a fuckin' psycho. There was a time and place for my kind of justice and a busy street in broad daylight wasn’t it.

  I made quick progress through the looming displays of lavish expense. Hurrying for the decidedly more utilitarian, but no less impressive, market district.

  I hadn't even seen the bazaar in Lowtown, where the common merchants of the city conducted their trade. But I knew it would pale compared to this.

  Every industry, every trade, profession and art was represented here. I could spend my whole life browsing these shops, but for today I had an appointment to keep.

  I veered off the paved main street, slipping into an alley between a gunsmith and a whorehouse. I be back for both of those, one day.

  I found the narrow stairs that led down to the subterranean level of the city, a relic of older construction and the original founders. Here, in the Cellar, as the local called it, was conducted more sensitive trade. Not the expressly illegal sort, but the kind best done behind closed doors.

  Information, modification, alchemy and slaves. All were here, and all were kept away from the more delicate senses of the nobility that dwelt above. A long circular hall extended out and around, at regular intervals staircases lead up and down. This was a place where you could buy anything, if you knew where to look.

  I followed the direction Leo had given before I left and took the sixth stair on the eastern side. It was a long walk, down stairs of smooth stone into the cool, dark, and dry front. The door, made of reinforced steel was set with a little slat at eye level.

  I knocked.

  It slid open and a pair of hazel eyes peered out.

  "Name and business."

  "Roche. Got a token from... Temperance." Best not say Saint, even if this old gal was one of ours. Never knew which wall had ears.

  The slat slid shut and a moment later the door swung wide open.

  On a footstool stood an aging halfling woman. Maybe just over eighty, midway through her people's long span. Her blonde hair was streaked with grey and her face was lined in wrinkles, but she was still an attractive sort of woman. I wasn't above bending a half pint over and showing her a good time, if it were offered.

  But judging by her pinched frown and the snarl lines etched into her brow, I didn't imagine I'd ever get the chance.

  "Welcome," she said and her voice was a gravel rasp, "I was told you'd be by. One of Temperance's dogs I suppose?"

  "I'm more of a tomcat," I said tipping, then removing my hat as I stepped into the shop.

  Instantly the scent of alchemical cleaners and the sharp sting of mana hit me. Half the shit in here glowed like it was bathed in arcane fire. Enchantments on everything from the counters, to the lights, to the long, padded table.

  My eyes were drawn to a laid out leather case, filled with needles, knives and other sharp implements. They were made of gold and silver, and all of them glowed with good runes set into the metal.

  "Hmm, always was a cat person. Sit," she gestured to the table, "and strip. And I mean balls out, kid. I don't care. Seen better, seen worse, I'm sure."

  I smiled and took of my coat, setting it and my hat on the rack nearby.

  "Normally a lady buys me a drink before that line, but I can see you're the take charge sort," I teased as I removed my boots, shirt and pants.

  "Ha," her sour mask cracked a bit, "I like you. Temperance's thugs are usually so droll. She usually picks the kind with too much care to trade a barb with a fleshcrafter. But you, you're cute. And dumb."

  She gave me a once over, then gestured to the table and turned around to look at her tools.

  "Guilty I guess. I just can't help but flirt with a pretty lady," I said climbing on the table and lying on my stomach, "can I have your name at least, before you start cuttin' and taking too hard a look?"

  There was a breeze about, made me a little less impressive than I'd have liked. I'd never been ashamed of my manhood, but when it's hangin' in the cold you're never at your best.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  She reached over and pinched my cheek as she walked by to a wash basin. She scrubbed her hands clean, and a glow formed on her fingers.

  A spell to sterilize, perhaps? I felt a little stir in my eye as I tried to sus it out. I could see the energy, but didn't have the first clue what the fuck it did.

  Oh well.

  "I'm Dierdre. No surname. Common as you, Mister Roche," she barely spared a glance to my mutated arms, the tendrils beginning to separate outside the confines of my gloves.

  Must be good not to even blink at that.

  She stepped over and ran a small finger from below my eye down to the base of my groin, tracing the rune scar I had carved myself.

  "Who's work?" she asked in that husky voice of hers, "I can see its a little off, but..." she frowned, sticking her lower lip out, "done by another artist, I would expect."

  "Self made," I answered, resisting the tickle of her touch, "with rusty knife my first night on land."

  "Ah," she nodded, "not a dog at all, a ship's cat indeed. She fish you out too?"

  I paused. Me too? Did that mean Miss Dierdre was pulled from the Deep?

  Interesting.

  "Something like that. Might say I was stray in the same litter."

  "Ahh," she exhaled and then flicked me on the nose, "now I remember you."

  What?

  "Eight years, been a while, kid." She pulled over a stool and climbed up. She held a long, sharp knife in her hand, "I bet you don't even remember unlocking my chains, do you? The Deep has that effect. I was only in Her Embrace for six months. Still lost a years of my training in that time," she said touched at one of the nastier scars in my worn flesh.

  "Are you...?"

  "I was, yes. Shipped over for plying my trade without license. Got a clean slate here. No slave labor for old Dierdre, oh no, I've done well for myself in this new land."

  She kept doin' the same, inspecting and prodding each scar, each imperfection in my frame.

  "You get tortured in the clink? Hmm, me too. There's a lot burn scars and I can see here," she jabbed the band of scar around my ankle, "some of these are very old Mister Roche. Hard childhood too?”

  I clenched my teeth.

  Memories like that stayed in the box. You keep 'em in the box. If you let 'em out, you'll go mad.

  "Yeah. Please, don't ask."

  "Hmm," she shrugged and placed her hands on my chest, "I'm going to fix some of this. Some I'll leave 'cause makes you look rugged, and I like rugged. As I go I'll ask you about whatever hurts. Just answer plain, no need to revisit the dark..."

  Then she started to cut. Truth be told I didn't even noticed it at first. She numbed the pain with a touch, re-shaped flesh and re-set bone with a whisper. It was a marvel to behold.

  I didn't even realize I was crying till she wiped the tears away.

  "Don't sweat it kid, just a little stress reaction. I think most of the essentials out of the way. Now these arms, mutation?" she asked and moved her hand to the mass of flesh that used to be two, strong, human limbs. She didn't hesitate to bury her small fingers into the mass. It felt... strange. Uncomfortable. But good.

  "Could find a few fun uses for these, once they accumulate some bulk. You've been using them right?"

  I nodded.

  Then frowned and looked away, "I mostly keep them together, formed into arms in my gloves. Don't want to get myself tied to a Witch's post."

  Her smile fell a little and she sighed, "Bah, fool Chantry and it's stance against the Gifted. They're not wrong to be scared. Power is scary, but to blame the one who wields for a force that exists beyond any one man..." she shook her head and gripped the mass of wrigglin’ appendages, "foolish. You need to give these boys some solo work. They'll get stronger if you use them as they were meant to be. Form them into arms, sure, but let them out to play once and a while. Grow them. Get them thick and strong and you might even get a date with me," she grinned, white teeth on full display and a, frankly, predatory glint in her eyes.

  "That so?"

  "Yep," she nodded, "I like strong men. But I like exotic things more. You're both. Bit young, but," she shrugged, "not enough that I'd turn down a drink. I suggest learning to play the guitar. It's and instrument popular with the local Outcasts. They make it from a hollowed out tree trunk and use wire for strings."

  I nodded but still felt a little doubt, "I'm sure being well rounded is fine and good, but I ain't a bard, Miss Dierdre. I'm a fighter. How will learning to pick a song or two help me there?"

  She chuckled and gave the writhing mass of my arms a pat, "Think about it. Imagine each of these pretty little tentacles strong enough to hold a pistol or dagger and dexterous enough to play the guitar. What do you think they could do to a man who gets too close?" she leaned in over me, close, real close, "what do you think you could do to a lady who get's to close?"

  I could feel my pulse quicken, my blood run hot, but she didn't linger.

  Instead she slapped me on the cheek and turned her back, off to wash her bloody hands.

  "Anyway, you're fixed, tom cat. Though, I'm not sure why Temperance bothered sending you to me in the first place. Whatever Abilities you have they're damn good for fixing anything not cosmetic. You have something for accelerated regeneration?"

  "Ice-Cold Blood," I answered as I sat up, "what it's called. Saved me a few times now. If I didn't need much, why were you fiddling with my bones?"

  I turned to me and shrugged, "You're arms were out of joint and your spine was a little crooked. Birth defects, mostly. And the result of childhood malnutrition and years of hard labor. You'll ache less now, and stand taller. A good thing all around," she smiled.

  "Thanks," I said grabbed for my trousers, vest and shirt, "see you next time, I guess."

  "I'll look forward to it. Oh, and Roche?" she called as I made for the door, "don't forget what I said about those arms. You're lucky to be Gifted. Don't squander it because the weak willed fear the strong. Be fucking proud. You'll rock this world, if you try..."

  And I left, somehow feelin' a hell of a lot better than when I came on in.

  It wasn't just the biomancer work, nor the long, loving stroke of my ego, but the fact that she knew what I was. She didn't fear it, nor hate it, but she understood.

  More than that, I'd seen proof that my actions on the ship, eight years ago, had borne more fruit than my mysterious Saint.

  I had saved someone good-

  Well, fun, for sure.

  That little lady had mischief written all over.

  But I liked that.

  I liked Deirdre. And I liked her message. I was Gifted. And I was godsdamned strong. About fuckin' time I started actin' like it.

  I rolled back my sleeves, pulled on my gloves, and headed out to meet Temperance and Tom.

  What? Just 'cause I was a little more comfortable in my skin didn't mean I was going to flash my mutations all around Uptown. I still had a damned survival instinct, despite evidence to the contrary.

  As I strolled through and out of the rich district, I noticed a commotion.

  Shouted words down an alley, a distinct lack of people on the streets, and a Guard standing on the corner with his hand on the hilt of a saber.

  He watched me as I passed by, and though his face was hidden under the brim of his plumed hat, I could feel the weight of his gaze.

  And it made me fuckin' itch.

  I didn't have to stick my dick in that beehive, there was no reward, no purpose to it, and the risk was high.

  Why ruin a good day?

  The man was just doing his job, and the city was his beat.

  Why make harder for on everyone around?

  My own arguments made sense, but, man, I just really didn't like that feeling. And I always did trust a feelin’ to a thought.

  I didn't like it so much I felt my feet pulling me toward that guard. Felt my hand reaching for the hardwood at my hip, before sense drew it into a pocket instead.

  "Hey," I spat holding the Duke's mark under his nose, "where is everyone?"

  Why Roche? Why must you always make it trouble?

  The Guard, tall and straight backed, turned his head and peered down the street, "There's been a disturbance. Stay clear, citizen."

  "I ain't no citizen," I said and his eyes narrowed, "don't this mean shit?"

  This is why lawmen hate you, you know.

  "Ducal Token. Means you have access. Doesn't mean you can't get hurt. Walk on cowboy," he said, punctuating the word with a glob of phlegm at my boots.

  Cowboy? Oh now that was fightin' words. Cowboy was what you called a farmhand who's balls didn't yet drop. That or the kind of dandy who likes to play pretend that he earned his bread with a horse and a gun…

  Or a mixed-blood you meant to piss right off. Used to hear it a lot when I was a child, gone to shootist competitions for the money to make sure my family stayed fed. Them ‘ol Southern men, broke soldiers and burnt out Hunters, they loved to call me that. Daddy’s smile when I came home with a fat purse of coin was the reason only I kept going back

  But it still burned me right up.

  I done more than this slackjawed lawdog, more than them brokedick old timers ever had and he was callin' me a fuckin' cowboy.

  I looked real evil in the eye and put a hole in its head, you dumb son-of-a-bitch. That Vault proved the man I am.

  So fuck that.

  Fuck him and this rotten town. I had come looking for an excuse, I knew that. Looking to feed that ugly inside of me even more so because I’d felt a little good.

  I was always lookin'...

  And now I'd found my reason.

  I don't even think he realized I had drawn before polished hickory met tongue and teeth. Certainly didn’t have a clue after his head hit the ground with a painful thunk.

  Something took control of my hand then. Some ghost done cocked the hammer and set a cruel grin on my lips. Damn near let it squeeze the trigger too, but then a scream from down in the alleyway snapped me right out.

  What happened to not being a fuckin' psycho Roche? You just got done being reminded that there is decency in this world. Don't stain a fine morning with some pig's blood.

  "Talk to me like that ever again," I said stepping over the stunned man, "and I'll come back. I grew up killin' pigs, you'd just be another day under the sun."

  The scream came again and a flicker of guilt ate at the corner of my mind.

  The more important things than your, Lorcan Roche.

  I moved.